My own shadow had been hiding her from the moon. As I moved, the light displayed her; she might have been glowing in the dark, her warmth like a touch as I bent over her and my hand made contact with tender silkiness. She was lying on her side, her back to me. The sheet was at her waist, pushed down because this night was heavy as the rose-season of summer.
My fingers brought the sheet gently further down, barely touching the swell of her hip. Lightly also I touched the dark mass of her hair on the pillow and the dim curves of her neck and shoulder, and I wondered how she could sleep when my ungentle heart was so quickly and heavily drumming. I let myself down on the bed. “Emmia, it’s just me, Davy. I want you.” My hand roved, astonished, for my liveliest imaginings could never have told me how soft is a girl’s skin to a lover’s fingers. “Don’t be scared, Emmia — don’t make no noise — it’s Davy.”
I felt no waking start, only a turning of her heat against my thigh, then answering pressure of her hand to tell me she was neither angry nor afraid. Later I wondered if she might not have been awake all the time, pretending sleep for a game or to see what I would do. Now she was staring up at me from the pifiow and whispering: “Davy, you be such a bad boy, ba-ad — why, oh, why did you go away again today? All day? So wild and crazy-like, what’ll I do about you at all?” — calm, soft talky-talk as if there was nothing remarkable about the two of us being on her bed naked as eggs in the middle of the night, my hand curling over her left breast and then straying downward bold as you please and she smiling.
Yes, and so much for last night’s instructions on virtue and mustn’t-kiss-me-again. Gone like late-staying oak leaves when the spring winds lose patience, for I was kissing her now for sure, tasting the sweet life of her lips and tongue and nibbling her neck and telling her there was a right way and a wrong way and this time we’d bejasus do it the right way because I was going to have it into her come hell or hi-ho. And she whimpered: “Ah no!” — in a way that couldn’t mean anything except: “What the devil would be stopping you?” — and twisted her loins away from me, only to remind me I must use a little strength in this game.
I was also driven to say: “Emmia, I did go off to do something difficult and honest — done it best I could, only it’s a thing I can’t tell you of, not ever, Spice. And I got to run away.”
“Nay.” I don’t know if she heard anything truly except the “Spice.” I was at her ear again, and kissing the funny tip of her breast, and then her mouth. “So bad, Davy! — so bad!” Her fingers wandered now and demanded, as mine did, and mine found the little tropic swamp where I’d presently go. “Spice yourself!” she panted. “Tiger-tom. I won’t let you run away from me, Tiger-tom, won’t let you.”
“Not from you.”
“You be all man now, Davy. Oh!”
I did want to say I loved her, or some such message, but speech was lost, for I was over her, clumsy and seeking, understanding for the first time the mimic violence that a loving heart can’t allow to go beyond the bounds of tenderness. She who had maybe always understood it, resisted me enough so that I must hold her down, overcome her, until presently the hot sweaty struggle itself was binding us together, as closely as our lips were bound whenever our mouths met and clung in the strife. Then, no longer resisting, her hands helped and guided me toward the blind thrust that took me into her.
I could imagine myself her master then, while she was locked fast to me and groaning: “Davy, Davy, kill me, I’m dying, my lord, my love, you damn big beautiful Tiger-tom — keep on, oh, keep on!” — but all in a tiny voice, no outcry, mindful of our safety even when my world blew up in rainbow fire. So now I am fairly sure, years later, that in the first embrace I can’t have satisfied her completely. Kindness Emmia possessed. I think that to some extent, that first time, she acted a part out of kindness, well enough so that a green boy could feel happy and proud, emperor of her shadowplace, a prince of love.
It’s not true to say there’s only one first time. My first was Caron who understood what game the grown-ups played, and we played it the witless childhood way, maybe better than most tumbling whelps because in a more-thanchildhood way we did honestly cherish each other as people. But you may come to the first time with another as though the past were swept aside and you the same as virgin, entering a garden so new that all flowers taken in the past seem to belong to young years, smaller passions. I don’t suppose this could be true for the men who are driven in a mischancy race from one woman to the next, never staying long enough with one to learn anything except that she has — what a surprise! — the same pattern of organs as the last. Nor could it be true of the female collectors of scalps. But it’s true for anyone like myself to whom women are people, and is probably true for a woman who can see a bedmate is a friend and a person, not just an enemy or a child substitute or a phallus with legs.
Emmia smoothed my hair. “Mustn’t run away.”
“Not from you,” I said again.
“Hush then.”
I was finding a clarity like what may come with the ending of a fever. The world receded, yet grew sharper in lucid small detail. The dead guard at the stockade, the gleam of my golden horn, the mue become food for the yellow ants — all keeenly lit, tiny, perfect, like objects seen in sunlight through the bottom of a drinking glass. In the same vision I could find the fact of Emmia herself, that big-thighed honeypot deep as a well and shallow as a ripple on a brook, whom I now loved unpossessively.
She whispered: “I know what made you a big lover alla-sudden. Found you a woods-girl out wilderness-way, one of the you-know, Little Ones, and she must be purtier than I be, and put a spell onto you the way no girl can say no.,,
“Why, an elf-girl’d take one look and say poo.”
“Nay — got a thing or two about you, Davy. Some time I’ll tell you how I know you been next to an elf-girl.” Emmia was laughing at the fancy, half-believing it too, for elves and such-like are real to Moha folk, as real as serious matters like witchcraft and astrology and the Church. “Nay, own up, Tiger-tom, and tell me what she did. Feed my boy one of them big pointy mushrooms that look like you-know-what?”
“Nay. Old witch-woman, terrible humly.”
“Don’t say such things, Davy! I was just fooling.”
“Me too. Kay, tell me how you know.”
“So what’ll you do for me if I do? I know — scratch my back — ooh, lower — that’s it, that’s good — more… Kay, here’s how I know: what happened to your luck-charm?”
My brain banged into that one head-on. I was sitting bolt upright, scared frantic. I knew I had cut that fishing cord, strung the charm on it, and worn it. And not touched it since — or had I?… That I did not remember, and could not… Had it worked loose when I climbed the jinny-creeper? — hnpossible: I’d gone up like a slow wisp of smoke. The stockade then? — no. I’d done that too with great caution; besides, the logs were set so close you couldn’t shinny up — had to work your fingers into the cracks and your toes too, climbing with your body curving out; my chest wouldn’t have touched the palings. But when the guard clouted me I’d fallen face down and rolled, and his foot came down on my middle. My charm must have been torn loose when he roughed me, and I too mad to notice. Presently I couldn’t believe anything else.
“Davy, love, what’d I say? I was just—”
“Not you, Spice. I got to run away.”
“Tell me.” She wanted to pull me back down to her, taking it for granted my trouble was only a boy’s fret, something a kiss would fix.
I told her. “So it must be back there, Emmia, in plain sight. Might as good’ve stayed to tell ’em I done it.”