CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES)

by LAMBERT, JOAN DAHR

  The next day she waved good-bye to the children, calling out a word that meant next time. The children repeated the word, but their faces were sad. They cared deeply for Zena, and for the games that challenged their imaginations. They loved to puzzle over everything they saw, to think of new words and ideas. Now they would have to do it by themselves.

  The adults stood in a cluster around the children. Each member of the tribe held a basket, and each woman proudly wore the sling she had made. One of the women held up her basket in one hand, the figure Lett had made for her in the other, and spoke the message Kalar had taught them. The others imitated her gesture and repeated her words.

  "Go with the Mother," they said, and their voices were a chorus of blessing in the still air.

  Kalar turned once and waved. "May the Mother live always in your hearts," she answered. Then she moved on without looking back. When the time came to lead her tribe, she wanted only to look forward.

  She led them first to a marshy area where food and water were almost always abundant, then they slowly worked their way north and east in the direction of the river. They were in no hurry this time, for food was still available along much of the route. Often, they spent many weeks at one site. They built a shelter and stayed there until food became hard to find, then they moved on. Zena loved these prolonged stays, for they gave her a chance to teach children in nearby tribes. She gathered them around her, to show them her games, while Cere taught the adults how to make baskets and Kalar spoke of the Mother. Both children and adults listened avidly, their faces intent. It was almost as if they had been waiting, Zena thought, as plants wait for rain, for someone to teach them the new ideas and skills. When she tried to express this thought to Kalar, the wise woman nodded agreement.

  "It is in this way the Mother has changed us," she said gravely. "All now have the desire to learn."

  "You must teach others as we have taught you," Kalar told the eager listeners, and they did. Each tribe passed on all they had learned to others they met in their travels. These tribes taught other tribes; each generation taught the next, and so it went, year after year, generation after generation, until almost all the tribes in the area had become familiar with the new inventions, with the concept of the Mother.

  When they finally reached the river, Zena felt a pang of sadness despite her pleasure at being once again in her favorite place. There were no new children here to teach, and she would miss watching their faces light up when they first discovered new words and ideas or found answers to their questions. In another way, though, teaching frustrated her. She could answer questions for others, but no one could answer hers.

  She watched a group of antelopes grazing in the distance. Some of them were jumping on the backs of other ones from behind.

  "What are they doing?" Sima touched Zena's hand to get her attention.

  "They mate," Zena answered, "like the adults."

  Sima nodded, content with the explanation. But Zena was not content. She wanted to know if mating gave antelopes pleasure, as Kalar and Cere told her it gave adults pleasure. She did not think so. The female antelopes usually tried to run away when the males approached them. If the act gave them pleasure, why did they run? And if it gave no pleasure, why did they bother to do it at all?

  Lions, she had observed, were different. A group of them often lazed around the lake. She had watched the females nudge the males, over and over again, trying to get them to mate. The males often seemed reluctant, but the females insisted.

  "It is the Mother's way," Kalar had told her when she had asked. "All animals mate, and all are different." But that answer, too, failed to satisfy Zena. She wanted to know why it was the Mother's way, and why animals were different.

  The question took on renewed urgency some months after they had returned to the river. Three-Legs was a full-grown female now, her leg long ago healed, and she was becoming more and more interested in other gazelles. Zena was sure mating had something to do with her interest. Twice already, she had run toward a herd and had let a male sniff at her. Each time, she had run back to Zena. But now she was approaching the herd for the third time, and she was much less skittish than before. Zena watched with a heavy heart as the big male approached her once again. This time, Three-Legs let him mate with her; then she disappeared into the herd.

  Zena turned and ran into the trees, trying hard to suppress the sobs in her throat. If Three-Legs wanted to be with her own kind, she could not keep her. Kalar had told her that over and over, and Zena knew she was right. Three-Legs was not Zena's; she was a gazelle, and gazelles belonged with each other.

  A solid lump of misery settled in Zena's belly. She felt as if part of herself had been suddenly wrenched away, that she would never be quite whole again without Three-Legs.

  Bowing her head so none of the others could see her contorted face, Zena trudged slowly toward the small glen where she had been born. She felt more peaceful here than in any other place. Even her questions seemed to lose their urgency when she sat in the circle of stones, as if there were no need to search for answers, to struggle to understand.

  Closing her eyes, she forced herself to pay attention to the sounds of birds calling to each other, of water splashing through the stream. Another sound made her sit up straight. Something was munching right beside her. Puzzled, she opened her eyes. Three-Legs was standing near her, browsing contentedly on some low bushes. She had come back!

  The tears Zena had been trying to control poured from her eyes as she ran over and hugged the little gazelle. Three-Legs nuzzled her affectionately and went back to her browsing, as if nothing had happened. When Zena rose to leave, Three-Legs followed close behind her, and she did not stray toward the herd again.

  Toward the end of the day, heavy clouds gathered, and a jagged streak of lightning struck the hillside where the gazelles were grazing. Fire spurted high into the air as the dry grasses were instantly consumed. The rainy season was approaching once again, and because the rains had been so sparse the year before, the fires were unusually ferocious.

  The gazelles began to run, their backs creating delicate arcs in the air as they leaped away from the danger. In minutes, the whole herd had disappeared. Zena was relieved. Now she would not have to worry about losing Three-Legs, for a while at least.

  Early the next morning, she wandered up behind the clearing toward the fires to look for burning sticks. Their fire had gone out during the night, and sticks were always plentiful in places where the flames had passed already. This time, she left Three-Legs behind with Sima and Lupe, fearing the gazelle would burn her feet or her delicate nose as she sought green fodder beneath the layers of soot and blackened grass.

  Zena clambered up a steep slope to reach the level, burned area beyond. A short, overhanging cliff blocked her way; she pulled herself up the rocks on one side of it. A movement just beneath her caught her eye, and she froze. A lion, or more likely a leopard, could live in the dark space beneath the overhang. Still, she had never seen one anywhere near this place, and there was no smell of a den. Probably it was just a small animal of some kind.

  Hugging her body against the ground, she peered cautiously over the cliff. Nothing moved now, but she could make out a dark bundle lying on the rocky ground. Perhaps it was an antelope, like the one they had found last time there were fires. That would be a wonderful discovery. She would be able to make some more slings, and the meat would keep them fed for days.

  Zena went closer. The creature on the ground stirred and made a moaning noise. She jumped in surprise. The sound was not that of an animal; it was the sound of another like herself. She ran over, fearing that a member of the tribe had been hurt. But it was a stranger, a young male a little larger than herself.

  She bent over him. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes of a pale, nut-brown color. Yellow flecks were sprinkled on the pupils, as if bits of sunlight had caught there. Zena stared at them, entranced. She had never seen eyes like that before.

  The yo
ung male uttered a stream of words she could not understand. Most of the tribes they encountered had words very much like theirs, but the young male seemed to have entirely different ones. She watched closely as he spoke, as if her eyes might grasp what her ears were unable to comprehend.

  The torrent of words dried up abruptly as he realized she did not understand. Fear came into his eyes then, and a terrible sorrow. He tried to lurch to his feet, but he fell back again, overcome by dizziness.

  "I help you," Zena said. She pointed to herself, and then to him. The boy did not answer, but watched her warily as she leaned close to examine him. A big bump on the back of his head explained his dizziness. There were scorched places on his hands and feet, as if he had run through fire and fallen into it as well, and one wrist was swollen and discolored.

  "Wait!" Zena commanded, as she rose to her feet. She would have to get help; she could never manage to carry him by herself.

  The fear in his yellow-flecked eyes increased as they heard steps on the hillside. Zena called out, hoping it was one of the others, and heard Bran answer. He came quickly, alerted by the anxiety in Zena's voice. The boy tried desperately to get to his feet when Bran bent over him, but the concern in the older man's face was so obvious that he relaxed again. Together, Zena and Bran helped him to stand and walk slowly into the clearing.

  The others came running, calling excitedly to each other. Kalar said nothing, but gestured to Zena and Bran to bring the stranger to her. She examined him closely.

  "His wrist may be broken," Zena told her, "and his head is hurt. He fell, I think. I found him under the cliff."

  Kalar nodded. "Get the herbs for burns, and for swelling," she instructed Zena.

  The young male watched curiously as they bound his swollen wrist between two straight sticks, as the old wise one had taught them. Kalar did not think it was broken, but the splints would keep the wrist from bending. After that, they prepared some poultices. One went on the boy's head, others on his feet and hands, still another was bound around his wrist. Sima and the two boys began to giggle. The stranger looked funny with all those bandages. And his eyes were so odd!

  He looked up at them and grinned, but the expression did not last. Pain quickly clouded his face again. Zena did not think the pain came from his wounds. It seemed instead to come from his thoughts.

  Cere appeared in front of him with a melon and some pieces of meat from a small pig Bran and Agar had caught the night before. He nodded to her, thanking her with his gesture, and began to eat voraciously. He was famished, Zena realized. The questions she could not ask battered at her. Where had he come from, and what had happened to him? Why was he alone? He was taller than she was, but she did not think he was much older, and that was too young to be alone.

  She tried to think how she could ask what had happened to the others in his tribe, but finally she gave up and simply looked at him questioningly as she gestured toward the hillside and the fire above it.

  The pain in his face increased. He passed his hand across his eyes wearily, and his whole body seemed to slump. Words tumbled from him, but Zena understood nothing. She shook her head in frustration. He stopped speaking and began to show her with his body what had happened. He pointed to himself, then made figures in the air with his hand for others. Pulling himself to his feet, he ran a few steps in one direction, pushing the others the opposite way. He gestured wildly toward the fire, and his hands surged in the air, representing the flames and the heat. Fear enveloped his face, then a terrible sadness. He pointed to Zena, then to Cere, and tears began to run down his cheeks. Finally, he slumped to the ground, gesturing with one arm, to show he had fallen.

  Zena watched, transfixed by his performance. Had the others of his tribe died? Or had he been separated from them in the fire? And why had he pointed to her, and then to Cere?

  She would never know unless she learned his words, or taught him theirs. She decided to start immediately.

  "Zena," she told him, pointing to herself.

  He regarded her seriously and then pointed to himself, saying a word that sounded like their word for fish.

  Zena tried to say it, too. The boy laughed, and repeated the word. "Lotan," he seemed to be saying. Zena tried again, and this time he nodded.

  So his name was Lotan. That was a start. She pointed to Sima and said their word for child. Then she gestured strongly with both hands, as if trying to draw a word from him.

  The young male's eyes lit up with comprehension. He uttered a word, pointing to the child.

  Zena committed it to memory and tried another. Soon, she understood his words for most of the objects and people in the immediate vicinity, as well as a word for Lotan's wounds. She was especially interested in Lotan's expression when she asked for the word for mother. The sadness came over his face when he uttered his word, and stayed there. He pointed to Bran, and then made gestures, as if fighting.

  "Male wound mother?" Zena's words were halting, but Lotan understood. He nodded vigorously, and rose to his feet again, pointing to the place from which he had come.

  "Help mother?" Zena pointed to herself and Bran and Kalar, then at Lotan, hoping he would get the meaning of help. Again, his eyes lit up.

  "Help mother," he repeated, nodding furiously.

  Kalar spoke for the first time. "You must sleep first," she said firmly.

  Zena translated this message as well as she could, and Lotan nodded reluctantly. He would not be able to walk very far until his burns improved, anyway.

  All that afternoon and into the evening, Zena sat by the fire, which they had managed to relight, and learned words from Lotan. Kalar watched her, frowning a little. The child was so intense, so determined to learn everything she wanted to know immediately. She did not stop to eat, to rest, even to pat Three-Legs.

  It was time to start teaching Zena seriously, she realized, not just of plants and their uses, but of the Mother, of what it meant to be a wise one. Almost ten years had passed now since Zena's birth, and she was old enough. Already, she knew so much, more than any of the others, about the world around them. She could imagine, and invent, find answers to puzzles. But that was not enough. She needed to understand and accept the Mother's ways, Her infinite patience and strength.

  Zena was of the Mother, destined to serve Her and speak for Her, of that Kalar was certain. But she knew, too, that Zena would find the task of learning the Mother's ways more difficult than some. She was impetuous and often stubborn, too ready to find her own solutions without help from any other. Zena needed to learn to open herself to the Mother's wisdom, combine it with her own abilities. Otherwise, her intelligence could lead her astray. Especially, she had to learn to accept. The Mother's ways were mysterious, harsh as well as kind. No one could understand them fully. Even Zena could not. No; she must learn to accept. It was the only way.

  Tomorrow, Kalar decided. Tomorrow, as they prepared to go to the lake once again, she would begin the initiation.

  *************************

  The tribe gathered around the hearth fire toward the end of the day, as was their custom. Lotan hovered uncertainly at the edges of the group. Seeing his unhappy face, Zena pulled him down beside her with a reassuring grin.

  "Lotan is his name," she told the others. "He showed me some of what happened. He went one way, and his tribe another. A male hurt his mother, I think, and he worries about her. I will know better when I learn more of his words.

  "He is very sad, I think," she added, regarding Lotan's pensive expression.

  The others nodded sympathetically. Kalar was about to reply when a commotion brought everyone to their feet. The wildebeest across the river had begun to bellow and stamp restlessly against the dry earth. All day, Zena and the others had watched clouds of dust billow into the air as thousands of the shaggy animals traveled slowly south. They passed this way each year at the same time, seeming to smell even the possibility of rain. The tribe had not paid much attention to their passage, except to realize that if
the wildebeests were moving, the rains would surely come soon.

  Kalar went down to the river to see what was happening. Lett followed. They stared at each other, frowning. No words were needed to express what was in both their minds. They had watched the wildebeests for many years, and knew that the huge herds were closer than they had ever been before. They also knew the wildebeests had to cross the river to get to the grassy plains to the south. Usually, they crossed beyond the river's deep bend, about half a day's journey away. It seemed impossible that they might cross here; they had never done such a thing before.

  Still, their nearness made Kalar uneasy. It was hard to tell exactly which way the animals were heading, or even to see individual bodies among the churning mass. The dust was too thick, and the light was beginning to fade as well. But it did look as if the agitated beasts were coming this way.

  She yelled to the others to go into the shelter. Unless the big beasts stampeded, they should be safe there. She turned for a last look at the plain across the river, and her eyes widened in dismay. There was fire behind the wildebeests, fire that was moving fast. Only a moment before, the horizon had been clear. Now it glowed orange, then scarlet, as the fire caught a grove of trees and hurled flames into the sky. Fires were burning to the south of the wildebeests, too, blocking their normal route. That was why they seemed to be heading for the river. There was no other way to go.

  A thick spear of lightning sheared across the sky and hit the ground in the middle of the throng of animals. Another came, and then another. Deafening claps of thunder accompanied the brilliant flashes. They were so loud that Kalar's eardrums felt pierced. They boomed and reverberated across the plains.

  Bellows of fear sprang from the throats of hundreds of the burly creatures across the river. Then, abruptly, they began to run. A few animals thrust themselves forward, jostling and shoving for position; the others followed. Within seconds, all of them were galloping in a thick, fast-moving line of thrashing hoofs and heavy bodies and impenetrable dust. And now there was no doubt about their direction. They were running straight towards the river and the clearing that lay beyond it.