“Zoug said that? Even though I’m so ugly?” Ayla gestured, a look of hope in her eyes.
“Yes, Zoug said that. With his recommendation and the status of my line, I’m sure there will be some man who will take you, even if you do look different.”
Ayla’s tremulous smile faded. “But won’t that mean I’ll have to go away? Live someplace else? I don’t want to leave you and Creb and Uba.”
“Ayla, I am old. Creb is no young man either, and in a few years Uba will be a woman and mated. What will you do then?” Iza motioned. “Someday Brun will pass the leadership on to Broud. I don’t think you should live with this clan when Broud becomes leader. I think it might be best if you moved away, and the Clan Gathering may be your opportunity.”
“I suppose you’re right, mother. I don’t think I want to live here when Broud is leader, but I hate the thought of leaving you,” she said with a frown, then brightened. “But next summer is a whole year away. I don’t have to worry about it until then.”
A whole year, Iza thought. My Ayla, my child. Maybe you have to be my age to know how fast a year goes. You don’t want to leave me? You don’t know how I’ll miss you. If only there were a man in this clan who would take you. If only Broud were not going to be leader.
But the woman gave no hint of her thoughts as Ayla wiped her eyes and went back to get water. This time she avoided looking in the still pool.
Later that afternoon, Ayla stood at the edge of the woods
looking through the brush at the cave. Several people were outside working or talking. She shifted the two rabbits that were slung over her shoulder, looked down at the sling tucked in her waist thong, stuffed it in a fold of her wrap, then took it out and tucked it back at her waist in plain sight. She looked again at the cave, shuffling nervously.
Brun said I could, she thought. They had a ceremony so I could. I’m a hunter, I’m the Woman Who Hunts. Ayla lifted her chin and stepped out from behind the concealing screen of foliage.
For a long, frozen moment, everyone outside the cave stopped and stared at the young woman walking toward them with two rabbits slung over her shoulder. As soon as they got over the shock and realized their bad manners, they looked away. Ayla’s face burned, but she walked straight ahead with dogged determination, ignoring the surreptitious glances. She was relieved to reach the cave after passing the gauntlet of shocked looks and glad for its cool, dim interior. It was easier to ignore the looks of the people inside.
Iza’s eyes opened wide, too, when Ayla reached Creb’s hearth, but recovering quickly, she looked away making no mention of the rabbits. She didn’t know what to say. Creb was sitting on his bearskin apparently meditating and didn’t seem to notice her. He had seen her come into the cave, and by the time she reached the hearth he had managed to mask his expression. No one said a thing as she put the animals down beside the fireplace. A moment later Uba came racing in, and she had no qualms at all about her reactions.
“Did you really hunt those yourself, Ayla?” she asked.
“Yes,” Ayla nodded.
“They look like nice fat rabbits. Are we going to have them for dinner, mother?”
“Well, yes, I guess we are,” Iza replied, still embarrassed and unsure.
“I’ll skin them,” Ayla said quickly, taking out her knife. Iza watched for a moment, then walked over and took the knife from her hand.
“No, Ayla. You hunted them, I’ll skin them.” Ayla stepped back while Iza skinned the rabbits, quickly spitted them, and put them over the fire. She was just as uncomfortable as Iza.
“That was a good meal, Iza,” Creb said later, still avoiding
direct comment about Ayla’s hunting, but Uba felt no such compunction.
“Those were good rabbits, Ayla, but next time why don’t you get some ptarmigan,” she said. Uba shared Creb’s predilection for the fat birds with the feathered feet.
The next time Ayla brought her kill to the cave it wasn’t such a shock, and before long her hunting became almost commonplace. With a hunter at his own hearth, Creb reduced the share he took from the other hunters except for the large animals hunted only by the men.
It was a busy spring for Ayla. Her share of the women’s work was not lessened because she hunted, and there were still Iza’s herbs to be collected. But Ayla loved it, she was full of energy, happier than she could remember. She was happy she could hunt without secrecy, happy to be back with the clan, and happy she was finally a woman, and glad for the closer relationships she was developing with the other women.
Ebra and Uka accepted her, though the two older women never could quite forget she was different; Ika had always been friendly; and the attitudes of Aga and her mother had completely reversed since she saved Ona from drowning. Ovra had become a close confidante, and Oga warmed toward her despite Broud. The adolescent ardor Oga had felt for the man had moderated to an indifferent habit, cooled by the years of living with his unpredictable outbursts. But Broud’s vindictive hatred of Ayla grew after her acceptance as a hunter. He kept trying to find ways to bedevil her, kept trying to get a reaction out of her. His harassment had become a way of life she had learned to live with; it left her unmoved. She had begun to think he would never be able to disturb her again.
Spring was in full flower the day she decided to hunt ptarmigan for Creb’s favorite dish. She thought she would look over the new growths and begin restocking Iza’s pharmacopoeia while she was at it. She spent the morning ranging the nearby countryside, then headed for a broad meadow near the steppes. She flushed a couple of low-flying fowl, brought down quickly by swifter stones, then searched through the tall grass looking for a nest and hopefully some eggs. Creb liked the birds stuffed with their own eggs in a nest of edible greens and herbs. She uttered an exclamation of joy when she spied it, and carefully wrapped
the eggs in soft moss and tucked them into a deep fold of her wrap. She was delighted with herself. Out of sheer joyful exuberance, she sprinted across the meadow in a fast run, coming to a halt, out of breath, at the top of a knoll covered with new green grass.
Flopping to the ground, she checked her eggs to make sure they were undamaged and took out a piece of dried meat to lunch on. She watched a bright yellow-breasted meadowlark trill gloriously from an open perch, then take to wing and continue its song in flight. A pair of golden-crowned sparrows, warbling their woeful tune of descending pitch, flitted among the blackberry canes at the border of the open field. Another pair of black-capped, gray-coated birds named by the chick-a-dee-dee of their call, darted in and out of their nesting hole in a fir tree near a small creek winding its way through the dense vegetation at the foot of the knoll. Small, vivacious brown wrens scolded the others as they carried twigs and dried moss to a nest cavity in an ancient, gnarled apple tree, proving its youthful fecundity with its flock of pink blooms.
Ayla loved these moments of solitude. Basking in the sun, feeling relaxed and content, she thought about nothing in particular, except the beautiful day and how happy she was. She was completely unaware that anyone else was near until a shadow fell across the ground in front of her. Startled, she looked up into Broud’s glowering face.
No hunting trips had been planned for that day and Broud had decided to hunt alone. He hadn’t been very diligent; his hunting foray was more an excuse to take a walk on the warm spring day than to provide meat he didn’t especially need. He had seen Ayla relaxing on the knoll from a distance and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to berate her for laziness, caught in the act of sitting still.
Ayla jumped up when she saw him, but that annoyed him. She was taller and he didn’t like looking up at a woman. He motioned her down and prepared to give her a sound scolding. But as she lowered herself, the unresisting, unresponsive look that glazed her eyes irritated him even more. He wished he could think of some way to get a reaction out of her. At the cave, he could at least make her get something for him to see her jump to his command.
He looked around, then down at the woman sitting at his feet, waiting with unruffled composure for him to get on with his rebuke and be on his way. She’s worse than ever
since she became a woman, he thought. The Woman Who Hunts, how could Brun do it? He noticed her ptarmigan and thought of his own empty hand. Even the look on her ugly face is insolent; she’s gloating because she got those birds and I don’t have anything. What can I make her do? There’s nothing out here I can tell her to get. Wait, she’s a woman now, isn’t she? There’s something I can make her do.
Broud gave her a signal, and Ayla’s eyes flew open. It was unexpected. Iza told her men only wanted that from women they considered attractive; she knew Broud thought she was ugly. Broud hadn’t missed Ayla’s shocked surprise, her reaction encouraged him. He signaled her again, imperiously, to assume the position so he could relieve his needs, the position for sexual intercourse.
Ayla knew what was expected. Not only had Iza explained, she had often seen adult members of the clan engage in the activity—all the children had; there were no artificial restraints in the clan. Children learned adult behavior by emulating their parents, and sexual behavior was just one of many activities they mimicked. It always puzzled Ayla, she wondered why it was done, but it didn’t disturb her to see a young boy bounce harmlessly on a young girl in conscious imitation of adults.
Sometimes it wasn’t imitation. Many young girls of the Clan were pierced by pubescent boys who lingered in the limbo of not-yet-men, before their first kill; and occasionally a man, beguiled by a young coquette, pleased himself with a not-quite-ripe female. Most young men, though, felt it beneath their dignity to play games with former playmates.
But Ayla had no male playmates near her age except Vorn, and since the earlier days when Aga actively discouraged their association, there had never developed any close contact between them. Ayla was not particularly fond of Vorn, who imitated Broud’s actions toward her. Despite the incident on the practice field, the boy still idolized Broud, and Vorn was not about to play “mates” with Ayla. There was no one else who might have, so she had never even engaged in the imitation of the act. Within a society that indulged in sex as naturally as they breathed, Ayla was still a virgin.
The young woman felt awkward; she knew she must comply, but she was flustered and Broud was enjoying it.
He was glad he had thought of it; he had finally broken down her defenses. It excited him to see her so confused and bewildered, and aroused him. He hovered close as she got up, then started to lower herself to her knees. Ayla wasn’t accustomed to men of the clan being so near. Broud’s heavy breathing frightened her. She hesitated.
Broud got impatient, pushed her down, and moved aside his wrap exposing his organ, thick and throbbing. What is she waiting for? She’s so ugly, she should be honored, no other man would have her, he thought angrily, grabbing at her wrap to move it out of the way as his need grew.
But as Broud closed in on her, something snapped. She couldn’t do it! She just couldn’t. Her reason left her. It didn’t matter that she was supposed to obey him. She scrambled to her feet and started to run. Broud was too quick for her. He grabbed her, pushed her down, and punched her in the face, cutting her lip with his hard fist. He was beginning to enjoy this. Too many times had he restrained himself when he wanted to beat her, but there was no one to stop him here. And he had justifiable reason—she was disobeying him, actively disobeying him.
Ayla was frantic. She tried to get up and he hit her again. He was getting a reaction from her he never expected, and it stirred him to greater lust. He would cow this insolent woman yet. He hit her again and again, and felt a great satisfaction to see her cringe as he made a move to hit her once more.
Her head was ringing, blood trickled out of her nose and the corner of her mouth. She tried to get up, but he held her down. She struggled against him, pummeling his chest with her fists. They had no effect on his hard muscular body, but her resistance aroused him to new heights. Never had he felt so stimulated—violence increased his passion and lust added force to his blows. He reveled in her resistance and clouted her again.
She was nearly unconscious when he threw her over on her face, feverishly ripped her wrap aside, and spread her legs. With one hard thrust, he penetrated deeply. She screamed with pain. It added to his pleasure. He lunged again, drawing forth another painful cry, then again, and again. The intensity of his excitement urged him on, rising quickly to unbearable peaks. With a last hard drive that extracted a final agonized scream, he ejected his built-up heat.
Broud collapsed on top of her for a moment, his energy
spent. Then, still breathing heavily, he withdrew himself. Ayla sobbed incoherently. The salt from her tears stung the open wounds on her blood-smeared face. One eye was swollen nearly shut and turning dark. Her thighs were stained with blood and she hurt deep inside. Broud got up and looked down at her. He felt good; he had never enjoyed penetrating a woman so much. He picked up his weapons and headed back to the cave.
Ayla lay with her face in the dirt long after her sobbing stopped. Finally she pulled herself up. She touched her mouth, felt the swelling, and looked at the blood on her fingers. Her whole body ached, inside and out. She saw blood between her thighs and the stains on the grass. Is my totem fighting again? she wondered. No, I don’t think so, it’s not time. Broud must have wounded me. I didn’t know he could beat me on the inside, too. But the other women don’t hurt from it; why should Broud’s organ wound me? Is there something wrong with me?
Slowly she got up and walked to the creek, hurting with every step. She washed herself, but it didn’t help the throbbing, aching pain, or the turmoil in her mind. Why did Broud want me to do that? Iza says men want to relieve their needs with attractive women. I’m ugly. Why should a man want to hurt a woman he likes? But women like it, too; why else would they make the gestures to encourage men? How can they like it? Oga never minds it when Broud does it to her, and he does it every day, more than once, sometimes.