The Mantooth Part 43

Kalus stirred, feeling silken fingers touch his breast, bare legs against his own. He let out a despairing sigh as soft lips caressed him---his mouth, his neck, his chest---all in deepest pa.s.sion, and solemn entreaty.

It was not his true love, but he could not deny her this. Nor, as he held her close, did he have any wish to, all else falling away in the unconscious amnesia of male pa.s.sion. He threw open the sleeping bag, longingly kissed her cheek, her neck, the lovely s.p.a.ce above her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

'Kataya,' he whispered pa.s.sionately, and there was nothing else in his world, no other salve for the endless pain and frustration. There was only her, here and now, her face wet with tears, vulnerable, compelling. He released the knotted loincloth, as their most sensitive reaches drew nearer. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rubbed gently across his. Then he slid down, yielding to that most primal longing: to suckle at the breast, fountain of all life.

'Yes,' she whispered fervently. 'Yes, Kalus. TAKE me.' He raised himself on his arms, opening her legs with his own, and with the sighing aid of her hand, was inside her. He did not love her, but he longed for her, making the physical release and abandon perhaps the greater for it. He was not gentle, nor did she ask him to be. For in that moment she was not a woman, but all women, and his anger would not be abated.

But as he approached climax, too soon, his gentler nature returned, and he not only remembered, but yearned for the soul inside her. She felt him withdraw. And though she experienced a moment of bitter disappointment, that all was yet in vain, he only moved to kneel over her, kissing her lips, her eyes, her neck and then her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. And all the while his right hand encircled her deepest temple, caressing, kneading, softly stroking and then penetrating its moist readiness. In rapture she threw back her head, breathed deeply and surrendered to o.r.g.a.s.m. Then gently, now quieter, he put himself inside her once more, moving his p.e.n.i.s in slow, beautiful patterns that she thought would break her heart with loving pleasure. And in time as his own breathing became deeper, and his thrusts more urgent, she felt the throbbing wetness come again, as together they forgot all else in the throes of that blessed, animal release. Plaintive, moaning sounds split the night.

Then he reached back and covered them both with the sweetly softened sleeping bag, inside her still, their limbs intertwined, breath commingling.

'Thank you,' she whispered, taking his head in her hands and kissing him with all her heart and soul, as she felt his strong arms engulf her and his lips caress her with spoken and unspoken words of affection and rea.s.surance. And soon, very naturally, both drifted off into a sleep no longer bitter, at glorious, indifferent peace with themselves and with their world.

In the chill hour before dawn, Sylviana woke from a horrible dream.

Some hideous, ill-defined beast had sprung upon Kalus from a shadow, and with teeth and claws and sheer weight pinned him to the ground, slashing and rending, tearing him apart.

She sat bolt upright in the silent gloom. The room was empty, and the dream had been too real. Forgetting all else she threw on a robe, left the building and ran toward the place where she knew he lay sleeping.

She no longer cared for games, or being right. She only wanted to be with him. To hold him and.....

There were sounds ahead of her in the darkness. Two voices. She slowed, and then moved off the path, taking cover behind a small tree.

What she heard in its near seclusion seemed less real than the nightmare, and yet far more terrible.

'I should go now,' said Kataya, rising and slipping the silk dress across her arms and shoulders, then lowering it softly into place.

'Yes. I do not think Sylviana would understand. But we understand, don't we? You know what this night was for us?'

'Yes. Just hold me, kiss me once, and then I'll go.'

'Goodbye, my beautiful Kataya.'

'My beautiful Kalus.' And with a tear that no longer wounded her, she was gone.

Sylviana slithered to the ground with her back against the tree, her sorrow as bitter and unquenchable as any she had ever known. Whatever her sins and follies may have been, she paid for them dearly in those moments. For she saw more clearly and painfully than ever, as much as if he had been killed, that she loved him beyond all others, almost beyond her own life. And she knew it as she felt him betray her, and give the precious love that had been hers alone, to another woman.

Another woman! How could he? After all they had been through..... How could he think that she wouldn't come back to him, just because for a time she had been uncertain. Hadn't he driven her to it?

That perhaps it was she who had driven him, that he had given Kataya something beautiful and desperately needed, that she herself might give such a precious gift to a man like Stenmark, none of these thoughts could occur. Because like Kalus or Kataya (or anyone else), she was a product, and in some measure a victim, of the world in which she had grown. For she had been taught (though not by her father) that this was the one, all-consuming act of a man's betrayal, and a thing which could never be forgiven. And like Barabbas in his rage of righteous anger, she too cast him out, out of her heart forever.

On a more human level, and in a flood of final tears, like the little girl bereft of her mother she felt devastated and lost, and swore that she would never again let anyone come so close, and hurt her so badly.

She stood up again, desperate and proud and defiant, ready to go on without him.

But she had forgotten his wilderness senses. He had heard her crying before Kataya was out of sight, and realized with crushing finality and self-reproach how much she loved him, and how deeply he had wounded her.

He stood now just a few feet away, and committed his second great mistake of human psychology.

Because whatever rash promises she might have made to herself in the depths of rejection and spiritual agony, so long as they remained within her they might still have softened with time, leaving the heart open to forgiveness and return. But by confronting her then and allowing the volcano to erupt, spewing forth its rage upon him, the hateful words solidified and became a reality unto themselves, a spoken curse that foolish, endless human pride would then have to live up to. He stood before her, pale and shivering, neither explaining nor begging forgiveness.

His simple heart would only say. 'I have never loved anyone else. I never could. This was not love, in the way that you and I---' Her open hand struck across his face with the fury of all women scorned. 'I hate you!' she cried hysterically. 'We're finished, FOREVER! And I'll HURT you before I'm through. Just wait and see how I hurt you!' And she stormed away, her love and pain alike submerged beneath the weight of hard words, and harder justice. Because male pride is evil enough, in its blunt and stupid way destroying much that is gentle and fair. But a woman's vengeance, turned devious by the depths of her vulnerability, and the intricate contradiction of her emotions..... True h.e.l.l would be raised, one way or the other. Kalus watched her go, and though shocked and stunned and hurt himself, felt yet again the indestructible bond that was his love for her. When she struck him it had been as if he struck himself, and even as she promised to hurt him, his one thought was for her safety.

Kataya, Komai, even the cub who stood beside him, became secondary, superfluous in his life. She was his woman, his family, and in everything but name, his wife. And whatever she might do or say, he would never leave her. But as the cub gently nuzzled against his leg, seeking some sign of rea.s.surance, he was dismayed to find large tears running down his face, as in his mind's eye he saw Barabbas with the other males huddled silently behind him, telling him to go.

'Why?' he asked aloud, his burning eyes turned toward the heavens. 'Why must I always be punished for showing mercy, and trying to do what is right?' But it was not mercy he felt when he took Kataya to him, and he knew it. He kicked at a protruding root, but trying to make his anger flare was like trying to make a fire of damp wood. Guilt and remorse quickly smothered it, smothered him. He stroked Alaska's head and said quietly, 'It's all right.' But he neither felt it, nor believed it himself. That afternoon William appeared, like the white shadow of a tenement grave, and Sylviana had found her instrument of revenge.

Chapter 43

All that morning Kalus stayed away, not wanting Sylviana to see him, not wanting to destroy for Kataya what they had shared the night before.

The gesture was not entirely n.o.ble: now more than ever he found it impossible to think or plan, and simply did not know what else to do.

But as various members of the company began to return early from their labors, as if by mutual consent at the fine Spring weather, the amiable Smith accosted him in the place where he sat brooding. The youngest of the company, he had a pleasant, almost boyish face, with sandy hair and a light moustache. He took Kalus up as if they were old friends, and insisted they share a bottle of wine to celebrate the day. Kalus hardly felt like celebrating, and was half fearful of the liquor's effect on him; but the other's friendly oblivion made it all but impossible to say no. So at last, wearily, he consented.

The two went briefly to the botanist's rooms to fetch it, then turned themselves again out of doors. There in the clear s.p.a.ce by the tables Kalus saw the two women: Kataya, who looked up from her work and smiled faintly, and Sylviana, who did not smile, though she could not entirely hide her relief at seeing him at all. But the embers of her anger still smoldered, waiting only for a restless wind to stoke them again to withering fire.

The two men moved to the crest of the hill which formed one border of the gra.s.sy bowl in which the others had gathered, and sat beneath the speckled shade of a young tree that grew there. From here they could survey the company without feeling too close, and therefore inhibited.

Smith opened the bottle, and after taking several large gulps (despite the a.s.sumed bravado he was nervous, and uncertain how to proceed) pa.s.sed it to Kalus, who was much more cautious.

In time he felt the liquor, though he was not overwhelmed by it. Yet he spoke little, gazing wistfully into the small valley at the two women he had loved: desiring again the one, though he rebuked himself for it, loving, and at the same time hating, the fallen angel of his heart.

Smith observed this, and failing in his attempts at indirect conversation, spoke more plainly.

'I guess by now the Doc has explained to you something of our breeding problem..... Dave Rawlings can be a bit blunt---subtle as a truck, really---but he generally says the things that need to be said.

About mating, for example, and children.' Kalus turned toward him curiously, as Smith pretended not to notice.

'He and I were just talking about it last night, and do you know what he said? ?Stop s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around and just ask them. Enough of this timidity. It's high time for those of us who can still procreate to get down to some serious f.u.c.king.''

If Smith had stopped talking long enough, Kalus would have gotten up and walked away from what seemed to him a lunatic a.s.sault on those things he held most dear. But he did not stop.

'We've all been in rather a state of shock the past year, s.e.xually as well as otherwise. And of course we had plenty of other things to think about first: constructing the shelters, laying up food for the Winter.'

'Survival,' said Kalus bluntly. 'Just like everyone else.'