CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES)

by LAMBERT, JOAN DAHR

  Zena was heading for the woods. Conar followed noiselessly as she gathered up her bag of tools and an extra covering and began to walk through the trees. He knew he must not let her see him. Ever since Tron's death, she had wanted to be alone. The posture of her body, the stillness of her face had told him that. She would want to be alone on this journey too. If she saw him, she would send him back. He would not go, of course, but it would be much harder to track her if she suspected his presence.

  So far, she had not suspected. Ever since she had begun to teach Tron alone, Conar had been following her. He had always been nearby during the lessons, though neither Zena nor Tron had seen him. This, too, Menta had known, and Lune, but they had not spoken. Zena had asked for privacy and they had granted it, but they had not objected when one of the men had watched anyway. No one, though, could watch as quietly as he could. Tron had eluded the other men, but he had not eluded Conar. Once, Conar had even seen him near Nevilar's place of mating, but he had not gone closer. To spy on a woman's special place was wrong. Now he wished he had. If he had known how Tron abused Nevilar, he would have spoken, and then the terrible events that followed might never have happened.

  Even more, he wished he had gone closer to the Ekali. Conar felt his throat tighten with rage as he remembered. He had seen Tron following Zena and Nevilar, and had trailed him, had watched him climb a tree and crouch motionless between two big branches. He had not known, though, that Tron was staring down into the Ekali. That any man would violate the women's sanctuary had not occurred to him. Then Tron had abruptly vanished. Now, Conar knew he had dropped from the tree directly into the Ekali, but at the time, he had wasted precious moments searching for Tron in the woods - until he had heard Zena scream.

  Conar took a deep breath and forced the rage away. When his throat tightened like that, he could not breathe. He rubbed his neck gingerly. It was still sore, but at least his breath was not ragged anymore, and Zena would not hear him behind her.

  The woods were denser now, and it was hard to spot her shadowy form among the trees. She disappeared from view, over the crest of a hill. Conar quickened his step, straining to see in the dim light. Then the moon slid behind a cloud and he could not see at all. He stood quietly, waiting for a sound, however tiny or indistinct, that would betray her presence, but the wind was blowing the wrong direction and he could hear nothing.

  He tried to think which way she would go. If she continued to head west, she would come to rugged, rocky hills, unfamiliar to all of them. The tribe never traveled that way. But if she went south a little farther, she would come to the river, which wound in a long curve from the clearing before it separated into two branches. Probably, Conar thought, she would go toward the river. Traveling was easier there. He crept cautiously through the trees in that direction, but after a time, he was not sure which way he was going. There were no stars to guide him, and the night was utterly black. It was cold, too, and the wind was still rising. Each year, winter seemed to come sooner. Conar wrapped his extra garment around his shoulders and stumbled on, hoping the moon would reappear so he could see, or the wind would drop so he could hear. But neither happened, and he finally realized he could not go on. He would have to wait for the light to come again to find Zena.

  He crouched in the meager shelter of an overhanging rock to wait for dawn. Impatience gripped him, that he should be sitting still instead of searching. What if she was hurt, or a predator had followed her? How had he lost her so soon?

  Too restless to sit still, Conar got up to search again, but the blackness was impenetrable, and he fell immediately. Reluctantly, he sat again. For hours, he strained his eyes and ears against the darkness, trying to see and hear, struggling desperately to stay awake, in case Zena should come this way. He slept anyway, despite the hard ground, the wind that chilled him even through the furs. For two nights now, he had forced himself to stay awake, so he would know if Zena left the shelter. On this third night, his body could resist no longer.

  When he awoke the light was already strong. Conar leaped up, furious at himself for sleeping so long. He ran quickly through the trees toward the river. The distance was greater than he had remembered, and the sun was already in the middle of the sky when he reached it. All the way, he had listened, even climbed trees to look for Zena, but he had seen nothing. Here, though, he was out of the trees, and he would surely find her. For hours, he scoured the riverbanks, climbed each hill that came before him, so he could see into the distance, but still there was no sign of her.

  Conar trudged on, too dejected now to fight the despairing thoughts that crowded his mind. He had lost Zena, might never see her again. And Menta; he had failed Menta. She had trusted him to watch Zena, keep her safe. The Mother had trusted him too. He knew it was so because the Mother made it so easy for him to know Zena's thoughts, as if she were part of him. Always, since their first mating, Zena had been part of him. Surely, the Mother would help him now.

  He saw it then, wedged between two rocks at the edge of the river. Zena's bag. Conar's heart leaped with joy, then fell abruptly as he realized what the bag meant. If Zena's bag was here, she must have been in the river, and if she had been in the river...

  "No!" Conar said the word aloud, to the Mother, to the animals, to any creature that would hear. "No! She cannot be dead. That is impossible. It cannot be." Frantically, he picked up the bag and held it close to his heart, as if his possession of it would make Zena return. His eyes searched the water for any sign of her, for her garment perhaps. Then he realized both furs were in the bag. She must have removed the one she usually wore. But why would she do that?

  They were heavy, water-logged. The bag could not have come far, for the weight would sink it after a while. Perhaps she had dropped it when she went to the river to drink, and was still searching for it somewhere upstream.

  Conar plowed along the riverbank, calling Zena's name. He no longer cared if she heard him. This was a sign from the Mother, and it must mean he was supposed to find her, be with her. It meant she was still alive too. Surely, that was what it meant. Conar did not allow himself to think otherwise, even as his eyes scoured the river for the horror of her body. Zena could not have drowned. The Mother would not let such a thing happen, not to Zena. He clung to the thought, stubbornly ignoring any objections his mind tried to raise.

  The sun was close to the western horizon when he reached the hill where Zena had stared down at the huge herds of animals, run to the wide-crowned trees to gather fruit and nuts. Conar's eyes were moist as he looked out at the herds. The view made him think of his small sister, Lilan. Next to Zena, he cared for her more than any other. Often, he had brought her to places like this, where there were many animals to watch. Like him, she loved to scratch in the earth with a sharp stick, trying to capture the fluid shapes and graceful movements of the big creatures.

  A long time might pass now before he saw her again. Conar imagined her face twisting with sadness when she realized that he had disappeared, and wished he had been able to speak to her - but there had been no time.

  The light changed suddenly as thick clouds blustered across the face of the sun. Conar glanced up, startled. In moments, storm clouds had poured out from behind the horizon and covered the sky. He hurried on. Zena had no tools, no flints, not even a fur. The night would be cold, too cold to survive. He had to find her by the end of the day.

  A memory came to him suddenly. He stopped and stared at the mountains. The dream...the dream she had told him about, when they had been walking near the mountains, in long, twisting tunnels beneath the earth.

  That was where she would go. He was sure of it suddenly. He had been there with her in the dream; she had told him that. He remembered her face, eager with the pleasure of her vision, amazed at the caves, the tunnels that wound between them, the open space beyond where something waited.

  Conar began to run. But now the river was going the wrong direction. He stopped, frustrated. Why had it suddenly changed course? Perha
ps it would turn again, if he kept going.

  Again, recognition came suddenly. She had taken off her fur to cross. He must do it too. Conar went back to the place where the river doubled back and stared down at the muddy bank. Her footprints were there. How had he missed them before? She had been there, not too long ago.

  He pulled off his fur and waded in, holding both bags high over his head. Just a little taller than Zena, he was able to touch bottom all the way, but by the time he had reached the other side, he was so numb he could barely breathe. Wind laced with freezing rain hit his wet skin. Shaking uncontrollably, fearful that he might find nothing, he examined the bank for footprints. Relief flooded him when he saw that they were there. She had crossed; she had not drowned - but she would be cold, too cold.

  Joy and fear mingled uneasily in his heart. He hurried on, stopping only long enough to drape a fur across his body. Over and over, he called Zena's name as he ran through the long, pale grasses. If he did not find her soon, she would surely freeze. A huge herd of bison filled the valley ahead. Never had he seen so many. As he stared, the last glimmerings of light faded. Slowly, the animals lost their individual contours and merged into a single enormous brown blotch against the earth. Conar called again, but now the hope had gone from his voice. The lowing and stamping of the herd would make it impossible for Zena to hear him.

  He plodded on, determined to keep searching even in the dark. Zena would not walk toward the bison. She must have crossed the valley behind them. Bison could be mean if they were disturbed. They were beautiful, though, with their massive heads and shoulders, their graceful, swinging gallop. For a brief moment, Conar forgot his distress as the wonder of their shape and movement caught his imagination. A sudden sharp blast of wind and a spatter of icy rain brought Zena back to the forefront of his thoughts.

  Fire! That was it. Why had he not thought to make a fire before now? She would be able to see a fire for a long distance, or at least smell the smoke. Hurriedly, Conar pulled out his flint and a bundle of grass he had stuffed in his bag earlier. Sparks flew out and caught in the dry grass, but everything else around him was wet, and he could not keep the blaze going. Finally, on his third try, he found some dry wood in a crevice under a rock and managed to build a meager fire.

  He crouched near the tiny blaze, his body slumped in discouragement. The fire was small, too small for Zena to see. It was not even big enough to keep him warm. Shivering convulsively, he pulled his extra fur around him, but the shivering did not stop. Should he use Zena's furs? He had dried them in the sun as he walked, but to use them would feel like a betrayal, as if he were stealing the warmth Zena should have.

  The fire sputtered and went out as the rain turned to heavy, drenching sleet. Conar jumped up and down to keep warm, but as soon as he sat down again, the shivering resumed. Three more times, he forced himself to jump around, then the cold began to grip his body, numb his mind, and he could not make himself get up again. Soon, nothing had meaning for him except the desire to be warm. Slowly, he brought out Zena's furs and wrapped them around his head, his legs and feet. Tears dribbled down his cheeks, from the icy wind that chilled him despite the coverings, from his despair. He wiped them on the furs and felt the thin layer of moisture freeze against his face.

  The hours passed; dumbly, he endured them, waiting for the night to end so he could search again. As soon as there was light enough to see, he jumped up and began to scour the valley. He called Zena's name endlessly, with increasing desperation, but there was no response. By nightfall, the rocky foothills loomed before him, and he felt a spurt of hope. Perhaps she had traveled faster than he had and was there already. She might even have found one of the caves she had described in her dream. There, the icy rain would not reach her, at least. One part of him knew such a thing was impossible. He had barely survived the night, even with many furs. She could not have survived. But another part of him was not yet ready to admit Zena was dead. This part of him insisted that if he could find a cave like the ones she had described, Zena would have to stay alive to see it with him. That was what she had dreamed, so it must be.

  The thought crystallized in his mind. He must find a cave. Then she would surely appear. Conar pushed his worries aside, lest they distract him from his purpose, and set about locating the cave that would bring Zena to him. All that evening, all the following day, he searched the foothills. Just before sunset, when the rain had finally stopped, he found one, tucked beneath an overhanging ledge. He stepped cautiously through the entrance and stared in awe. The cave was huge, encompassing. Tumbled boulders littered the floor, giving it a forbidding aspect. The impression disappeared as he spotted patches of earth between the rocks, smelled the tiny white flowers that still bloomed there.

  Entranced, he ventured further, and immediately felt warmer. The air was soft and moist, without the chill of the air outside. A small stream bubbled up from an invisible source and traversed the back of the cave, then emptied into a tiny pond. Around its edges were more flowers, pink this time. Conar knelt to examine them, and as he straightened, the last slanted rays of the sun entered the cave. He gasped in wonder, for in the shape of the curved rock he seemed to see the bison. There, in that bulbous outcropping was the outline of a massive shoulder, below, the shape of a haunch. Avidly, he traced the lines, saw them taper into hoofs and horns, swell again into rounded backs. Then the sun sank below the horizon and the bison disappeared.

  The images sustained him as he built a fire, prepared tubers and grains for eating. He had collected more than he needed. If he had food for her, Zena was more likely to come. He made a tonic, too, from herbs he had found. Some he drank himself; the rest he kept warm near the fire for Zena. But as the darkness gathered around him and the fire sent strange shadows leaping across the walls of the cave, the fear he had managed to keep at bay overwhelmed him. For four nights, Zena had been without fire or shelter or even a garment to warm her. Conar saw her pressed against the cold ground, weeping with the pain of her freezing toes and fingers, watched her slip into the merciful numbness that brought death, and grief bent him double. He shuddered with it, gasped until he could barely breathe. The anguish filled him so completely he could not see or hear or even think.

  Hours seemed to pass before the spasms of grief diminished, and when they did, Conar felt only exhaustion. Tears still swelled behind his eyes, rained down his cheeks, but now he lacked the strength to gasp or even to eat the food he had so carefully prepared. Numbly, he reached out to put more branches on the dwindling fire. The flames shot up, casting fantastic shadows all around him. There were bison in the shadows; he could see them clearly in his imagination. They galloped across the walls and ceiling of the cave in strong, flowing movements. He watched them listlessly, too desolate now to take pleasure in their graceful forms. Another shadow joined them, a shadow that looked different.

  Conar frowned and sat up straight. It looked like a person. The hands were upraised, the legs strained, bent sharply at the knee, as if the struggle to move forward were too great to bear. The shadow stopped abruptly, then sank down against the wall of the cave until it was only a small bundle on the floor.

  Behind him, Conar heard a soft thump. He turned his head and stared.

  ***********************

  The animal reached toward her with an exploratory tongue, puzzled by the strange smell. Zena felt the rough tongue pass across her arm, but she was too warm, too content, to wonder at it. The animal sniffed again, then closed its eyes, sensing no danger in the presence of this small creature. Another animal moved closer, pressing its woolly shoulders against Zena's back. She nestled into it gratefully. A little one followed and pushed up against her feet. All around her, the herd settled into a close bunch, embracing her with their warm bodies and thick fur. Zena slept on, unaware of their presence. Only when the lump beneath her moved suddenly as dawn broke did she open her eyes.

  Fur was all around her, woolly, dark brown fur. Strange rumbling noises came from deep
within the fur, and it had a strong smell, so strong she almost choked. A warm, moist nose nuzzled her. Zena lay perfectly still, trying to understand.

  Vaguely, she remembered that Lune had been there, lying on the ground, and Menta, and all the others. But she did not think they were here now.

  No. That was wrong. They could not have been here. She had left by herself, and they could not have followed her. Why then was she surrounded by fur?

  Suddenly, there was movement all around her. Legs materialized where before there had been only fur and warm dark lumps. They were shaggy legs, festooned with matted hair. Zena began to shiver again. The warmth that had comforted her all night long had gone. Slowly, she rose to her feet and moved close to the animal next to her, so she could huddle against its bristly hide and be warm again. It glanced at her and resumed its grazing.

  Another animal approached, eyeing her warily. Its horns made sweeping arcs as it tossed its head. Zena stood still, strangely unafraid. It grunted, a low deep rumble, and moved away. Others came to examine her. She did not move, but only stood there, leaning against the animal that had kept her warm all night. After a time, they ceased to notice her. Then, moving very slowly, she began to make her way through the throng of bodies.

  She had slept all night among a herd of bison. The thought was strange, a little frightening. Never before had she been so close to the huge animals. Bakan and the others had told her they could be vicious, but she thought that was probably only when they were alarmed. Still, she was eager now to find her way out, but all she could see in every direction were dark, shaggy backs. They were too high to see over, too thickly clustered to give her a view in any direction. She spotted a tree with low branches and climbed up it to try to see where she was, which way she should go to escape the herd.