CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES)

by LAMBERT, JOAN DAHR

  Lune moved forcefully toward Zena and stood before her. "You must think of this, too, that you have served the Mother by your actions. When violence comes, perhaps we must meet it with violence."

  Menta felt the Mother's hand heavy on her heart. Lune's argument was persuasive, but she did not think it was right. No peace would come to them through Tron's death. Whatever the cause, violence only brought more violence.

  Fear gripped her abruptly. For the first time in many years, she did not know what to do. Never before had one of them killed another. She shook her head, as if to throw off the burden of responsibility she carried. Then, just as quickly, she straightened her shoulders and forced the fear away. She was their wise one, and she would deal with the terror of this happening. The Mother would show her what to do.

  "I must hear why this has happened," she said. "Before blame is cast, we must know. As Lune says, it may be that your action has kept the violence from coming. We must listen for the Mother if we hope to understand.

  "Come. We will return to the clearing, where all can hear. Then we will decide."

  Bakan and Tragar hoisted Tron into their arms. Menta put an arm around the still-sobbing Nevilar and led her away, and Lune supported Conar. His ragged breathing contrasted loudly with Nevilar's sobs. Zena followed, glad no one had come close enough to touch her. She did not want to be touched again. She was alone now, separate from the others in some strange way she could not identify. She must stay that way if she was to survive.

  The knowledge remained with her all through the proceedings that evening, through the day that followed. She barely heard Lune's brave defense of her actions, a defense enthusiastically seconded by Katli and Bakan and the others. Zena might have killed in anger, but she had also killed to save Conar's life, perhaps her own and Nevilar's as well. Besides, Tron had violated her, as he had violated Pila, would no doubt have violated others. To abuse the gift of Akat in this way was a sin almost as great as killing. And as the Mother Herself had said, Tron threatened not just them, but many who had not yet been born. It was good that he was dead.

  With Nevilar, the council was not so generous. To have disobeyed Menta and the Mother could be forgiven, if she was truly sorry, but to have permitted herself to be so abused by Tron would take longer to forgive. There is no love, no caring, in such attention, they told her. In having so little respect for yourself, you show disrespect for the Mother as well. You are part of the Mother, and when you allow Tron to abuse you, to hit you and force Akat upon you, by frightening you, you also allow him to violate the Mother. Even if you desire it, Akat must never be done because of fear. For this, you must apologize, until you understand it in your heart.

  The council decided that she would be required to go to the Ekali with the other women at the time of bleeding, as well as in the middle of her cycle, for one full season of warmth and cold. Nevilar protested wildly, for she never wanted to go to the Ekali again, and now she must go twice as often. The council did not relent. Only in the Ekali with all the other women, they told her, could she learn how in caring for themselves and each other, they cared for the Mother. Nevilar finally agreed, but Menta wondered if she truly understood. Something was lacking in Nevilar, as it had been in Tron. He had been unable to care for others, but Nevilar seemed unable to care for herself, as if some internal core that should have told her she was worthy of respect was missing.

  "Almost," she told Lune, "I worry about what is lacking in Nevilar as much as I worried about Tron's lack of caring. What if none of us felt worthy of respect and permitted those who were stronger to abuse us?"

  Lune nodded, but she did not answer. Her mind was on Zena, not Nevilar. Another full day had passed since the council had decided no action should be taken against her, and still Zena had hardly spoken. Worse, she kept herself apart from everyone, as if she did not believe she was still one of the tribe. The others reassured themselves that she was still in a state of shock and just needed time to recover. Lune was not so sure.

  Menta, too, knew this was not true, but she did not speak of her fears. The tragedy that was playing itself out was in the Mother's hands now, and Zena's, and she could only watch. Nor did she express her thoughts about Tron's death. She knew in her heart that to meet violence with violence was not the Mother's way, but she did not blame Zena for her act. Probably she would have acted in a similar way, had she been faced with Tron's cruelty. Instead, she felt a deep, burning sympathy for Zena. She would judge herself more harshly than any.

  Menta was right. Zena had paid little attention to the council's verdict, for she had reached her own, and theirs was irrelevant. The tribe had not banished her, so she would banish herself. That was the Mother's will. She must be apart from others until the Mother decreed that she could return.

  That night, when all the others were asleep, she slipped away. She went first to a place in the woods where she had hidden her tools and flints and an extra fur garment, wrapped in a bag of tough animal skin. Food and water she could find as she wandered, but the other items were essential to her survival, especially now that winter had almost come. Then she turned and headed west, toward the mountains she had seen in her dream. She was not sure why she went in that direction, except that the dream seemed to pull her.

  Conar had been in the dream, but he would not be with her now. For the first time since Tron's death, tears came to Zena's eyes. Ever since their first mating, she had felt a special bond with Conar. He must have felt it as well, for he had tried to defend her, had risked his life and almost lost it for her.

  She thrust him out of her mind. Of Lune and Menta and the others, of the desolation that would come to their faces when they saw that she had left, she dared not think at all. She must not, lest her resolve falter.

  For a few hours, she was able to move quickly through the familiar woods, though the moon was still little more than a sliver. Then she began to stumble. Her legs were tiring, her steps uncertain, for she had come out of the area she knew into rough terrain of jumbled stones and rocky hillsides. Still, she dared not stop to rest. By the time the light came again, she had to be far enough away so the others could not find her.

  She blundered on, falling often now from weariness. Her mind felt strange, far away. Since Tron's death, she had hardly slept and had eaten almost nothing. She had not felt hunger, and when she had tried to eat, the food had seemed to stick in her throat. Even when she moistened it with water, she could not make it go down. Words stuck there, too, as if her throat had closed with the horror of the act she had committed.

  The sliver of moon slid behind a cloud and plunged her into total darkness just as she started down a steep hill. She tripped and fell heavily. Rocks bruised her arms and shoulders as she rolled over and over, unable to stop the fall. She landed with a thump in a shallow hole. Too tired now even to think of moving again, she wrapped herself in both furs and lay where she was, grateful for even this minimal shelter. Her fingers were numb with cold, but at least here the wind did not reach her.

  She dozed fitfully until fingers of light began to creep across the sky. Now she could see that she had fallen into a hole left by the roots of a big overturned tree. Wearily, she rose to continue her journey.

  Below her a wide valley stretched away to the west. She had never seen it before, though she was sure the river that rippled through it was the same river that wound almost all the way to their clearing. Huge herds of animals, reindeer and antelopes, and bison with rounded shoulders covered in thickly matted fur, grazed peacefully in the distance. Along the river were wide branched trees festooned with late-ripening fruit and nuts.

  Suddenly hungry, she ran down the slope. Her throat opened easily for the soft purple fruit, though the nuts were harder. She took some with her, for they traveled better than fruit, hoping she would be able to eat them later. Nuts gave strength, and she would need much strength for her journey.

  All day, she followed the river upstream. She felt safer now, for she was far fr
om the places her tribe usually roamed. They went south along the other branch of the river, or north into the treeless tundra, following the herds, instead of heading west toward the mountains as she was doing. There were more animals there, the hunters said, though Zena wondered if it was true. Surely, there were as many bison and reindeer here as in the places they usually hunted.

  She could see the mountains clearly now. Their peaks were already covered with snow and glistened in the sunlight. Below them were craggy foothills, softened by a thin covering of green. It was these low hills, even more than the high mountains, that seemed to draw her. She stared at them, felt them pull at her, as if they expected her.

  A band of horses galloped by, distracting her. She loved their flying manes and tails, their wondrous grace. Zena moved slowly after them, her senses lulled by the smell of trampled earth and fruit and ripened grains, her mind made drowsy by the sun on her shoulders, the feeling of fullness in her belly after days without food. She walked without thinking, hardly knowing where she went.

  Abruptly, alertness returned. She had almost walked into the river, for it had turned sharply back upon itself, blocking her way. She peered ahead, trying to see if it would change course and go west again, but hills and trees obscured her view. She kept going for a time, but with every step she took in the wrong direction, the foothills seemed to pull her more strongly.

  She would have to cross the river. There was no other way. Zena went back to the place where the river turned. It was broad and fast moving, but at least the water was low at this time of year. Timidly, she poked her toes in the swirling current. It was not so deep; she could see the bottom most of the way across. Pulling the fur from her shoulders, she stuffed it into her bag and waded in, holding the bag above her head. The cold numbed her legs, but the footing was all right. She took another step, then another, until the water reached her shoulders. Suddenly, there was nothing beneath her feet. Zena flailed wildly as the current caught her and dragged her back the way she had come, away from the mountains. Kicking furiously, she struggled against it. She could not let the river take her back.

  The bag slipped from her fingers as she reached out to grab a branch floating beside her. She lunged after it, still holding the branch. The precious bag bobbed and dipped as it floated away. Zena watched, despairing. Without her tools and coverings, she could not survive.

  Abruptly, the branch was jerked out of her hands and she went under. Over and over, the river dragged her down, then popped her up again. Gasping for breath, she kicked and flailed, trying to shove her body toward the opposite bank. Her foot hit a submerged rock; then she felt sand under her. She dug her toes into it with desperate strength. One foot held, then the other, and then she was able to wrench herself upright and stumble out of the river. Shivering with cold and shock, she began to run downstream. She had to find her bag. She would die if she had no flints to make fire, no furs to warm her.

  Bramble-infested bushes lined the bank; she plunged into them, hardly aware of the scratches they inflicted on her numb legs and feet. For almost an hour, she kept going, scanning the river constantly for her bag as she pushed through the tangled mass. Finally, she realized she could not continue. The bushes had become impenetrable, and she could no longer even see the river. Besides, her bag would have gone too far by this time. She would never find it now. Weak with cold and despair, she turned and trudged back the way she had come.

  Another thought made her gasp in dismay. The river could carry her bag almost all the way to the clearing. If the others found it, they would think she had drowned. Lune's desolate face, and Menta's, full of sorrow, came before her. She watched them grieve, and her heart twisted with the pain.

  Zena crouched against the cold sand on the river bank and wept. She could not go back. The Mother's will was clear, but to have the others think she was dead seemed so cruel. How could the Mother allow such a thing to happen? Was it punishment, because she had failed at the task the Mother had set her, because she had killed Tron instead of helping him?

  Hugging herself with her arms for comfort, Zena crouched lower still and sobbed until there were no more tears inside her. Then she forced herself to her feet and trudged slowly toward the mountains. At least she had crossed the river.

  The sun had disappeared behind storm clouds, and the wind was rising. A thin, drizzling rain began to fall. Zena wrapped her arms around her body and trudged on as fast as her waning strength would allow. She tried not to think of the night to come, of the terrible cold that would grip her. Never had she spent a night without at least a covering. Even when they were hunting, they built a temporary shelter, had a fire.

  She could do that; she could try to make a shelter of some sort. Perhaps she could even find some new flints, to make a fire. Buoyed by this hope, Zena scoured the rocky ridges of some nearby hills until the light had almost gone. But there were no flints, only the ordinary dark rock that did not make sparks. Shivering, she pulled branches off the thick bushes that grew on the hillsides and tried to make a shelter between two boulders. The branches helped a little, but the rain was harder now. There were bits of ice in it, and the wind blew steadily. She huddled against the cold earth, trying to decide what to do. If she stayed still, she would die from the cold. But she was too tired, too cold to walk, and the light was almost gone. She could not go on, but she must, or she would die.

  Her chattering teeth were loud inside her head. The noise interrupted her thoughts, broke them into thousands of incoherent pieces. She forced the thoughts back. Once, twice, she imagined herself rising, walking on, and was surprised to find that she had not moved. She tried again, but still her body did not budge. Then her mind stopped working at all as the cold gripped her senses, made them useless. She did not know that she had finally risen and started to walk through the dark and freezing night, uncaring of the icy rain against her skin, the numbness of her body. She had no idea where she was going or why. She had forgotten. She simply moved forward, swaying with exhaustion, until she fell. Then she huddled against the ground for a time, not knowing she was there, until once more she rose.

  For hours she went on that way, falling and rising again for no reason except that somewhere deep inside herself, in a place the cold could not reach, she knew she must keep moving - and even that deserted her from time to time. More than once, she huddled against the ground for so long her breathing turned shallow. But the will to survive was strong in Zena, as it had been in the Zenas who had come before her, and each time, she finally rose and stumbled on.

  Pictures tumbled in and out of her mind, of Menta and Lune and the others. She saw Conar, and then, just a short distance ahead, she saw the fire. The others were sitting around it. Zena smiled and ran forward, eager to join them. Thinking she was there, she sat on the ground and spread out her hands to feel the warmth, but the fire had gone out. Sighing, she lay down to sleep anyway. The others must have gone to look for wood, so they could make another fire. They would be back soon; she was sure they would, and then she would be warm. Contentedly, she closed her eyes.

  This time, she might have slept and never moved again but for a strong, coherent thought that suddenly penetrated her delirium: she had to stay alive so she could go to the place where the Mother waited.

  That was it. The Mother waited in the foothills. That was why they beckoned her. She must go there. Zena sat abruptly and staggered to her feet. The darkness was complete now, but it did not bother her. She did not need to see, for she was looking at pictures that moved in and out of her mind, pictures of the place she had seen in her dream. She felt the Mother there. Her presence was strong and comforting. And Conar was there again. She saw him clearly. The others were there too, except they weren't there, they were here, walking with her. Menta was right next to her, and Lune was in front. Zena could see her pale hair gleaming in the moonlight.

  She started to run, eager to catch her, but Lune kept disappearing. The others had disappeared too. Zena frowned, puzzled. The
n she saw them again, right ahead of her, and her heart thumped with relief. They were lying on the ground; she could barely make out the dark shapes of their bodies, covered with thick, warm furs. She did not know why they would be lying there instead of in the shelter, but it did not matter. She had found them, and that was all she cared about. Joyously, she ran to them and lay down close to their warmth. They shuffled and moved restlessly, but she only nestled closer, so that her back and her stomach, even her feet, were pressed against them. They were so warm, so blessedly warm.

  Zena slept on until the sun came over the horizon, aware of nothing, not even of the warmth that was slowly creeping back into her body.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Conar slid to his feet in a fluid, soundless motion. Grabbing the bag of tools he took with him always, he followed Zena out of the shelter. Earlier, when all of them had prepared for sleep, he had noticed that she had positioned herself near the entrance and he had determined to stay awake to watch her. But even before that he had suspected she might leave. He cared for Zena more than any other, and because of his caring he could see better than others the thoughts that hid behind her closed face. He did not know exactly what Zena intended to do, but he did know she would find her own way to deal with Tron's death.

  Menta knew too. He was certain she did. She seemed to know what was in all their minds, though even she had been unable to grasp the extent of Tron's capacity to do harm. He glanced back into the shelter and saw that she was awake, watching him. She stared into his eyes for a long moment, then nodded slowly. Her lips formed words, and Conar strained to see them.

  "Watch Zena for us," Menta's mouth said, and her eyes moved toward the entrance, as if she were visualizing Zena's slender body sliding quietly through the dark night.

  "Go with the Mother," she added, still without sound. Then she lowered her head again as Conar stepped away from the small circle of firelight into the darkness.