For a moment, terror gripped her. For as far as she could see in all directions, there were only bison. They stretched the whole width of the valley. She could not get out of the herd even if she walked for hours, and if she wanted to reach the foothills, she had no choice but to walk among them.
Zena looked down at the expanse of rounded backs, at the thousands of curved horns atop the lowered heads. All night, she had slept among them, and not a single animal had threatened her. There was no reason why they would threaten her now.
Slowly, calmness returned to her heart. These were the Mother's creatures, like all others. If the Mother had put her among them, she would not fear them. Instead, she would be grateful for their warmth. Plucking some fruit to eat as she walked, she climbed down from the tree and rejoined the herd.
All day, she traveled with the bison, occasionally climbing a tree for nuts and fruit, or gathering ripe grains to eat. She found a few muddy streams and one big pond, for water. They were well trampled by thousands of hoofs, but the water refreshed her anyway. When night came, she snuggled down among the warm bodies. The big animals sniffed her curiously when she nestled against them, and a few licked her with their scraping tongues, but none threatened her. When they rose again at dawn, she rose with them and proceeded slowly on her way.
The Mother was speaking to her through the bison, she realized. All the materials she needed to keep her alive - her garments, her tools and flints, even the company of her own kind - had been taken from her. She had only the bison now, and the Mother. To place her life entirely in the Mother's hands was hard, but it was the only way to atone for the act she had committed. She had taken a life and she must offer up her own, must trust the Mother to help her find ways to stay alive if that was Her will. She must recognize the opportunities the Mother gave her, too, even such a strange solution as a herd of bison.
By the third day, Zena felt as if she had traveled with the huge animals forever. When their numbers began to thin, and she realized she was approaching the edge of the herd, she was sad. They gave her warmth and the solace of their company, and she did not want to leave them. Later, though, as evening approached, a strong feeling of restlessness suddenly rippled through the herd. One bison raised its head and tossed it sharply; the next one imitated the motion. Soon all the animals around her were tossing their heavy heads and stamping at the ground with their sharp hoofs.
For the first time since she had been among them, Zena was afraid. This, too, was a message. She was being warned, and she must listen. She sprinted toward a tree, to get out of the herd, but before she could reach it, the animals began to run. Zena ran with them. She had no choice. Briefly, she was able to keep up, for the bison were not moving very fast. Then dust from hundreds of thundering hoofs rose heavily to fill the air. The thick cloud blinded her, made it almost impossible to avoid the jostling, shoving animals, or even to breathe. The bison could no longer see her, either. Soon, they would trample her.
Desperately, Zena swerved toward another tree and scrambled onto a low branch. It was small, but at least she was above the herd. The mass of animals charged past her, seeming not even to see the tree. It swayed and cracked with the impact of their heavy bodies. One of them crashed directly into the trunk, and she felt the tree begin to topple. She did not wait to hit the ground, but launched herself onto the back of the nearest bison and clung with all her strength to its shaggy fur. The animal shuddered and twitched, trying to throw her off. Zena clung harder. Again, it tried to shake her off, then the momentum of the herd forced it forward. Ignoring her, it galloped on.
Dust-laden wind tore through Zena's hair, into her eyes, blinding her completely. She pressed her head against the bison's shoulder and wrapped her thighs around its back. Only one thought had meaning for her now. She must hold on, must ride with the huge creature as if she were attached to it.
On and on the bison ran, in long, lunging strides. Slowly, Zena adjusted to its pace. She felt the ripple of its powerful shoulders beneath her thighs, felt her own body begin to flow in rhythm with the strong, graceful movements. Though her muscles were taut with the effort of holding on, within herself she was utterly relaxed. Truly, she was a part of the bison now, had become one with it, as if her body had merged into its body. They belonged together, she and the bison, as they charged across the valley.
All fear left Zena. She felt nothing but the splendor of the massive creature beneath her, the power of its thickly muscled body, the grace of its movements as it propelled them forward. The sensation was ecstatic, wondrous. She wanted it never to stop, to ride like this forever.
Gradually, the herd slowed down. Zena clung harder, for unlike its gallop, the bison's trot was bumpy. Sadness filled her, that the ride was ending, that she might never again experience this ecstasy. Her euphoria disappeared abruptly as the animal beneath her began to snort and stamp, once again aware of its unexpected burden. The other bison had slowed to a walk, but they were still restless as well. She could feel their uneasiness, as if it flowed from their bodies into hers.
Something must have disturbed them badly to make them stampede like that, she realized. Lions could have attacked at one edge of the herd, perhaps, and spooked them all. Now any strange smell or sight, like herself, would set them off again. To walk among them would be dangerous.
Zena clung grimly to the agitated bison, hoping it would settle soon. Her whole body shook with exhaustion, now that the ride was over. Her thighs were trembling, her arms aching with the effort, and she knew she could not hold on much longer.
A wide patch of lush grass appeared ahead. One bison lowered its head to eat; another followed suit. Momentarily distracted, the animal she was riding began to graze.
This was her chance. Carefully, Zena lowered herself from the bison's back and crept toward a small group of boulders. Despite her caution, one of the animals charged her. She ran headlong into the protection of the rocks, grateful that her ride had taken her even closer to the edge of the herd. When she clambered on top of one of the boulders to get her bearings, she realized that the ride had carried her across the valley as well. Finally, she had reached the foothills.
Zena smiled, the first smile that had crossed her face since she had left. The smile vanished quickly as she considered her predicament. The bison had kept her warm for three nights. Now, she would be without them. The light was fading fast, and once again, clouds were gathering.
Wearily, she hauled herself up a rocky ledge and set off into the foothills. She tripped almost immediately. Her legs were quivering so hard she could barely stand, and she was still shaking all over from the shock of her experience. Soon, the cold reached her as well. Her shivering intensified until she had to pick up each leg with her hands and push it forward in order to walk. She forced herself on. Up here in the hills, she might find flints. Maybe she could even find a cave. There were caves, she knew that from the dream. Surely, if she could find one, she would survive the night.
Rain began to fall in icy slivers. Zena spotted some likely pieces of rock for flint. Hurriedly, she gathered leaves and bits of grass, anything she could find that was still dry. She struck one stone against another as hard as she could, over and over. On the third try, sparks flew out, but they did not land on the little bundle of leaves. The next time, though, the leaves caught and blazed. Quickly, Zena plied them with twigs. The small fire burned brightly for a moment, then the rain came down in torrents and it fizzled into nothing.
Zena poked helplessly at the embers, trying to summon the strength to go on, the will to believe she could stay alive. It was hard to trust in the Mother when she was so cold, when there seemed to be no possible way to survive the night. How could she find a cave when she could barely walk, find dry grasses and wood to burn when icy rain penetrated every crevice?
For a long time, she just sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, her shoulders hunched against the freezing onslaught. Pictures came to her, pictures of fire and warmth, the protect
ion of a cave. She imagined herself there, warm and comfortable. Her eyes closed, and the pictures were transformed into dreams. She was sitting in a cave, where there was no rain, where a big fire radiated heat.
Zena snapped away from the dream. She must find a cave, had to make herself get up again and look until she had found one. That was what the Mother was trying to tell her. She forced herself to stand, but her legs collapsed under her. Again she tried, again they collapsed. She crawled instead, moving slowly along on her hands and knees, like an infant. Her palms began to bleed, but her hands were numb now and she did not notice. She felt the rocks scrape her knees, though. The pain was sharp and irritating. She did not want to hurt. She was tired of hurting, of struggling. It would be much easier just to give up, to let the Mother take her. Perhaps, after all, that was what She wanted.
Sighing, she pulled herself under a boulder so she could lie down where the slashing rain could not reach her. Unexpectedly, the rain stopped and sun broke through the heavy clouds. It blazed from the western horizon in a final brilliant burst of light. Zena crawled out to it and for a few blessed moments she felt its warmth against her skin. Then the sun vanished and darkness and cold descended.
Pain began to shoot into her hands, an almost intolerable pain. Her feet had the pain too. She bit her lips, trying to endure it, and after a while it went away. She felt peaceful then, ready to sleep. Lazily, she stretched out against the cold rock, only it was not cold now. It was warm, comforting. She was in the dream again, was in a cave, and there was a fire.
The dream encompassed Zena, drew the pain from her body, the despair from her thoughts. She wrapped herself in it, sealed away the cold dark night. There was nothing anymore but the warmth and comfort of the dream. When hands reached out and lifted her, she did not notice, except to wonder if one of the bison had come back. There were bristly hairs against her chest, and soft, grunting noises in her ear. She was moving again, too, but this time, she was being jostled, jiggled up and down, as if the bison were climbing. Grimacing, she nestled closer, to steady herself. She wanted to sleep quietly, not be jostled like this.
The hands were under her shoulders now, tight and rough. They were forcing her to stand. Zena frowned, confused. Bison did not have hands. She dismissed the puzzle and concentrated on resisting the hands as they pushed her forward, propped her up each time she tried to sink to the ground. She did not want to stand or walk. She wanted to sleep, but the hands would not stop pestering her, and finally she gave up. It would be easier to do what they wanted. Then she could lie down again. She took one step forward, then another.
Fire! She smelled fire. Zena raised her head sharply. The fire smelled different. It was a real fire, not the fire in her dream. But that was impossible. Could it be real?
Hope flared inside her, broke through her numb oblivion. Slowly, agonizingly, she forced her frozen body to move toward the smell. The darkness was impenetrable, and at first she could see nothing. Reaching out with her hands, she groped her way along. Then she saw a glow in front of her, a glow inside a deep black hole.
Zena stared at it, not daring to believe. There was a fire, a fire in a cave. She staggered toward it, hands upraised, as if to ward off a blow, the blow of finding that she was still in her dream, that the fire, the cave, the warmth she felt already, were not real after all.
Something moved suddenly behind the fire. It was a figure, a ghostly, unsubstantial figure in the flickering light, one she had never thought to see, not here in this place.
Conar. It was Conar - but Conar could not be here. He was with the others. She knew he was with the others, so she must still be in the dream. The fire, the cave, Conar, they were all a dream. None of it was real.
Disappointment rocked Zena, made her sway on her feet, clutch at her belly as if she had been hit there. She slumped heavily to the ground, unable to sustain this final pain. It was too much, too much to bear, to feel the promise of life and then have it taken away because it was only a dream.
A voice called her name, reached through the depths of her misery. She closed her ears, her eyes, so she would not have to see or hear this dream that tormented her with hope and then left her with nothing.
Someone was touching her, trying to carry her again. Zena moaned and tried to tell the person to go away.
"It is the Mother's will," the voice insisted. "If the Mother did not want me to be with you, She would not have shown me your bag. She has sent me here."
Zena frowned. What did the voice mean, about the Mother and the bag? Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Conar's face was right next to hers. Tears were pouring down his cheeks. Were there tears in dreams?
She reached up to touch Conar's cheeks. Perhaps it was only the rain - but there was no rain now. She felt tears prickle behind her own eyelids, as if in response.
"You must come by the fire," Conar kept saying as he pulled at her shoulders. Zena did not respond. She was too tired to move, to try to figure out if Conar was real or not. She closed her eyes again, wanting only to sleep.
The tugging at her shoulders increased, then ceased abruptly. Suddenly, there were hands near her mouth.
"Drink!" Conar's voice was stern, sterner than she had ever heard it. Obediently, Zena opened her mouth. Liquid poured down her throat, a warm, bitter liquid that made her choke. The warmth went down into her belly, into her legs, even her toes.
She opened her eyes again. Conar's face was grim now. He was rubbing at her hands, her feet, chafing them furiously. Zena pulled sharply away as sensation began to return. Her hands felt as if the fire were burning them, and her feet -
"Good!" Conar sounded satisfied.
"It is not good, that I should hurt," Zena shot back, surprised at the sound of her own voice.
The rubbing stopped abruptly. Joy poured into Conar's face; Zena watched it flow in, wondered at it. A small portion of the joy pushed at her heart and tried to enter.
Conar took her into his arms and hugged her, kissed her face over and over again. The delicate touch of his lips, the warmth of his embrace mingled strangely with the pain in her hands and feet.
"You are truly here!" she said in surprise. "Are you here?" The question followed immediately. Still, she dared not believe.
Conar seemed to understand. "I am here. I have found you again - no, you have found me - or perhaps the Mother has let us find each other. You are here with me, in the cave I found so you would come."
Zena stared at him, and suddenly she knew it was true. This was not her dream. Conar was here. He was real. The cave was real, and the fire.
She shook with the relief of it, with the joy. Reaching up, she brought Conar's face close to her own, so she could feel his skin, taste his tears mingling with her own, know with her lips and tongue that he was truly real. Just as quickly, she pulled away, unwilling to take her eyes from his face, lest he disappear, become a dream again. His features blurred and she clutched at him frantically.
Conar kissed her eyes, wiped the tears away, and his face came into focus again. "You are here, with me," he repeated, and hugged her harder, so hard she had to gasp for breath.
"Now you know I am real," he told her, loosening his grip and grinning.
"I do not want to let you go again, ever," he added fervently.
Zena held on to him tightly, still trying to absorb. She was here, in a cave with Conar, and there was a fire, a wonderful, hot fire.
How had she come here? There had been hands... She remembered the hands.
"Did you carry me here?"
Conar looked perplexed. "I waited here for you. I did not carry you; you came yourself."
Zena shook her head, confused. Something had carried her. If Conar had not...
Perhaps the hands had been part of her dream. They must have been, but she did not think so.
She gave up trying to understand. Tomorrow, she would try to find the answer. And in the end, however she had come, it was the Mother who had brought her here, had helped her to s
tay alive even when she had begun to doubt, to give up. Her heart filled with gratitude.
Thinking of the Mother brought another memory. "I have banished myself," she said doubtfully to Conar. "How can you be here when I must be alone?"
"The Mother has sent me," Conar replied firmly. He was sure it was true, but whether or not he was right, he wanted Zena to believe his words so she would not argue with him, try to send him away again.
Zena frowned, considering, but her mind was too confused to work properly, and she could not tell if Conar was right. This puzzle, too, would have to wait.
"How did you get here?" she asked curiously, then realized she did not need to know the answer. Conar was here; she was here, and that was enough.
His response, though, was simple. "I walked," he replied, smiling down at her.
Zena sighed and sank back against the ground. She wanted to sleep now. "I feel cold," she told Conar.
"Then we will go to the fire, and I will wrap your furs around you," Conar answered.
He pulled her to her feet and supported her as she stumbled to the fire. The tingling in her toes was stronger, but at the same time her feet were numb, and she could not feel the ground beneath her. She felt the furs, though, that Conar wrapped tightly around her, and the warmth of his body against her own.
"You found my furs," she muttered drowsily.
"They kept me alive," he responded gravely. "Without your furs, I would not be here now."
"Why are you alive?" The question popped out of Conar's mouth before he could reconsider. But Zena did not seem to think it strange.
"The bison kept me alive," she replied. "The Mother sent me to the bison."
Conar looked up at the place where the bison had seemed to leap and run in the shadows of the dancing flames, their bodies formed by the contours of the rocks themselves. He did not know what Zena meant, and he knew she was too weary now to explain. But if she said the bison had kept her alive, it must be true. Tomorrow, he would thank them. He would give them life, life that would last forever, by drawing their magnificent bodies where all could see them. Here, on the walls of the cave he had found for Zena, he would make the bison come alive.
CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) Page 39