He grunted satisfaction and made her come nearer still. They began fondling each other. Every day since their coming together, and several times a day, Hawkon had demanded and received this assurance. He was not aware of repeating himself, and Flint was far from weary of his repetitions. She thought him the strongest, bravest, most desirable man in the world; she thought him a very god among men. She also thought him likely to prove a better master than the man he had slain to get her. That one, too, in his time, had been a god; but now he was dead and forgotten. Enough of him. He was not to be compared with this wonderful Hawkon; for Hawkon was alive, and though she did not know clearly what death meant she did know that between being dead and being alive there is all the difference in the world, especially when husbands are in question. Hawkon in her eyes was perfection, but for a certain uncouthness he had in common with his fellow tribesmen. This house he had brought her to was a good house, though she had lived in better. But its condition did not please her. Having by ample smiles and wondering gestures professed the greatest admiration for everything, she lost no time in making everything as different as possible. This was put there and that was put here. The whole place was drastically cleansed, so that Hawkon, returning after a day’s absence, found himself ill at ease in it, and had to be cajoled into accepting the new order. Indeed she could not help making a wry face when she thought of the squalor he had been content with. But she was happy. She was wanted. And it was, after all, part of Hawkon’s perfection that he so evidently needed looking after. This her heart knew, though she was racially too young, by about five thousand years, to have a mind capable of formulating such an idea.
Now, as they lay in each other’s arms drowsy and satisfied, the woman’s mind began receiving images of that former life of hers, in time so recent but in sensation so remote. And presently she became restless in her lord’s embrace. His arms, without his rousing, released her. He rolled over, snorted, and would have plunged more deeply into sleep, but the hands of the woman were busy waking him. She wanted to talk. And she was not unwilling to test her power over him by risking his displeasure. Gentler methods failing, she flung herself upon him with vigorous caresses. He woke suddenly, and started up.
‘Huh?’ His eyes turned to the doorway; his hand sought a weapon.
She soothed him. ‘There is only Flint.’
He looked at her. ‘Flint is my woman,’ he remarked. His voice was truculent, but what it had uttered seemed to give him satisfaction in retrospect. His look, at first startled and angry, became amorous.
The woman laid her head in his lap. ‘It is so,’ she said. And after a moment’s silence added: ‘The sons of Koor are great. Hawkon is great.’
‘Huh? It is so.’
‘There is hunting here, and Hawkon is the great hunter. There is sowing and reaping of grain.’
Hawkon assented.
‘But,’ said Flint, ‘there are no herds.’
‘I don’t know that talk,’ answered Hawkon, after a long and thoughtful silence. ‘That is strange talk.’
Flint made haste to propitiate him. ‘My people are less than your people. There is no hunter like Hawkon. But my people have much meat. My people have herds.’
‘What is that?’ asked Hawkon. The talk was boring him. It was silly talk. But the woman was lusty, round of limb, exciting. He made an effort to listen a while longer.
‘My people have captured beasts alive. Of few they get many. So there is much meat. There is much meat to eat and much milk to drink. So I am fat.’ She stroked her own arm. ‘See? I am fat.’
She was talking over her lord’s head. Her enthusiasm was carrying her away. In another moment he would jump up, kick her aside, and stride out in search of more manly conversation. But meanwhile he humoured her by asking: ‘I don’t know milk. What is milk? That is silly talk.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
She tried to explain milk to him by pantomime, holding an imaginary child at her breast and with one hand squeezing the nipple between its eager gums. ‘See? The young one. He takes milk from his mother.’
Poor Hawkon did not see. ‘What young one?’ He looked suspicious. The woman was playing tricks on him, was she?’ Where is he, this young one?’
‘My people,’ persisted Flint mulishly, ‘take milk from their beasts. And so we are fat people.’
Hawkon looked at his woman no longer. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was rigid with listening. And when she spoke again he put his hand out and closed her mouth. Then, without noise, he went to the doorway and stood watching it. Flint, equally silent, crept to his side, vigilant, submissive, ready for his commands.
‘There is a shadow across the doorway,’ said Hawkon, in a low tone.
She was silent.
‘It is Nigh the Tale-Bearer,’ said Hawkon.
The shadow moved, and was gone.