CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES)

by LAMBERT, JOAN DAHR

  Dak came to look for her, worried by her long absence. He stared incredulously. But the look on Zena's face kept him silent. She was there, but not there, as if some other were looking from her eyes. Frowning, he watched her pick up a stone and place it carefully, then go back for another. Her actions lost their strangeness, and he began to help. The others came behind him. Like Dak, they looked at Zena in amazement, but then the atmosphere in the small glen infected them as it had infected Dak. They began to gather up the big stones, using only the ones that were smooth and rounded, as if they, too, were part of the dream. Soon, the circle was complete.

  The trancelike look on Zena's face deepened. Slowly, as if she were being led, she walked to the center of the circle of stones and held up her arms to the sky. She said the word for mother, the word that all the young ones used to name the one who cared for them and kept them safe, the word they uttered when they were frightened or hurt or needed help. They used this word, too, to describe the feelings of comfort and peace, the certainty of food and shelter and warmth that came from their mothers' presence. It was a powerful word, one that contained both joy and fear.

  Zena said the word aloud, over and over again. Her tone rose with every repetition, then softened until she spoke almost in a whisper. She raised her face to the sky, then turned it toward the earth, while she stamped her feet in a rhythmic pattern. Now she was calling another word, the word for rain. Again and again, she shouted the word, stamping her feet hard against the dry earth. Mesmerized by her movements, the others began to shout the word and stamp their feet. One at a time, they joined her in the circle and turned their faces toward the clouds, then the earth, as they called and shouted and stamped. Thunder cracked over them, and they stamped harder, called louder, to match the deafening sound. Lightning followed, and with it came the smell of ozone. The pungent scent excited them still further.

  Dak leaped from the circle and grabbed a stick. He brandished it in the air, scraped it noisily against the ground. Klep imitated him, the twins as well. Leaping wildly, they shouted the word for rain as they beat their sticks against the earth, then pointed them toward the sky.

  The females stayed in the circle, belonging there. But now they were stamping in patterns, moving slowly, then quickly, in a rhythmic movement. Both words came from their throats; first the word for rain, then the word for mother, in rhythm with their movements. The feet of the males outside the circle pounded in rhythm with them, and their voices repeated the words. The glen, the woods, the earth itself, resounded with the incessant stamping, the powerful words.

  The atmosphere was heavy with the odor of an impending storm. They smelled it, felt it in their bodies, and they pulled at it, willing it to come down and drench them in its welcome downpour. Over and over, their heads lifted to the sky, to the pregnant, moisture-filled clouds, then returned to the dry earth, as if they were showing the way.

  The tempo increased. Their pounding became frenzied, and their voices cracked with the strain of shouting the words faster and faster, over and over again. They knew the rain was coming now; it could not resist.

  When the first drops hit, they stood perfectly still and bowed their heads in gratitude. Tears cascaded down their cheeks, tears that could not be stopped any more than the rains could be stopped. More drops came to fall delicately on the backs of their dusty necks, then more, and then, suddenly, the heavens opened. Their heads snapped up again, to welcome the blessed wetness. The rain streamed across their thirsty skin and into their parched throats; they felt it heal their cracked lips and cleanse their grimy bodies, and they raised their arms in a gesture of pure ecstasy.

  Joy filled them, a joy that came from the return of the rains, but from something deeper, too. It was as if another presence moved among them, a presence far greater than any creature they had ever known. It flooded their hearts with its magnificence, as the rain was flooding the river.

  Zena slumped suddenly to the ground, and they came back to themselves. Dak ran to her, frightened. She lay motionless for a long moment. Then she shook her head hard, as if to clear it, and sat up. She stared at Dak, at the others. Smiling, she held out her hands to the rain. The others stared back, relieved. She was seeing with her own eyes, acting like herself again. They did not speak but only sat beside her for a long time, cherishing the rain that pounded their parched bodies, smelling the wondrous scents that came with wetness. When darkness came, they rose slowly and went to the shelter.

  The next morning, water rushed through the river's banks. Insects and shrimp, even tiny fish, emerged from the mud where they had lain dormant until the rains came. Tadpoles squirmed in the puddles; thin green shoots appeared like magic in the clearing. Zena ate and drank, then she walked slowly to the glen and sat down in the circle of stones. The peace she had felt the day before was still with her. There was a wondrous gratitude in her as well, for the rains, for the mothers who were one who had helped her. She wanted to thank them, not just this day, but every day of her life.

  The glen sparkled as sunlight caught the drops of water that still clung to each stem of grass, each twig and stone. Zena watched them slowly evaporate and disappear. Tomorrow, the drops would be there again, of that she was certain. She was certain, too, that rain would fall later in the day and each day thereafter, until the rainy season had ended. The rains would come every year as well. The knowledge was as much a part of her as her legs or her arms or belly. She knew the rains would come, for each year without fail she would return to the circle of stones to speak the words again, to move in the special way the dream had shown her. Never would she forget this magic, the magic that had come from the mothers who were one.

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  Zena kept her promise. Each time she returned to the river, she went first to the circle of stones to thank the mothers who were one for their help all through the year. And when the rainy season approached and clouds began to loom against the darkening sky, she gathered the others around her to re-enact the ritual that brought the rains. Every year, for all the years that remained of her life, they came. Whenever she spread her arms to the sky and chanted the sacred words, the clouds loosened their hold and dropped their precious burden. Whether the ceremony was responsible, none could know. But Zena took no chances.

  The group expanded during these years. Klep disappeared one day, and they were afraid he had been hurt, or killed. But he soon returned, holding a round young female by the hand. Another female appeared soon after Myta had died, and a new male joined them, one as gentle and cooperative as Lop had been. A male who tried to attack them, as the hungry one had before, was driven away. Zena would not allow such a male in her troop. There were many births too. Tipp mated with the twins, and had twin boys herself, and both the new females gave birth soon after. And after that, Myta's daughter and Zena's son, Hoot, were almost ready to mate as well.

  Zena watched over them happily. She had never forgotten the solitude of her early life, and her growing troop was a constant source of joy and satisfaction. She listened to their ever-increasing chatter, settled disputes, helped them to make decisions, snapped at them occasionally, and loved them all.

  The years sped by, and Zena became old and frail. She spent most of her time now sitting peacefully on her boulder above the lake, or in the circle of stones, remembering. Sometimes Screech's face appeared in her mind, and she saw his eyes grow round with delight, or wrinkle in merriment as they played together. Often, she thought of Dak. He had died during their last trip to the river, and she missed him badly. Always, he had known her thoughts, felt her pain and joy as if they were his own. She thought of Rune as well, with her wise, appraising eyes, her sharp voice and comforting ways, and of all the mothers who had come to her when she needed them so desperately.

  One day, as she sat in dreamy silence in the circle of stones, she slipped a little lower against the warm earth. When Tipp came in the evening to look for her, she was no longer breathing. Tipp smiled at her gently, but
she did not weep. Her heart was too full for tears. She sat beside her mother for a time, then she went to get the others. Hoot came first, holding his own son by the hand, and after him came Zena's youngest daughter, clutching a newborn infant against her chest. The others came behind them, to touch Zena once again, to see her face, so they could keep it in their hearts.

  They were saddened by her death, for she had been mother to them for almost twenty years, and they had loved her dearly. But in another way, they were glad, for it seemed to them that Zena belonged in this special place. Now she could stay here always, safe within the circle of stones she had created. And every time they came here, she would be waiting, ready to offer help and guidance. They covered her with leafy branches and slowly turned away. The rains had come again, and it was time to leave for the lake.

  Tipp took her mother's place. Like her mother, she was brave and resourceful, worthy of respect. She gathered the others around her and led them along the familiar paths from river to swamp, then to the lake, and back to the river when the dry season came again. Each time they returned, they went first to the circle of stones to remember Zena, the one who had called the rains from the sky and kept them alive when all of them had thought they would die. And just as they had expected, she was always there to greet them. Sometimes her voice came to them in the wind; sometimes they thought they heard her speak through the stars or the moon, or through the creatures of the woods.

  Soon, though, it was not just Zena for whom they listened. Her voice became the voice of the mothers who were one, and her presence merged into the presence they felt when they performed the ritual to bring the rain. They called this presence "Mother," as Zena had. She was all the mothers who had ever given birth and nurtured those around them; She was the powerful force that brought storms and rain, the force that created new life and took the old or the injured back again. The Mother lived in the earth, in the sky, in the rivers and lakes, in every creature that walked or crawled or flew. But Her special home was the circle of stones, where Zena's compassion for the ones she loved had caused Her to be born.

  PART TWO

  From the Rift Valley

  to the

  Shores of the Red Sea

  Between five hundred and

  two hundred thousand years ago

  CHAPTER NINE

  The herbs had dulled Mina's pain. Cere could see the change in her sister's face. For hours, her jaw had alternately clenched and widened, as if she was about to scream but lacked the strength and had to swallow her agony instead. Sweat dripped unceasingly from her forehead. Over and over, Cere had wiped it from her with the soft bundle of fragrant leaves. Now, the sweat had ceased to come and Mina's jaw had relaxed.

  Cere looked up at her mother. As always, Kalar's face was serene, as befitted her position. She was the tribe's wise one, the woman who advised them and helped them to make important decisions. Kalar was closest to the Great Mother, and without the Mother, the tribe could not survive. They were all Her children, for She was Life-Giver, who caused infants to grow in their mothers' bellies.

  The Mother spoke to them through Kalar, so it was to Kalar the tribe now looked for reassurance, when so many of the young women were dying. Pictures of those already dead arose in Cere's mind. Mina's face slid beside them. She shuddered and thrust the picture away. It was a bad omen. Surely the Mother did not want to take Mina back so soon. Only three days ago, Cere herself had given birth, and she had not died. That was a good sign. Her infant, though, had lived less than an hour. It had been born too soon, without the strength to breathe, so the Mother had taken it back until it was stronger. Sadness filled Cere as she thought of its tiny, puckered face, the cruel stretching of its lips as it sucked for air. It had never sucked milk, though her breasts were ready. They swayed with unfamiliar heaviness as she bent over Mina, and she could feel milk trying to push through her nipples even though there was no baby to feed.

  Mina seemed to be sleeping now. Her lips were soft in repose, and the lines that had marred her brow had disappeared. Like Kalar, Mina was one of the long-headed ones. Some in the tribe had low, sloping foreheads, but Mina's brow was high and wide, her head unusually large.

  Mina's eyes opened suddenly, and she stared straight ahead, as if she saw something surprising.

  Cere looked up, puzzled. There was nothing to see here in the birthing place, except the trees that surrounded the small glen. They had chosen it as the birthing place because of the blessed circle of stones that lay within it. None knew how the smooth, rounded rocks had come here, but they did know they were sacred, and a good place for new life to emerge. Cere herself had felt their power, and so had Mina. When they had first entered the circle as children, strange prickles had slid up their spines. They had scampered away to find Kalar, to ask why that should be.

  "The Mother's spirit resides there," she had answered, and after that, the children had regarded the stones with awe.

  Mina's eyes closed again. Cere spoke the word of caring to her and stroked her cheek, but Mina did not seem to hear.

  Cere raised her face to the sky, wishing the moon would come out and bathe Mina in its soft light. It had been full and bright when Cere herself had given birth, but all through this night it had hidden behind thick, black-edged clouds. Labor was easier when the moon was full, Kalar said, for then it had power and could help to pull at the life within.

  She looked down again. Mina's eyelids fluttered briefly, and a small sigh escaped her lips. Cere could see a line of darkness around her mouth, where blood had stained it when she bit her lips in pain. Gently, she wiped the stains away with the fragrant leaves.

  It was good the pain had left her. But surely her labor was taking too long. Mina had entered the birthing place soon after sunrise, and now the night was almost gone. At first, she had crouched, to ease the pressure, or walked a little, but for many hours she had been lying down. Perhaps she was gathering her strength, so she would be able to push hard when the time came.

  Cere looked at the other women, to gather a clue from their faces. But there was only patience, and weariness. All night long they had watched over Mina, tending the fires that lit up the small glen, fetching water and leaves for compresses, rushes to soften the bed, anticipating the moment when she would give that final push. But it had not come. Instead, hours ago, when Mina had begun to writhe in agony, Kalar had called for her special herbs, the ones to dull the pain. She did not often do that, but she had given the herbs to Mina many times, pushing the concoction into her mouth, and stroking her throat until she swallowed.

  Cere frowned, worried. Dawn was sliding into the air, and still nothing had happened. Her own labor had lasted only a few hours, and she had not needed the herbs. So many of the births had been like that. When labor was short, the baby died, too small to live. When it was long, the mother died. The tribe had looked to Kalar for answers. She had tried to reassure them, but the words to say what was in her thoughts were few. They had words for animals and objects, for their activities, for people and the relationships between them, even for the caring in their hearts. But knowledge of other things came in pictures in their minds, and it was hard to show these pictures to one another. Still, Kalar had tried.

  "The Great Mother changes us," she had told them. "Then pain comes. But good comes too. We must wait."

  The response had meant little to Cere at the time, and it did not help her now. All she wanted was for Mina to be all right. Mina was the one who had comforted her each time she fell, who had shown her how to use her digging stick, how to pound nuts and tubers. They had gone everywhere together, leaping through the fields in imitation of the graceful gazelle, or splashing happily in the lake when the air was hot. Together, they had stared down at the faces they saw in the water and wondered at the sameness to their own faces, then at the strange distortions that came when the water moved. Cere wanted badly, still, to ask Mina about these things. Mina would know how to answer. She had the promise of wisdom already upon
her, like Kalar when she was young. Cere knew this from listening to the other women.

  She smiled down at her sister, remembering, and touched her cheek to reassure her, as she had so many times this night. Her hand leaped back involuntarily, for Mina's skin was cold, as cold as the rocks when no sun had come for many days. A cry rose in Cere's throat, but she could not utter it. Fear choked her, made her heart jump fiercely. There was no color in Mina's face, only grayness. The tiny infant's face had looked like that, at the end. Was Mina gone too?

  She was aware of sudden movement. Kalar had called sharply to one of the women, who had run off in the direction of the clearing. Her footsteps thudded on the well-worn path; Cere heard a shuffling noise and another sharp command. Her cutting stone - that was what Kalar had called for. Why should she want that right now?

  Kalar was kneeling by Mina, gently kneading her swollen belly. Her eyes were closed in concentration, and she did not see Cere, nor did she respond when Cere called out to her in fear. She seemed to be aware of nothing but the messages that came from her fingers as they probed carefully all across the distended mass where the unborn child still rested.

  The woman returned and handed Kalar the cutting stone. It was her best stone, the one Lett had struck from his special flint and sharpened many times, so that it would cut easily through the tough hides of the carcasses they sometimes found. Still kneeling by Mina, Kalar held it to her lips, then raised it into the air in blessing. She touched Mina's face, and spoke to her quietly. Cere could hear the caring in her voice.