Thirty people were in the tribe, and finding all of them had not been easy. Many had been out gathering food, and Katli and a few men had gone hunting. Most women stopped hunting, at least for a time, when they had young ones. But Katli had never stopped. As soon as she recovered from each birth, she strode off with the men, leaving her infants with her sisters, who loved them dearly and always seemed to have breasts hanging heavy with milk. Katli knew as much about the movements and habits of animals as the most experienced hunters, and they welcomed her participation. The animals, too, seemed to welcome her, as if sensing her devotion. They did not run so fast and died easily when Katli was there. Always, she blessed them and thanked them for giving their lives so graciously.
And of course, Zena thought, they did not really die. Like those who hunted them, the animals were a part of the Mother's unending cycle of life and death and renewal. One day, they would be born again, to run across the plains and eat of its rich harvest.
When they were all assembled, Menta stood to speak. She was a small woman with long, flowing black hair, but when she became the Mother's representative, she seemed larger than even the men.
"Great Goddess, Mother of all," she said gravely, "we fear a crime against You has brought bad feelings to this tribe. The bad feelings churn in all of us, and make us less able to know Your joy and goodness. We seek to resolve these feelings, for if we are to recognize Your way, we must have peace within us.
"Guide our thoughts as we seek truth, our judgment as we make a decision. Help us to keep love in our hearts even when they are heavy with pain, wisdom in our minds even as anger confuses us, for that is the way of the Mother."
The people nodded, agreeing that they would try to abide by the Mother's way as they came to a decision. They listened attentively as Menta told them the story, though most of them knew it already. The terrible news had traveled fast. Sadness replaced anger in many of their faces as Menta spoke, sadness that such a thing could happen among them. Tron had violated all of them, not just Pila.
Zena glanced at him. He looked furious, not contrite. When Menta told how he had crept up behind Pila and forced himself on her, he grunted harshly and leaped to his feet.
"She wanted that," he burst out in an aggrieved tone. "She was crouched there, waiting."
A low rumble of protest sprang from the crowd. Menta held up a hand for silence.
"She wanted that..." she murmured, as if to herself. Eyes narrowed, she asked Tron to explain.
He shrugged. "I saw it in her face, when she looked at me."
Menta stared at him, frowning. Then she turned toward Katli. "Tell me, Tron. What is in Katli's face right now?"
Tron shook his head angrily. "I cannot tell," he muttered. "Perhaps she is thinking of the hunt." In fact, Katli's face was suffused with disgust.
"Tell me, then, what is in Bly's face," Menta asked.
Tron looked reluctantly at Bly. "She is angry," he retorted. But there was no anger in Bly's face, only grief.
The people began to murmur impatiently, eager to get on with making a decision. Surely Tron was not telling the truth, anyway. Everyone could read what was written in others' faces.
Menta persisted. "What do you see in Zena's face?"
"Oh, she is just paying no attention," Tron snapped. His eyes raked Zena's face, and he sneered contemptuously.
Menta's frown deepened. As the others had noted, Zena was listening to the proceedings with intense concentration. Menta stood perfectly still for many moments, her eyes focused on Tron, as if she were seeing deep within him.
Tron stared back furiously. These people made too much fuss over the child, he thought bitterly. She had looked ready enough to him. Besides, he had felt lust and she had been there. And there was nothing wrong with Akat. Menta told them that all the time. But she had always singled him out for punishment, made him feel wrong. All of them had, even when he was a child. He had tried to show the other boys how strong he was, how skilled even then at killing animals, to make them pay attention to him. They had avoided him instead, so he had hit them to show he did not care. He liked hurting them. It made him feel better. Now that he was grown, nothing had changed. The women took him to their places of Akat, but he knew they preferred others. Being rough with them gave him satisfaction. The men were no different. They still avoided him, even though he was the best hunter.
He shrugged, to let them know he still did not care what they thought of him, and turned away from Menta's probing eyes.
The others waited in silence for a time, sensing that Menta was seeking guidance. Then they began to mutter impatiently again. The sounds roused Menta from her trancelike state.
"It is time now to hear from everyone who wishes to speak," she told them gravely. "All must be part of this decision."
Bly stood courageously. "I do not want him here," she said simply. "I speak not in anger, but in fear. He could do this again, and there are others, younger girls. Always, they will be afraid, and so will we."
Heads nodded vigorously, and others stood to say similar words. One small girl, clutching her mother's hand, brought tears to many eyes.
"I wish to run and play in the woods," she told them. "Now I will not dare to follow the squirrels, and look for the tiny ones that live in the roots of trees. And I want to have my little sister with me."
Another child stood, a boy this time. "Tron is bad to do this," he said, his young voice filled with disgust. "Bad people cannot stay with us. The Mother does not want them. So he must be sent away."
The oldest man of the tribe, Bakan, was even more forceful. He was wise and respected by all, so the people listened carefully. He glared at Tron as he spoke, and the strength of the glare made Tron lower his eyes.
"All of us who love the Mother, respect Her wisdom, find horror in this act. The women of our tribe represent the Mother, for their bodies create the Mother's new life. And it is through the bodies of our women that we, the men, feel our oneness with the Mother. To violate a woman's body is to violate the Mother. A man who would commit such an act does not belong here.
"There is badness in Tron," he continued, speaking softly now. "We have known this before, but we have waited, hoping that he will change. He will not change. He must be banished, and he must never be allowed to return."
A younger man jumped up. "How can we know that he will leave us? He could lurk nearby and still do this terrible thing. I think we should kill him instead, so he cannot."
A babble of noises emerged from the tribe. To kill one of their own was the most terrible act they could imagine. Never before had this been suggested, and they did not like the idea. Even animals could not be killed without the need for food, and they had to be blessed before it was right.
Katli stood to speak. "Once, in a group of wolves," she said slowly, choosing her words with great care, "I saw one animal that was not right, and turned on others of its kind. The other wolves killed it. They did not eat it, but left it for the vultures. They did this not in anger, I think, but to save the group. If they had not killed it, others might have been born that were also bad. Though many will not believe me, I know that a bad animal can affect the young. I have seen it happen."
Everyone listened carefully to her explanation. They had great respect for her knowledge of animals, and they also admired wolves for their ability to live together harmoniously. If this was how the wolves solved a similar problem, it was possible that killing could be justified.
Lune rose to her feet. Unlike her sister's, her long hair was ashen, so pale it was nearly white. Menta had been born of the earth, the people said, while Lune had been born of the moon. Though she was not as wise and calm as Menta, the boldness of her thoughts was respected.
"Perhaps there is another solution," she said in her firm voice, "one that is safer than banishment, and not as terrible as killing. We all know that Akat helps to keep the men from fighting among themselves, or causing trouble. This is not working with Tron."
&nb
sp; Murmurs of assent came from the group. They understood that without Akat, men could become aggressive. But Tron had not been neglected, and still he could not control his temper, or his actions.
"I have wondered," Lune continued, "if Akat works because it draws fire from the place of mating in men. Perhaps the sacs there are the place where the desire to fight or hurt others lurks, and if they are not emptied, they cause trouble. In Tron, it is possible that these sacs should be removed so that the fire in him can be taken away. Then he will no longer wish to cause trouble, or force himself on those who have not chosen him.
"Krost could do this," Lune continued. "He has done it many times when animals are prepared for eating."
Eyebrows went up as the people digested her words. No one had ever considered such a possibility before. But Lune had deeper thoughts than most, especially concerning the workings of bodies, and she could be right.
Krost, a big, gentle man with craggy features, rose to respond. Torment showed on his face as he considered Lune's idea. He had hunted many times with Tron, and was as much his friend as any of them could be. But he was also fiercely loyal to the group, and would protect them with his life. To stand by silently and see them hurt would be wrong.
"Lune's suggestion is possible," he agreed, "but it seems cruel too. I would not wish to do it." He shook his shaggy head fiercely, seeking to control his feelings before he spoke again.
"Tron must tell us if he truly wishes to change. If he does, then we should watch him carefully to see if he means his words. If he does not change, then he must be banished. I myself will make him promise not to stay near us, and I will watch to see that he does not come back."
"I, too, will watch," a deep voice asserted. It was Tragar speaking. He was Krost's brother, born of the same mother. Although he spoke little, he was by far the strongest man among them. Tron would be wise not to return if Tragar was waiting.
Heads nodded everywhere as Krost and Tragar spoke. Most people thought that Tron should be given a chance, but that he would have to be banished forever in the end. They knew him well. He was unlikely to change.
Zena looked up in surprise as Conar stood. Like Tragar, he did not often speak. The resolve in his normally quiet tone was evident to all.
"I, too, will watch," he said firmly, "and my watching will be different, for I can move without sound."
Tron looked at him disdainfully, but there was wariness in his eyes as well. Conar was small and weak compared to him, but he could move as silently as an animal, though he never used this skill to hunt, as Tron did. Instead, he tried to scratch the forms of bison and other animals in the dirt and on rocks. It seemed to Tron a useless occupation.
Menta listened attentively as a few others stood to voice an opinion, or to comment on the options being considered. When all had finished, she turned to Zena.
"You have not spoken," she said gently. Usually Zena was one of the first to speak, and had strong opinions.
Zena sighed heavily. Something was bothering her, as if another clue existed that no one had addressed. She went to Tron and stood directly before him.
"Do you know how terrible was your act, Tron? Do you know how badly you have hurt Pila, and the Mother, and all of us?"
"Akat is not wrong," Tron muttered. "The girl would have been ready soon enough."
"Something is lacking in Tron," Zena said so quietly that few heard. "Will he ever gain what is needed?" Bewildered, she turned away.
"I have not yet decided," she told Menta in a stronger voice. "I must listen more for the Mother's guidance."
Some of the others grunted in disapproval. They wanted the matter settled, and Zena's reluctance to speak meant they must postpone a decision. But they did not challenge her. The name of Zena was given only to a few, those who would one day serve the Mother in some special way. Though she was still young, they valued her ideas and would wait until she was ready.
Menta, however, nodded approval. Zena seemed to sense what she herself felt - that there were questions still unasked, or solutions still not considered. The decision could not be made until these uncertainties were resolved.
"I, too, must consult with the Mother," she told the tribe. "I must go to the Kyrie, where she awaits me. Until we have decided, Krost and Tragar will watch Tron, Conar as well."
The Kyrie was the place high on a nearby hill where the wise woman listened for the Mother's guidance. No other person went there except a very young girl who brought food and water and then crept silently away. All the group knew that Menta might stay in the Kyrie for many hours, perhaps all through the night and into the next day, while she wrestled with a decision and waited for peace to return to her heart. Only then could she be certain she had found the Mother's way.
Resigning themselves to patience, they went off to perform their tasks or to sleep.
The wait was long. Two nights and most of the following day passed before Menta emerged from her vigil. Her face was drawn and weary when she finally reappeared in the clearing, for she had hardly slept. She had not eaten, either, only taken water. Hunger helped her thoughts to clear. She knew she had found the Mother's way, for she felt peace in her heart with what she was about to do. But agony still clouded her eyes. The Mother had given her a vision, a vision that had devastated her so badly she was still unable to quell the turmoil in her mind. Now she would have to relate this terrible vision to the others, and shatter them as she herself had been shattered.
Menta straightened her shoulders determinedly. They must do as the Mother asked. It was their only chance, the only way they could avoid the horrors her vision had foretold.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Thunder rumbled ominously as the tribe gathered once again in the circle of stones. All day, black clouds had scurried across the sky, and now they had coalesced against the western horizon. Menta tilted her head back to watch them.
"The clouds are like the words I will say," she told the others soberly. "They are black and brooding, waiting to spill their wrath upon us, but in another way, they are different. When the storm decides to come, we cannot stop it. We can only wait until it exhausts its fury, but we may be able to stop the words I will speak from becoming real. If we follow the Mother's way, do what She has shown me, there is a chance."
She broke off as a thin spear of lightning crackled through the sky. The people watched her, their faces uneasy. Menta's words were ominous, her voice somber. That was not like her.
An unspoken message flashed between Zena and her mother. Something very unusual must have happened at the Kyrie.
Menta's next words confirmed their impression. "The Goddess has given me a vision," she told them, "a vision that alters our decision. It takes us far from this time and into another. In it are things I do not wish to relate, but I must, if you are to understand what the Mother has asked us to do."
She broke off again, and the agony on her face was hard to behold. When she continued, the intensity in her tone brought shivers to every listener. Still, they had to strain to hear her at times, for her voice rose and fell and rose again as the drama she had seen unfolded.
"I came to a place I have never seen, far to the west, below the place where the mountains loom," she began softly. "In this place were caves, deep and secure, that wound beneath the hills. People were there, people like ourselves. They lived and worked as we do, except perhaps they knew more. It was as if they had discovered something in the caves, something that came from the Mother and was sacred to Her."
Prickles of suspense ran up Zena's spine. Could this be the place she had seen in her dream? How was it possible that Menta should see the same place?
Menta's voice, slow and gentle now, as if she were re-experiencing her vision, cut into her thoughts.
"The people are sitting outside a cave, in the evening, talking quietly among themselves. There is firelight, and a sound I cannot name, a beautiful sound that seems to come from a reed one man holds. The sound stops abruptly, for the people ha
ve heard another noise, one that brings them to their feet in fear. It is the sound of weeping, terrible, wrenching weeping.
"Suddenly, a young girl bursts into the circle of firelight. She is tall and slender, and her hair is the color of sunlight. It is she who weeps so passionately. There is blood across her cheeks, blood running down her legs. One of the women pulls her close and holds her until the weeping abates and she can talk. A man, a stranger, had come up behind her in the woods and forced himself upon her, she tells them. He cut her with his sharp flint, on her face.
"The people are horrified. They have never known such a thing to happen. They do not know what to do. The men leap up to find the stranger and bring him before the council, but he has hidden himself so cleverly that they cannot see him. They try to sleep, but they are afraid. All night they listen for the sound of footsteps. They know the man is out there somewhere, waiting to hurt another. They can feel the hatred in his heart; it comes through the night to pound at their own hearts.
"In the morning, they can still feel it, and all through the day. But nothing happens, and they think the man has left. They do not watch so carefully. This time, two women are assaulted, and the man who tries to protect them is wounded. The stranger thrusts his flint into the man's arm, and binds the women with vines so they cannot struggle while he forces Akat upon them."
Exclamations of horror filled the clearing. Never, in all their lives, had any member of the tribe heard of behavior like this. It was almost impossible to believe that any man would act so cruelly toward others.
Menta held up her hand. "There is worse to come," she said quietly, and her voice was filled with an anguish so deep that Zena wanted to put her hands over her ears, to blot it out. She squeezed her eyes shut instead, as if to deny the ghastly images Menta had placed in her mind. Hot tears of rage, that any man should commit such atrocities, surged against her eyelids and careened down her cheeks.
Menta took a ragged breath, and when she spoke again, her voice came hard and strong.
CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) Page 33