The Valley Of Horses

21

"Ayla, I can't stand it in this cave anymore. Look at that sunshine! I know I'm healed enough to move a little, at least outside the cave."

Ayla didn't understand everything Jondalar said, but she knew enough to understand his complaint – and sympathize with it. "Knots," she said, touching one of the stitches. "Cut knots. Morning see leg."

He smiled as though he had won a victory. "You're going to take out the knots, and then tomorrow morning I can go out of the cave."

Language problems or not, Ayla was not going to be committed to more than she intended. "See," she repeated emphatically. "Ayla look…" She struggled to express herself with her limited ability. "Leg no… heal, Don-da-lah no out."

Jondalar smiled again. He knew he had overstated her meaning, hoping she would go along with him, but he was rather pleased that she was not taken in by his ploy and insisted on making herself understood. He might not get out of the cave tomorrow, but it meant that ultimately she would learn faster.

Teaching her to speak had become a challenge, and her progress pleased him, though it was uneven. He was intrigued by the way she learned. The extent of her vocabulary was already astounding; she seemed able to memorize words as fast as he could give them to her. He had spent the better part of one afternoon telling her the names of everything she and he could think of, and when they were through, she had repeated every word back to him with its correct association. But pronunciation was difficult for her. She could not produce some sounds right no matter how hard she tried, and she did try hard.

He liked the way she spoke, though. Her voice was low-pitched and pleasing, and her strange accent made her sound exotic. He decided not to bother yet about correcting the way she put the words together. Proper speech could come later. Her real struggle became more apparent once they progressed beyond words that named specific things and actions. Even the simplest abstract concepts were a problem – she wanted a separate word for every shade of color and found it hard to understand that the deep green of pine and the pale green of willow were both described by the general word green. When she did grasp an abstraction, it seemed to come as a revelation, or a memory long forgotten.

He commented favorably on her phenomenal memory once, but she found it difficult to understand – or believe – him.

"No, Don-da-lah. Ayla not good remember. Ayla try, little girl Ayla want good… memory. Not good. Try, try, all time try."

Jondalar shook his head, wishing his memory were as good as hers, or his desire to learn as strong and relentless. He could see improvement every day, though she was never satisfied. But as their ability to communicate expanded, the mystery of her deepened. The more he learned about her, the more questions he was burning to have answered. She was incredibly skilled and knowledgeable in some ways, and totally na #239;ve and ignorant in others – and he was never sure which would be which. Some of her abilities – such as making fire – were far more advanced than any he had seen anywhere, and some were primitive beyond belief.

Of one thing he had no doubt, though: whether or not any of her people were nearby, she was entirely capable of taking care of herself. And of him, as well, he thought, as she moved his covers back to look at his injured leg.

Ayla had an antiseptic solution ready, but she was nervous as she prepared to take out the knots that held his flesh together. She didn't think the wound would fall apart – it seemed to be healing well – but she had not used the technique before and she wasn't sure. She had been considering removing the knots for several days, but it had taken Jondalar's complaint to make the decision.

The young woman bent over the leg, looking closely at the knots. Carefully, she pulled up one of the knotted pieces of deer sinew. Skin had grown attached to it and pulled up with it. She wondered if she should have waited so long, but it was too late to worry now. She held the knot with her fingers, and, with her sharpest knife, one that had not been used, she cut one side as close to the knot as possible. A few experimental tugs proved it was not going to pull out easily. Finally, she took the knot in her teeth and, with a quick jerk, pulled it out.

Jondalar winced. She was sorry to cause him discomfort, but no gap had opened. A little trickle of blood showed where the skin had torn slightly, but the muscles and flesh had healed together. Discomfort was a small price to pay. She took out the remaining stitches as quickly as she could, to get it over with, while Jondalar gritted his teeth and clenched his fists to keep from yelping every time she pulled one out. They both leaned closer to see the result.

Ayla decided that, if there was no deterioration, she would let him put weight on it and allow him to go outside the cave. She picked up the knife, and the bowl with the solution, and started to get up. Jondalar stopped her. "Let me see the knife?" he asked, pointing to it. She gave it to him and looked on while he examined it.

"This is made on a flake! It's not even a blade. It's been worked with some skill, but the technique is so primitive. It doesn't even have a handle – just retouched on the back so it won't cut you. Where did you get this, Ayla? Who made it?"

"Ayla make."

She knew he was commenting on the quality and workmanship, and she wanted to explain that she was not as skilled as Droog, but that she had learned from the Clan's best toolmaker. Jondalar studied the knife in depth, and it seemed with some surprise. She wanted to discuss the merits of the tool, the quality of the flint, but she could not. She did not have the vocabulary of the proper terms, or an understanding of how to express the concepts. It was frustrating.

She yearned to talk to him, about everything. It had been so long since she had anyone to communicate with, but she didn't know how much she missed it until Jondalar had arrived. She felt as though a feast had been set down before her, and she was starving and wanted to devour it, but she could only taste.

Jondalar gave the knife back to her, shaking his head in wonder. It was sharp, certainly adequate, but it heightened his curiosity. She was as well trained as any zelandoni, and used advanced techniques – like the stitches – but such a primitive knife. If only he could ask her and make her understand; if only she could tell him. And why couldn't she talk? She was learning rapidly now. Why hadn't she learned before? Ayla's learning to speak had become a driving ambition for both of them.

Jondalar woke early. The cave was still dark, but the entrance and the hole above it showed the deep blue of predawn. It grew perceptibly lighter as he watched, bringing out the shape of every bump and hollow of the rock walls. He could see them as clearly when he closed his eyes; they were etched on his brain. He had to get outside and look at something else. He felt a growing excitement, sure this would be the day. He could hardly wait and was going to shake the woman sleeping beside him. He paused before he touched her, then changed his mind.

She slept on her side, curled up with her furs piled around her. He was in her usual sleeping place, he knew. Her furs were on a mat drawn up beside him, not in a shallow trench covered with a hay-stuffed pad. She slept in her wrap, ready to jump up at a moment's notice. She rolled over on her back, and he studied her carefully, trying to see if there were any distinguishing characteristics that would give some hint of her origins.

Her bone structure, the shape of her face and her cheekbones had a foreign quality compared with Zelandonii women, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about her, except that she was extraordinarily pretty. It was more than mere prettiness, he decided, now that he was taking a good look at her. There was a quality to her features that would be recognized as beauty by anyone's standards.

The style of her hair, bound into a regular pattern of braids, left long at the sides and back and tucked under themselves in front, was not familiar, but he had seen hair arranged in ways much more unusual. Some long strands had worked their way loose and were pushed back behind her ears or hanging in disarray, and she had a smudge of charcoal on one cheek. It occurred to him that she had not left his side for more than a moment since he regained consciousness, and probably not before. No one could fault her care…

His train of thought was interrupted when Ayla opened her eyes and squealed with surprise.

She wasn't used to opening her eyes to a face, especially one with brilliant blue eyes and a scraggly blond beard. She sat up so quickly that she was dizzy for a moment, but she soon regained her composure and got up to stir the fire. It was out; she had forgotten to bank it again. She gathered the materials to start a new one.

"Would you show me how to start a fire, Ayla?" Jondalar asked when she picked up the stones. This time she understood.

"Not hard," she said, and brought the fire-making stones and burning materials closer to the bed. "Ayla show." She demonstrated hitting the stones together, then piled shaggy bark fiber and fireweed fuzz together and gave him the flint and iron pyrite.

He recognized the flint immediately – and he thought he had seen stones like the other one, but he would never have attempted to use them together for anything, particularly not for making fire. He struck them together the way she had. It was only a glancing blow, but he thought he saw a tiny spark. He struck again, still not quite believing he could draw fire from stones, in spite of seeing Ayla do it. A large flash jumped from the cold stones. He was stunned and then excited. After a few more tries and a little assistance from Ayla, he had a small fire going beside the bed. He looked at the two stones again.

"Who taught you to make fire this way?"

She knew what he was asking, but she didn't know how to tell him. "Ayla do," she said.

"Yes, I know you do, but who showed you?"

"Ayla… show." How could she tell him about that day when her fire went out, and her hand-axe broke, and she had discovered the firestone? She put her head in her hands for a moment, trying to find a way to explain, then looked at him and shook her head. "Ayla no talk good."

He could see her sense of defeat. "You will, Ayla. You can tell me then. It won't be long – you're an amazing woman." He smiled then. "Today I go outside, right?"

"Ayla see…" She pulled back his covers and checked the leg. The places where the knots had been had small scabs, and the leg was well on the way toward healing. It was time to get him up on the leg and try to assess the impairment. "Yes, Don-da-lah go out."

The biggest grin she'd ever seen cracked his face. He felt like a boy setting out for the Summer Meeting after a long winter. "Well, let's go, woman!" He pulled back the furs, eager to be up and out.

His boyish enthusiasm was infectious. She smiled back, but added a note of restraint. "Don-da-lah eat food."

It didn't take long to prepare a morning meal of food cooked the evening before, plus a morning tea. She brought grain to Whinney, and spent a few moments currying her with a teasel and scratching the little colt with it as well. Jondalar watched her. He'd watched her before, but this was the first time he noticed that she made a sound remarkably like that of a horse's nicker, and some clipped, guttural syllables. Her hand motions and signs meant nothing to him – he didn't see them, didn't know they were an integral part of the language she spoke to the horse – but he knew that in some incomprehensible way, she was talking to the mare. He had an equally strong impression that the animal understood her.

As she fondled the mare and her foal, he wondered what magic she had used to captivate the animals. He was feeling a bit captivated himself, but he was surprised and delighted when she led the horse and her colt to him. He had never patted a living horse before, nor gotten so close to a fuzzy new foal, and he was slightly overwhelmed by their total lack of fear. The colt seemed particularly drawn to him after his first cautious pats led to strokes and scratches that unerringly found the right places.

He remembered he had not given her the name for the animal, and he pointed to the mare. "Horse," he said.

But Whinney had a name, a name made with sounds, just like hers, and his. Ayla shook her head. "No," she said, "Whinney."

To him, the sound she made was not a name – it was a perfect imitation of a horse's whinny. He was astonished. She couldn't speak any human languages, but she could talk like a horse? Talk to a horse? He was awed; that was powerful magic.

She mistook his dazed look for lack of understanding. She touched her chest and said her name, trying to explain. Then she pointed at him and said his name. Next she pointed to the horse and made the soft neigh again.

"Is that the mare's name? Ayla, I can't make a noise like that. I don't know how to talk to horses."

After a second, and more patient, explanation, he made an attempt, but it was more like a word that sounded like it. That seemed to satisfy her, and she led the two horses back to the mare's place in the cave. "He's teaching me words, Whinney. I'm going to learn all his words, but I had to tell him your name. We'll have to think of a name for your little one… I wonder, do you think he'd like to name your baby?"

Jondalar had heard of certain Zelandonii who were said to have the ability to lure animals to hunters. Some hunters could even make a good imitation of the sounds of certain animals, which helped them get closer. But he'd never heard of anyone who could talk with an animal, or who had convinced one to live with her. Because of her, a wild mare had foaled right before his eyes, and had even let him touch her baby. It suddenly struck him, with wonder and a little fear, what the woman had done. Who was she? And what kind of magic did she possess? But as she walked toward him with a happy smile on her face, she seemed no more than an ordinary woman. Just an ordinary woman, who could talk to horses but not to people.

"Don-da-lah go out?"

He had almost forgotten. His face lit up with eagerness, and, before she could reach him, he tried to get up. His enthusiasm paled. He was weak, and it was painful to move. Dizziness and nausea threatened, then passed. Ayla watched his expression change from an eager smile to a grimace of pain and then a sudden blanching.

"I may need a little help," he said. His smile was strained, but earnest.

"Ayla help," she said, offering her shoulder for support and her hand for assistance. At first he didn't want to put too much weight on her, but as he saw that she was bearing up under it, had the strength, and knew how to pull him up, he took her help.

When he finally stood on his good leg, braced against a post of the drying rack, and Ayla looked up at him, her jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide. The top of her head barely reached his chin. She knew his body was longer than men of the Clan, but she hadn't projected that length into height, hadn't perceived how he would appear standing up. She had never seen anyone so tall.

Not since she was a child could she remember looking up to anyone. Even before she had reached womanhood, she was taller than everyone in the Clan, including the men. She had always been big and ugly; too tall, too pale, too flat faced. No man would have her, not even after her powerful totem was defeated and they would all have liked to think their totem had overcome her Cave Lion and made her pregnant; not even when they knew that if she wasn't mated before she gave birth, her child would be unlucky. And Durc was unlucky. They weren't going to let him live. They said he was deformed, but then Brun accepted him anyway. Her son had overcome his bad luck. He would overcome the bad luck of losing his mother, too. And he was going to be tall – she had known that before she left – but not as tall as Jondalar.

This man made her feel positively little. Her first impression of him had been that he was young, and young implied small. He had looked younger, too. She looked up at him from her new perspective and noticed his beard had been growing in. She didn't know why he hadn't had one when she had first seen him, but seeing the coarse golden hair now sprouting from his chin made her realize that he was not a boy. He was a man – a tall, powerful, fully mature man.

Her look of amazement made him smile, though he didn't know the cause. She was taller than he had guessed, too. The way she moved and held herself gave the effect of someone of much shorter stature. Actually, she was quite tall, and he liked tall women. They were the ones that usually caught his eye, though this one would catch anyone's eye, he thought. "We got this far, let's go out," he said.

Ayla was feeling conscious of his closeness, and his nakedness. "Don-da-lah need… garment," she said, using his word for her wrap, although she meant one for a man. "Need cover…" She pointed to his genitals; he had not told her that word, either. Then for some unexplainable reason, she blushed.

It was not modesty. She had seen many men unclothed, and women, too – it was not a matter for concern. She thought he would need protection, not from the elements, but from malicious spirits. Though women were not included in their rituals, she knew that men of the Clan did not like to leave their genitals exposed if they were going out. She didn't know why that thought made her feel flustered, or why her face felt hot, or why it seemed to bring on those pulling, tightening, pulsing sensations.

Jondalar looked down at himself. He had superstitions about his genitals, too, but they did not involve covering them for protection from evil spirits. If malicious enemies had induced a zelandoni to call down harm, or if a woman had just cause and cast a curse on him, it would take a great deal more than an article of clothing to protect him.

But he had learned that while a stranger might make a social blunder and be forgiven, it was wise when traveling to pay attention to subtle hints so that he would offend as seldom as possible. He had seen where she pointed – and her blush. He took it to mean she thought he should not go out with his genitals exposed. And in any case, sitting with bare skin on bare rock could get uncomfortable, and he wouldn't be able to move much.

Then he thought about himself standing there on one leg, hanging on to a post, so eager to get out of the cave that he hadn't even noticed he was completely naked. The humor in the situation suddenly struck him, and he burst out with a hearty laugh.

Jondalar had no way of knowing the effect of his laughter on Ayla. To him, it was as natural as breathing. Ayla had grown up with people who did not laugh, and who viewed her laughter with such suspicion that she had learned to curtail it so she would fit in more easily. It was part of the price she paid for survival. Only after her son was born did she discover the joy of laughter again. It was one of the qualities he had acquired from her half of his heritage. She knew encouraging him would be disapproved, but when they were alone, she couldn't resist playful tickling when he responded with giggles of delight.

To her, laughter was charged with more meaning than just a simple spontaneous response. It represented the unique bond she had with her son, the part of herself she could see in him, and was an expression of her own identity. The laughter inspired by the cave lion cub which she loved had strengthened that expression, and she would not give it up. It would not only have meant giving up memory sensations of her son, but giving up her own developing sense of self.

But she hadn't considered that someone else might laugh. Except for her own and Durc's, she could not recall hearing laughter before. The special quality of Jondalar's laugh – the hearty, jubilant freedom of it – invited response. There was unrestrained delight in his voice as be laughed at himself, and, from the moment she heard it, she loved it. Unlike the Clan adult-male reproof, Jondalar's laughter bestowed approval by its very sound. It was not only all right to laugh, it was invited. It was impossible to resist.

And Ayla did not resist. Her first shocked surprise turned to a smile, and then to laughter on her own. She didn't know what was so funny; she laughed because Jondalar did.

"Don-da-lah," Ayla said when the moment passed. "What is word… ha-ha-ha-ha?"

"Laugh? Laughter?"

"What is… right word?"

"They're both right. When we do it, you say, 'We laugh.' When you talk about it, you say 'the laughter,'" he explained.

Ayla thought for a while. There was more in what he said than the way to use that word; there was more to speaking than words. She already knew many words, but she was frustrated over and over again when she tried to express her thoughts. There was a way they were put together, and a meaning she couldn't quite grasp. Though she understood Jondalar for the most part, the words were only giving her a hint. She was understanding as much from her perceptive ability to read his unintentional body language. But she felt the lack of precision and depth in their conversation. Worse, though, was the sense that she knew, if she could just remember, and the unbearable tension, like a hard painful knot trying to burst apart, that she felt whenever she came close to recalling.

"Don-da-lah laugh?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Ayla laugh. Ayla like laugh."

"Right now, Jondalar 'like go out,'" he replied. "Where are my clothes?"

Ayla got the pile of clothing she had cut off him. They were in shreds from the lion's claws and discolored with brown stains. Beads and other elements of the design were coming off the decorated shirt.

The sight of them was sobering to Jondalar. "I must have been hurt bad," he said, holding up the trousers stiff with his own dried blood. "These are not fit to wear."

Ayla was thinking the same thing. She went to the storage area and brought back an unused skin and long strips of thong, and started to wrap it around his waist, in the manner of men of the Clan.

"I'll do it, Ayla," he said, putting the soft leather between his legs and pulling it up front and back for a breechclout. "But I could use a little help," he added, struggling to tie a thong around his waist to hold it on.

She helped him tie it, and then, lending her shoulder for support, she indicated that he should put pressure on the leg. He put his foot down firmly and leaned forward gingerly. It was more painful than he expected, and he began to doubt that he could make it. But, strengthening his resolve, he leaned heavily on Ayla and took a small hopping step, then another. When they reached the mouth of the small cave, he beamed at her and looked out at the stone ledge and the tall pine trees growing near the opposite wall.

She left him there, holding on to the firm rock of the cave while she went for a woven grass mat and a fur and put them near the far edge where he could get the best view of the valley. Then she went back to help him again. He was tired, in pain, and altogether pleased with himself when he finally settled down on the fur and had his first look around.

Whinney and her colt were in the field; they had left shortly after Ayla had brought them to meet Jondalar. The valley itself was a green and lush paradise tucked into the arid steppes. He would not have guessed such a place existed. He turned toward the narrow gorge upstream and the portion of the rock-strewn beach not hidden from view. But his attention was drawn back to the green valley that extended downstream all the way to the far turn.

The first conclusion he reached was that Ayla lived here alone. There was no indication of any other human habitation. She sat with him a while, then went into the cave and returned with a handful of grain. She pursed her lips, made a warbling, melodic trill, and broadcast the seed around the ledge nearby. Jondalar was puzzled until a bird landed and began pecking at the seeds. Soon a host of birds of various sizes and colors whirred down around her with fluttering wings, and with quick jerky motions they pecked at the grains.

Their songs – warbles, trills, and squawks – filled the air as they squabbled for position with a display of puffed-up feathers. Jondalar had to look twice when he discovered that many of the bird songs he was hearing were made by the woman! She could make the whole range of sounds, and, when she settled on one particular voice, a certain bird would climb on her finger and stay there when she lifted it and warbled a duet. A few times, she brought one close enough for Jondalar to touch before it fluttered away.

When the seeds were gone, most of the birds left, but one blackbird stayed to exchange a song with Ayla. She mimicked the thrush's rich musical medley perfectly.

Jondalar took a deep breath when it flew away. He'd been holding it in, trying not to disturb the avian show Ayla was putting on. "Where did you learn that? It was exciting, Ayla. I've never been so close to living birds before."

She smiled at him, not sure exactly what he said, but aware that he was impressed. She trilled another bird song, hoping he would tell her the name of the bird, but he only smiled in appreciation of her expertise. She tried another and still another before she gave up. He didn't understand what she wanted, but another thought caused a frown to crease his forehead. She could make bird sounds better than the Shamud could with a flute! Was she perhaps communing with Mother spirits in the form of birds? A bird swooped down and landed at her feet. He eyed it warily.

The fleeting apprehension passed quickly in the joy of being outside to soak up sunshine, feel the breeze, and look at the valley. Ayla was full of joy, too, because of his company. It was so hard to believe he was sitting on her ledge that she did not want to blink; if she shut her eyes, he might be gone when she opened them. When she finally convinced herself of his substantiality, she closed her eyes to see how long she could deny herself – just for the pleasure of seeing him still there when she opened them. The deep rumbling sound of his voice, if he happened to speak while her eyes were closed, was a windfall of delight.

As the sun rose and made its warm presence felt, the glinting stream below drew Ayla's attention. She had forgone her usual morning swim, unable to leave Jondalar alone for fear some unexpected need might arise. But he was much better now, and he could call out if he needed her.

"Ayla go water," she said, making swimming motions.

"Swim," he said, making similar motions. "The word is 'swim,' and I wish I could go with you."

"Sssvim," she said slowly.

"Swim," he corrected.

"Su-im," she tried again, and, when he nodded, she started down. It will be some time before he can walk this path – I'll bring some water up for him. But the leg is healing well. I think he'll be able to use it. Maybe a small limp, but not enough to slow him down, I hope.

When she reached the beach and untied the thong of her wrap, she decided to wash her hair as well. She went downstream for soaproot. She looked up, saw Jondalar, and waved at him, then walked back to the beach, out of his sight. She sat on the edge of a huge chunk of rock that until the spring before had been part of the wall, and began to uncoil her hair. A new pool that had not been there before the rearrangement of rocks had become her favorite bathing place. It was deeper, and in the rock nearby was a basin-like depression which she used to pound the saponin out of the soaproots.

Jondalar saw her again after she rinsed and swam upstream, and he admired her clean strong strokes. She lazily paddled back down to the rock and, sitting on it, let the sun dry her while she used a twig to pull tangles out of her hair, then brushed it with a teasel. By the time her thick hair dried, she was feeling warm, and though Jondalar hadn't called to her, she began to worry about him. He must be getting tired, she thought. One look at her wrap made her decide she wanted a clean one. She picked it up and carried it up the path.

Jondalar was feeling the sun, much more than Ayla. It had been spring when he and Thonolan had set out, and the small amount of protective tan he had acquired after they left the Mamutoi Camp had been lost during the time inside Ayla's cave. He still had a winter pallor, or he did until he came out to sit in the sun. Ayla was gone when he first became uncomfortably aware of his sunburn. He tried to ignore it, not wanting to disturb the woman enjoying a few moments for herself after her attentive care. He began wondering what was taking her so long, wishing she would hurry, glancing toward the top of the path, then up and down the stream, thinking she might have decided to take another swim.

He was looking the other way when Ayla arrived at the top of the wall, and one look at his angry red back was enough to fill her with shame. Look at that sunburn! What kind of medicine woman am I, leaving him out here so long? She hurried toward him.

He heard her and turned around, grateful that she had finally come, and a bit annoyed that she hadn't returned sooner. But when he saw her, he didn't feel his sunburn anymore. He gasped in open-mouthed wonder at the naked woman walking toward him in the bright sunlight.

Her skin was golden tawny, and flowed as she moved with flat sinewy muscles of hard use. Her legs were perfectly molded, marred only by four parallel scars on her left thigh. From his angle he could see rounded firm buttocks, and above the dark blond fuzz of pubic hair, the curve of a stomach traced with the slight puckers of stretch marks from pregnancy. Pregnancy? Her breasts were ample, but well shaped and as high as a girl's, with dark pink areolas and jutting nipples. Her arms were long and graceful and declared her strength unselfconsciously.

Ayla had grown up among people – men and women – who were inherently strong. To fulfill the tasks required of women of the Clan – lifting, carrying, working hides, chopping wood – her body had to develop the necessary muscular strength. Hunting had given her wiry resiliency, and living alone had demanded efforts of strength to survive.

She was probably, Jondalar thought, the strongest woman he had ever seen; no wonder she was able to pull him up and support his weight. He knew, without doubt, that he had never seen a woman with a more beautifully sculptured body, but there was more than her body. From the beginning he had thought she was rather pretty, but he'd never seen her in the full light of day.

She had a long neck, with a small scar at the throat, a graceful jawline, full mouth, straight narrow nose, high cheekbones, and wide-set blue-gray eyes. Her finely chiseled features were combined in elegant harmony, and her long lashes and arching eyebrows were light brown, a shade darker than her loosely falling waves of golden hair gleaming in the sun.

"Great Bountiful Mother!" he breathed.

He strove to think of words to describe her; the total effect was dazzling. She was lovely, stunning, magnificent. He had never seen a more breathtakingly beautiful woman. Why did she hide that spectacular body under a shapeless wrap? Keep such glorious hair tied up in braids? And he had thought she was merely pretty. Why hadn't he seen her?

It wasn't until she crossed the distance of the stone ledge and drew near that he felt himself becoming aroused, but then it came upon him with insistent, throbbing demand. He wanted her with an urgency he'd never known before. His hands itched to caress that perfect body, to discover her secret places; he longed to explore, to taste, to give her Pleasures. When she leaned closer and he smelled her warm skin, he was ready to take her, without even asking, if he had been able. But he sensed that she wasn't someone who could be taken easily.

"Don-da-lah! Back is… fire…" Ayla said, searching for the right words for his glowing sunburn. Then she hesitated – stopped by the animal magnetism of his gaze. She looked into his intense blue eyes and felt drawn in deeper. Her heart pounded, her knees were weak, her face grew warm. Her body quivered, bringing a sudden dampness between her legs.

She didn't know what was wrong with her, and, wrenching her head aside, she tore her eyes away from his. They dropped to his rearing manhood outlined by his breechclout, and she felt an overpowering urge to touch, to reach for it. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, and tried to still her quaking. When she opened them, she avoided his look.

"Ayla help Don-da-lah go cave," she said.

The sunburn was painful, and the time outside had left him tired, but, as he leaned on her during the short difficult walk, her naked body was so close that it kept his fierce desire inflamed. She settled him down on the bed, hurriedly looked over her store of medicine, then suddenly ran out.

He wondered where she had gone and understood when she returned with hands full of large gray-green downy burdock leaves. She stripped the leaves from the heavy middle vein, tore them in shreds into a bowl, added cool water, and pounded them to a mash with a rock.

He had been feeling the discomfort and heat of the sunburn more, and when he felt the soothing cool mash on his back, he was again grateful she was a woman of healing.

"Ahhh, that's much better," he said.

Then, with her hands gently smoothing on the cool leaves, he became conscious that she had not stopped to put on a wrap. As she kneeled beside him, he felt her nearness like some palpable emanation. The smell of warm skin and other mysterious female odors encouraged him to reach for her. He ran his hand along her thigh from her knee to her buttocks.

Ayla froze at his touch and stopped the motion of her hand, acutely aware of his hand caressing her. She held herself rigid, unsure of what he was doing, or what she was supposed to do. Only sure that she did not want him to stop. But when he reached up to touch a nipple, she gasped at the unexpected jolt that coursed through her.

Jondalar was surprised at her shocked look. Wasn't it perfectly natural for a man to want to touch a beautiful woman? Especially when she was so near they almost touched anyway? He pulled his hand away, not knowing what to think. She acts like she's never been touched before, he thought. But she was a woman, not a young girl. And from the stretch marks, she had given birth, though he saw no evidence of children. Well, she wouldn't be the first woman to lose a child, but she must have had First Rites to make her ready to receive the Mother's blessing.

Ayla could still feel the tingling aftermath of his touch. She didn't know why he had stopped, and, confused, she got up and walked away.

Maybe she doesn't like me, Jondalar thought. But then why had she come so close, especially when his desire was so obvious? She couldn't help his desire, she had been treating his sunburn. And there had been nothing suggestive in her manner. In fact, she seemed oblivious to her effect on him. Was she so accustomed to that response to her beauty? She didn't behave with the callous disregard of an experienced woman, yet how could any woman who looked like that not know her effect on men?

Jondalar picked up a mashed piece of wet leaf that had fallen off his back. The Sharamudoi healer had used burdock for burns, too. She is skilled. Of course! Jondalar, you can be so stupid, he said to himself. The Shamud told you about the tests of Those Who Serve the Mother. She must be forgoing Pleasures, too. No wonder she wears that shapeless wrap to hide her beauty. She would not have come close to you if you hadn't been sunburned, and then you grab like some adolescent boy.

His leg was throbbing, and although the medication had helped, the sunburn was still uncomfortable. He eased down, tried lying on his side, and shut his eyes. He was thirsty, but he didn't want to roll over to get the waterbag just when he had found an almost bearable position. He was feeling miserable, not only because of his aches and pains, but because he thought he had committed some gross indiscretion, and he was embarrassed.

He hadn't felt the humiliation of social blunders for a long time, not since he was a boy. He had practiced smooth self-control until it was an art. He had gone too far again and been rejected. This beautiful woman, this woman he had wanted more than any, had rejected him. He knew how it would go. She would act as though nothing had happened, but she would avoid him whenever she could. When she couldn't stay away, she would still put a distance between them. She would be cool, aloof. Her mouth might smile but her eyes would tell the truth. There would be no warmth in them, or worse, there would be pity.

Ayla had put on a clean wrap and was twining her hair, feeling ashamed that she had allowed Jondalar to get sunburned. It was her fault; he couldn't get in out of the sun himself. She had been enjoying herself, swimming and washing her hair, when she should have paid closer attention. And I'm supposed to be a medicine woman, a medicine woman of Iza's line. Hers is the most honored line of the Clan – what would Iza think of such carelessness, such lack of feeling for her patient? Ayla was mortified. He had been so badly wounded, was still in great pain, and she had added more pain.

But there was more to her discomfiture. He had touched her. She could still feel his warm hand on her thigh. She knew exactly where it had reached and where it had missed, as though he had burned her with his gentle caress. Why had he touched her nipple? It tingled still. He had been full in his manhood, and she knew what that meant. How many times had she seen men give the signal to a woman when they wanted to relieve their needs. Broud had done it to her – she shuddered – she had hated seeing him hard in his manhood then.

She didn't feel that way now. She'd even like it if Jondalar would give her the signal…

Don't be ridiculous. He couldn't, not with his leg. It was barely healed enough to put weight on.

But he had been hard in his manhood when she got back from swimming, and his eyes… She shivered thinking about his eyes. They are so blue, and so full of his need, and so…

She couldn't express it to herself, but she stopped twining her hair, closed her eyes, and let herself feel his pull. He had touched her.

But then he stopped. She sat up straight. Had he given her a signal? Had he stopped because she had not acquiesced? A woman was always supposed to be available to a man in his need. Every woman of the Clan was taught that, from the first time her spirit battled and she bled. Just as she was taught the subtle gestures and postures that might encourage a man to want to satisfy his need with her. She had never understood why a woman would want to use them before. Now, she suddenly realized, she did.

She wanted this man to relieve his needs with her, but she didn't know his signal! If I don't know his signal, he won't know my ways either. And if I refused him without knowing, he might never try again. But did he really want me? I'm so big and ugly.

Ayla finished tucking her last braid under itself, then went to stir up the fire to make some pain medicine for Jondalar. When she brought it to him, he was on his side resting. In bringing him something for pain so he could rest, she did not want to disturb him if he had already found some comfort. She sat down with crossed legs beside his sleeping place and waited for him to open his eyes. He didn't move, but she knew he was not sleeping. His breathing lacked the regularity, and his forehead showed discomfort he would not have if he was deep in sleep.

Jondalar had heard her coming and shut his eyes to feign sleep. He waited, muscles tensed, fighting an urge to open his eyes to see if she was there. Why was she so quiet? Why didn't she leave? The arm he was lying on started to tingle from lack of circulation. If he didn't move it soon, it would go numb. His leg throbbed. He wanted to shift it to ease the strain of holding it in one position so long. His face itched with the stubble of new beard; his back burned. Maybe she wasn't even there. Maybe she had gone and he just hadn't heard her move. Was she just sitting there staring at him?

She had been watching him intently. She had looked directly at this man more than she had ever looked at any man. It wasn't proper for women of the Clan to look at men, but she had indulged in many improprieties. Had she forgotten all the manners Iza had taught her, as well as proper care of a patient? She stared down at her hands holding the cup of datura in her lap. That was the correct way for a woman to approach a man, sitting on the ground with head bowed, waiting for him to acknowledge her with a tap on the shoulder. Perhaps it was time to remember her training, she thought.

Jondalar opened his eyes a crack, trying to see if she was there without letting her know he was awake. He saw a foot and quickly closed his eyes again. She was there. Why was she sitting there? What could she be waiting for? Why didn't she go and leave him alone with his misery and humiliation. He peeked again through lowered eyelids. Her foot hadn't moved. She was sitting cross-legged. She had a cup of liquid. Oh, Doni! He was thirsty! Was it for him? Had she been waiting there for him to wake up to give him some medicine? She could have shaken him; she didn't have to wait.

He opened his eyes. Ayla was sitting with her head bowed, looking down. She was dressed in one of those shapeless wraps, and her hair was tied up in multiple rows of braids. She had a fresh-scrubbed look. The smudge on her cheek was gone; her wrap was a clean, unworn skin. She had such a guileless quality, sitting with her head bowed. There was no artifice, no coy mannerisms or suggestive sidelong glances.

Her tight braids contributed to the impression, as did the wrap with its folds and bulges which camouflaged her so well. That was the trick, the artful concealing of her ripe woman's body and rich lustrous hair. She couldn't hide her face, but her habit of looking down or aside tended to divert attention. Why did she keep herself hidden? It must be the test she was undergoing. Most women he knew would have flaunted that magnificent body, worn such golden glory to show off to its best advantage, given anything for a face so beautiful.

He watched her without moving, his discomfort forgotten. Why was she so still? Maybe she didn't want to look at him, he thought, bringing back his embarrassment and his pain as well. He couldn't stand it, he had to move.

Ayla looked up when he rolled off his arm. He couldn't tap her shoulder to acknowledge her presence no matter how well mannered she wanted to be. He didn't know the signal. Jondalar was amazed to see contrite shame in her face, and the honest open appeal in her eyes. There was no condemnation, no rejection, no pity. Rather she seemed embarrassed. What did she have to be embarrassed about?

She gave him the cup. He took a sip, made a face at the bitter medicine, then drank it down and reached for the waterbag to wash the taste out of his mouth. Then he lay back down, not quite able to get comfortable. She motioned for him to sit up, then straightened, smoothed, and rearranged the furs and skins. He did not lie back down immediately.

"Ayla, there's so much about you I don't know and wish I did. I don't know where you learned your healing arts – I don't even know how I got here. I only know I'm grateful to you. You saved my life, and, more important, you saved my leg. I'd never get back home without my leg even if I had lived.

"I'm sorry I made such a fool of myself, but you are so beautiful, Ayla. I didn't know – you hide it so well. I don't know why you want to, but you must have your reasons. You are learning fast. Maybe when you can talk more you will tell me, if you are free to. If not, I'll accept that. I know you don't understand everything I'm saying, but I want to say it. I won't bother you again, Ayla. I promise."