"They hunt near here," he told her soberly. "There are many. Two cubs at least, more than half grown, and one or two males, and the lioness. We must keep the young ones close, and never go alone to look for food."
She nodded, appreciating his knowledge. Bran could understand tracks better than any. All of them were becoming increasingly dependent on him, as the oldest male. Always, his advice was helpful, his support unstinting.
"We must leave soon," she murmured, so quietly that only Bran heard. She hated to say the words aloud, for they meant Clio would never be found. Still, she must not shrink from uttering them. The whole tribe was her responsibility, more than any single member. Sometimes, it was necessary to be ruthless. And it was possible that the child was all right. Otherwise, why would the Mother give her that feeling of peace?
She went to Lotan and put an arm around his shoulders. "Perhaps Clio is all right," she told him. "The Mother sends peace to my mind when I think of her."
Her words did not comfort Lotan as she had intended. "Perhaps that is because She has taken Clio back to Her heart already," he replied bitterly. "Perhaps that is why you feel peace, why we cannot find her. The lion may have taken her, or some other animal."
Zena grimaced. She should have thought of that explanation. Lotan was right. Probably Clio was dead.
Lotan picked up the statue he had been carving and scraped at it furiously, but after a time his movements slowed and he became absorbed in the task. He loved carving, and had become very skillful at making wide-hipped figures, like the ones Lett had once made. Zena had realized how important the statues were when Metep had given birth. She had struggled all through the terrible night when they had lost Clio, and by morning, Toro had been desperate with anxiety.
"She is too small," Toro had wailed. "The baby cannot come, and she will die!"
Seeing her distress, Nyta had brought out the figure she had rescued from the circle of stones. Reverently, she had placed it in Zena's hands. Following a strong impulse, Zena had drawn it slowly along Metep's straining body from navel to crotch, over and over again, as if pulling the infant forth. The gesture seemed to help, for the baby had been born soon after.
Now Metep, and Toro, even Sima, wanted a figure. Toro especially had been impressed by the statue's magic. She had stared at Zena with awe-struck eyes as Zena had drawn the figure along Metep's body, and had wondered at her power. Ralak's talk of the earthforce and Zena's explanations of the Mother had never made much sense to Toro. But she did understand this. The small figure contained powerful magic, and the magic came through Zena. Toro began to listen carefully to all that Zena said, and the clumsy but recognizable statue Lotan made for her became her most prized possession.
Zena patted her own belly. She needed a figure for herself. An infant was growing in her body, still so tiny it could barely be felt. The Mother had blessed her in this way, too.
When the day ended, she called a council, so that all could participate in making the decision.
"I have not spoken before because of Clio," she told the others, "but now I believe it is time to tell you what the Mother shows me." She described the vision she had seen so many times, told of the beautiful valley and high plateaus, the vast water that seemed to have no end, and the strange white earth. She did not mention Clio and Kropor, lest she raise false hopes, but spoke instead of the peace that came to her when she thought of Clio.
"Perhaps the Mother protects her, and she is all right; perhaps She has taken Clio back to Her heart, as Lotan thinks. I cannot tell," she finished.
Subdued murmurs greeted her statements, but for a long time no one spoke. Bran broke the silence.
"We must leave," he said quietly. "Zena has seen the Mother's way in her visions. We must follow.
"I, too, believe the Mother has taken Clio back to Her heart," he added, glancing at Lotan. "The child belongs to Her now, and we need not worry anymore."
Toro looked mournful. "It is hard to leave without Clio, but I would also like to see Kropor again," she said sadly. "He was part of this tribe too."
The others nodded, understanding that she had cared very much for Kropor. They missed him too. Kropor had been difficult sometimes, but still his absence left a hole in their lives.
"He could return one day," Zena comforted Toro, "when his grief is less."
Toro shook her head. "We will leave, and he will not find us," she said sadly. "And I think he likes best to be alone, with Ralak gone."
Loud roars, harsh against the background of gentle night sounds, interrupted her words. The lions were calling to each other. Perhaps they had made a kill. The children shivered and moved closer to the adults. Three-Legs cuddled against Zena, her liquid brown eyes full of alarm. Even the frogs and insects ceased their chirping, as if to listen.
"We must leave. I agree with Bran." It was Nyta's voice, firm despite the fear the lions' roars had aroused.
"The Mother has given me a new infant, and I do not want it born here, where the lions might take it," she added, looking down at her swollen belly.
Lotan nodded reluctantly. "One more time I will search for Clio, when the light comes. Then we leave."
There was no sign of Clio in the morning. There had never been any sign of her. Once, Bran had found some footprints that led to a tree, but then they stopped abruptly. It was as if Clio really had followed the moon straight into the sky, Zena thought, leaving no tracks behind her.
They set off eagerly despite their sorrow. The lions had snuffled around the clearing during the night, frightening all of them, and they were glad to get away. They moved fast, for the route was cool and pleasant, through deep forest that stretched north for many miles before giving way to open savannah.
By nightfall, they had reached the edge of the woods. Zena decided to stay in the trees. A storm was brewing, and she did not want to spend the night unprotected on the open plains. All afternoon, heavy black clouds had spilled from an invisible place beyond the horizon and stretched across the sky, thickening as they moved. As darkness descended, they solidified into an impenetrable mass that blotted out the stars. The wind rose and began to shriek through the closely packed trees, so that they rubbed together and made ominous, creaking noises.
Rain slashed suddenly at their faces. Quickly, they gathered branches to make a shelter, but as soon as they had the branches in place, a howling gust of wind tore them down and scattered them around the forest floor. Lotan pointed to a deep depression in the earth, where a huge tree had been uprooted.
"In there," he shouted above the still-rising wind. "Pull the branches over our heads."
Metep and Toro ran to the hole and crouched against the ground, trying to shelter the infants with their bodies. The little ones would not be able to tolerate exposure to a storm as violent as this one for long. The rain was torrential, the wind merciless, and it was very cold. Even Three-Legs was shivering, despite her fur.
Zena grabbed a branch and pulled it after her as she slid into the hole. The others imitated her, but it was no use. The wind tore them away, and finally they gave up the struggle and simply huddled together for warmth. The huge root ball of the fallen tree protected them from the wind, and after a while, the heat of their closely packed bodies provided some relief.
Another tree crashed to the ground behind them. Its heavy trunk slashed through the air and came to rest on the earth-encrusted roots that sheltered them. Miraculously, no one was hurt. The leafy crown of the tree hung over them, scratching their arms and faces, but it also protected them from the driving rain. Zena was grateful but uneasy. The tree could settle again at any moment, and crush them with its weight, but there was nothing she could do. It was too cold, too dangerous, to try to move. She would have to trust in the Mother's protection.
Gradually, the wind dropped and the rain became a light drizzle, but the night was utterly black, and the temperature continued to drop. They huddled still closer and set themselves to survive the night. Zena tried to imagine the
sun beating down, pulling the cold from them with its fiery heat. Then she visualized the warmth of fire, imagined her hands and feet tingling in its glow. After a while, her body did seem to grow warm with the imagined heat. She took the young ones into her arms and held them tightly, one at a time, until she felt the warmth enter their bodies, too. But as soon as she let them go, they started to shiver again. Filar, Cere's little one, who had so magically survived the stampede, was shaking so hard her teeth clacked together.
A low growl and the sound of padded feet brought Zena upright with fear. Something was out there, prowling.
"Leopard." Bran's voice made her jump. He stood and began to yell loudly, waving his arms. The others woke and added their voices, and the babies screamed. The clamor was deafening, and Zena saw the leopard's shadowy form bound away, but toward dawn, she heard it again, pacing restlessly near the hole where they lay miserably shivering, stiff with cold and fear.
"We need fire," she said to Bran, her voice low and desperate. "If we had fire, it would not dare to come so close." But she knew there was little chance of finding it. The storms that brought lightning came only during the season of rain, and that was still many moons away. Until then, there would be no burning sticks.
Zena crouched deeper in the hole, trying to stop the constant shaking of her body so she could concentrate on opening herself to the Mother, as she always did when they needed help. Her eyes closed despite her resolve, for she had not slept all night, but even in sleep, her mind continued to wrestle with the problem, and she dreamed. She saw Lett, long ago, sharpening his stones in the clearing by the river. Sparks flew from the stones as he worked. Zena stared at the sparks, watched them scatter and go out, and then she saw them merge into one big spark, a spark that began to burn fiercely.
Filar's straining body interrupted her dream. The child was trying to clamber out of the hole, but she was only four and her legs were too short. Zena pushed her up and followed her slowly into the cold morning air, still preoccupied with her dream.
"Stones," she said to Bran. "We must strike them together, very hard."
Bran looked at her dubiously. Had the terrible night affected her senses? But when he saw her striking one stone against another with utter concentration, he, too, found some and imitated her movements, trusting that she knew what she was doing. Lotan watched, and found stones for himself. They struck them against one another over and over, but nothing happened.
"We need different stones," Zena decided, realizing that she had never seen sparks come from the stones they usually used, but only from the ones Lett had used. She searched a nearby pile of rocks, straining to remember the look and feel of Lett's stones. One of them had orange in it, she thought, but the other was hard and dark. She grabbed a rock streaked with rust-colored stains.
"The other must be smooth," she told them. "Dark and smooth, and very hard."
Lotan came running with a rock that looked promising. Zena handed him the stone she had found, and Lotan struck them sharply against each other. His forearms were strong from carving, and he could use more force even than Bran.
A spark appeared, and his eyes lit up with comprehension. If he could make a spark, perhaps they could make fire! He struck harder. Another spark came.
The others gathered around to watch, sensing the excitement. All of them, even the smallest children, understood how important fire was to their lives.
"Dry leaves, or grasses," Zena called out suddenly. "And twigs too."
They scattered to find anything dry, a difficult task after the storm. But finally they had enough, and they gathered to watch again, unconsciously holding their breath in anticipation.
Lotan shook the tension out of his arms, then started again. Harder and harder, he slashed one stone against the other. A spark shot forth, then another. Zena was ready, and held some dry grass close. It caught suddenly, and almost burned her hands. She dropped it. With a quick movement, Bran poked some sticks into the tiny blaze. It burned sluggishly for a moment and then went out.
A groan of disappointment filled the air, but now everyone was determined to succeed. Lotan's hands slashed again; again, the sparks flew. This time, an even bigger bundle of grass lay beneath them. A spark caught in the grass and began to burn, then it slowly fizzled out. Zena blew on the tiny flicker, very gently. The fire flared up. Silently, their bodies tense with patience, the others plied it with more dry grasses and twigs. The flames burned, then threatened to go out once more. Bran blew this time, harder, as if he were the wind that made fire spread. Again, it flared. Lotan poked a larger stick into the flames. Zena blew from one side, Bran from the other, while the others kept on adding twigs and branches.
The fire was burning more steadily now; they watched, mesmerized, afraid even to breathe hard lest it go out again. Then, suddenly, the flickering glow burst into leaping flames. They shot into the air, crackling and spitting, then flattened to burn strongly.
A long, collective sigh escaped the group. Astonishment marked their faces, then incredulity, and after that came relief, and finally, gratitude.
"We have fire!" Lotan's voice cracked as the enormity of their discovery became clear.
"And we can make it whenever we want it," Sima added, her eyes round with wonder.
"We must thank the Mother." Zena rose to her feet, and her voice rang with emotion as she spoke.
"Great Mother, we thank you for this gift. Of all that You have given us, the gift of fire, fire that we can create as we need it, is the greatest. It keeps the numbing cold from our bodies, protects us from the animals that prowl in the darkness. It cheers us, brings us close to You in body and in heart as we sit together, watching the mystery of its flames."
Remembering that fire could be dangerous as well as helpful, she added more words. "Always, we will use Your gift well, Great Mother, so that it may never do harm to the earth that is Your home as well as ours."
The voices of the others rose in unison, to confirm Zena's words. To be able to make fire was a wondrous gift, a gift beyond anything they had ever anticipated. Spontaneously, they joined hands and began to circle the fire they had created, as they spoke to the Mother of their gratitude. Around and around they went, until weariness made their feet stumble. They slid to the ground, still close to each other, and stared into the sparkling flames. Abruptly, their animation returned, and they began to chatter excitedly.
"We will not be cold again!" Sima hugged Filar in delight.
"Not be cold again," Filar repeated over and over, pleased with the sound of the words.
"Meat tastes better after it has been in the fire," Lupe volunteered. "Tubers too."
"We will be safe now, even when we travel." Bran's voice was full of satisfaction. More than any, he felt responsible for keeping the others safe. Now his task would be much easier.
"The infants will be warm," Metep said, looking down protectively at her tiny son. Toro nodded happily.
"No lion will dare take this one," Nyta said, pointing to her swollen belly.
Lotan rubbed his forearms. "That is hard work! But I will get better at making the sparks."
"We must all learn," Zena said, "those who are strong enough, at least. Then, if one is lost, we can make a fire to tell the others where to look."
Her words brought Clio into their thoughts, and the joy left their faces. Zena wished she had not spoken. A picture of Clio lying helpless on the ground, her features crumpled in pain and fear, flashed into her mind, and she could not make it go away. Always before, Clio's face had been peaceful. Perhaps she really was hurt now, and needed their help.
Zena rose, her composure shattered by the distressing image, and climbed to the top of a small rise to survey the landscape. Waving grasses stretched ahead in all directions. Termite mounds stuck up at intervals, their skinny peaks almost as tall as the wide-crowned trees that gave shape and meaning to the otherwise endless expanse. Puffy clouds skittered against a sky so blue and bright she had to lower her gaze and s
ee them instead as moving shadows that turned the soft yellow of the grasses into somber brown.
Bran came to join her. He did not speak but only stood beside her, comforting her with his presence. Zena leaned against him, grateful for his support. Bran was brother to her, in a way, for he was Kalar's son. She had never felt the desire to mate with him, nor he with her. They cared for each other in a different way, but their caring was deep and strong.
Slowly, calmness replaced the turmoil in Zena's heart, and the picture of Clio faded. But soon after she fell asleep, Clio's face returned. In her dreams, Zena saw the child smile, one of the rare smiles that obscured for a moment the impenetrable blackness of her eyes, eyes that never expressed anything but wildness. But then Clio began to cry, an action as rare for her as smiling. She cried and cried, and would not stop.
Zena sat bolt upright, listening. She was sure she could hear the crying, still. Lotan rose to his knees beside her. His face was strained, incredulous.
"Clio!" he said. They stared at each other, not daring to believe.
**************************
The young lion thrust his nose toward the outstretched hand, then jumped back, sneezing. The scent that came from the hand was strange, unlike anything he had smelled before. His mother had brought him zebras and antelopes and many smaller animals to eat, but never anything that resembled this. He did not trust it. He sank to the ground and watched the creature, his yellow eyes unblinking.
His ears pricked up as his mother's roar sounded from the field that bordered the woods. He rolled lazily against the ground before he rose and loped slowly toward the sound.
Clio drew in her hand, disappointed. She had liked the lion. Its movements had fascinated her. Imitating its low crouch, as if momentarily a lion herself, she crawled to the place where it had sat. The scent that permeated the place pleased her, and she rolled in it as the lion had rolled.
The lion returned. His mother's roar had not signified food, as he had hoped, and he was beginning to realize that he must learn to hunt for himself. Perhaps the small creature huddled against the tree would still be there.
CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) Page 26