"I do not know your ways," Tron answered, keeping his voice pleasant. "Tell me what I must do. I would like to claim Veeta, and you have said I could have her."
"That is true," Dagon agreed, in a more conciliatory tone. "After the next hunt, when you prove again that you can kill a big animal, you may have her."
Tron waited impatiently for Dagon to announce a hunt. He would have liked to stalk an animal by himself, but Dagon said each man must make his kill while others watched, so no one could pretend by claiming an animal killed by a predator. In this, too, the big leader's word was law. The thought irritated Tron. He would prefer to be the one who made such decisions. One day, he decided, he would be.
Finally, Dagon announced that the time was right. Tron saw two of the other men watching him suspiciously as he prepared for the hunt. Dagon saw their look, too.
"These two will not fight you for Veeta," he told Tron jovially, "for they are her brothers. But should you wrong her, they will not forget."
Tron strode ahead, ignoring the looks. He would show them that he, Tron, was a better hunter than any, even Dagon. Within moments of reaching the herds, he had spotted a likely animal. An old male with massive antlers, it was feeding a little apart from the others. It had been weakened, he thought, in fights with other males.
He stole up on the old bull, making his breathing so quiet not even an animal could hear. Taken by surprise, the reindeer leaped in the wrong direction, and Tron was able to throw his spear into its neck. It staggered away, but Tron knew he had dealt it a mortal blow. He would not have to track this one for very long. When he caught up with it, the wounded animal struck out viciously with its feet and antlers. Tron waited until the worst of its thrashing had subsided, then he leaped in daringly and thrust his short spear into its chest. One of the hoofs caught him a glancing blow, but otherwise he was not injured.
“This Tron is indeed a good hunter," Dagon said admiringly. "To such a man, I willingly give my only daughter."
When they returned to the huts, he made his announcement to the tribe. "Tron the stranger may now have my daughter, Veeta," he told them.
"Let no other man have access to her," he instructed Tron, "so that she will bear your sons, and they can learn to hunt as you do."
He turned to Veeta. "It is time you had a man, and this will be a good one for you. Obey him in all things. That is my command. Take him now to your hut."
He turned away and called for food. Tron would have liked some food, too, for he was hungry after his battle with the reindeer, but he dared not disobey Dagon. And when he entered Veeta's hut, he saw that she had food and drink ready for him. She even had water, to bathe him.
Gently, she removed his furs and rubbed his body with a soft skin dipped in water. She handed him a drinking vessel cleverly made of an antler, and pieces of meat that had been cooked to tenderness on the fire.
"Is it all to your liking?" Veeta's eyes were teasing, but he saw that her hands were shaking a little. Perhaps Akat was new to her. Tron found that hard to believe, for she was surely old enough, but in this tribe, he supposed it was possible.
The thought excited him. He drew her against his body and kissed her lips, then her breasts. She moaned, and tried to pull away. He drew her closer instead, and when she struggled, he did not let her go. His movements seemed to excite her, even as she resisted. Slowly, he forced her to the floor of the cave. He saw her eyes then, eyes like a cat wanting a mate, but determined to struggle too. Pinning her arms over her head, he straddled her. She thrust her body up, trying to wriggle from his grasp. He pulled one of her hands down and placed it on his organ. It was rigid, rocklike, and she shuddered. He made her hand stroke it as he forced her legs apart with his knees.
She gasped and then, suddenly, her resistance disappeared. Her hands came around his back to pull him against her, and she thrust her hips at him urgently. Tron entered her, feeling the moistness, the tightness. She was good, this one, full of fire, like another he had taken, a long time ago, except that one had fought him fiercely...
He shook his head to push the memory away. So often, it had started to become clear, then disappeared. He did not want it now.
Veeta's body began to shake, and she cried out. He watched her contorted face and smiled. He would be able to make her do whatever he wanted, as Nevilar had, for the pleasure he could give her. But this one was not soft and yielding like Nevilar. She was a fighter, and he liked that. He thrust into her hard and fast. Her eyes opened wide, her mouth, too. She screamed, a shrill scream of pleasure that turned to a whimper of pain as Tron went deeper still. The sound pushed him over the brink of his passion and he exploded inside her.
Moments passed, then Veeta moved beneath him. "You are as fierce in mating as you are fierce in hunting," she said.
"You have mated many times?"
She shook her head indignantly. "I have not. I have waited for the one I wish to be the father of my child."
Tron tensed. This was the thing he wanted to know, but at the same time, he did not want to betray his ignorance.
"Tell me of this," he said cautiously, hoping to make her speak further.
"Well," she replied, "everyone knows that it is during mating that the man gives a child to the woman. But if a woman has many mates, no one can tell which is the father. Some of the women do that. But I will not," she concluded virtuously. "I will have only your child, for I will not mate with another."
Tron did not reply. Emotions and thoughts were whirling so fast he had hardly heard the rest of Veeta's words. Only the first had stuck in his head. The man gives a child to the woman. He, Tron, was giver of life, not the Mother. How they had fooled him, made fun of him!
He stared at Veeta. He could do anything he liked with her, with any woman, for he, not they, gave life. They were not better as they had always made him think. They were nothing without him. Rage filled him, that he had been fooled for so long. Well, he would get his own back now. He would be sure to give this one a life. He would mate with her over and over again until she could not move. The thought aroused him as he had never been aroused before. He felt his organ grow hard again, hard and long and angry.
Before Veeta could speak further, Tron flipped her over onto her belly and pulled her buttocks up so he could enter her from the back. This, he preferred to any other form of Akat, for it was what the animals did. Veeta croaked with surprise, but he was inside her before she could move. In and out he went, as hard as he could, enjoying the fact that she was helpless, could not resist his heavy thrusting, which shoved her breasts, her face into the dirt. Then the pressure became too great, and after one final, lunging thrust, he exploded and fell across her body.
Veeta pulled away from him. She was shaking with rage, he saw, and he was surprised. Perhaps here, they did not perform Akat in that fashion. Nevilar had never minded. She had seemed to enjoy it. But Veeta was clearly very angry. Still, she belonged to him now and he could do as he wished.
"That is like the animals," Veeta hissed. "You cannot do that to me, the daughter of Dagon. Some other woman, perhaps, who has no place, can be treated as if she were no better than an animal, but no man can do that to me! My brothers will hear of this! My father too!"
"I can do as I like with you," Tron replied lazily, closing his eyes against her furious face.
A rustling sound made him open them again. Veeta stood above him clutching a rock. He grabbed her wrist, to prevent her from bringing it down on him, and as he made the gesture, he saw the memory again. But this time, instead of eluding him, it came clearly into focus: Zena - it had been Zena, the one who had fought so fiercely. He had forced himself on her in the Ekali, to get back at her, and then she had stood over him, as Veeta was standing over him...
It was Zena who had wounded him. The thought amazed Tron, that a woman could have inflicted such damage. But there was another recognition, one that grew and grew until even his hatred for Zena, his anger that Menta and the others had abused him, had
told him lies, receded before it. Now there was only one thought in his mind. Zena could have his child - his child, not hers. It was his, and he would have it.
Tron paid little attention to the furious barrage of Veeta's words, to her threats. She would get her brothers to beat him, she screamed, for he had abused her, treated her as if she were an animal. She was not an animal. She was Veeta, Dagon's daughter, and she would not tolerate such abuse. He realized what she had said only when she ran from the hut and he heard excited voices outside. Then he moved fast. Stuffing some meat into his bag, he grabbed his furs and spears and crept silently toward a sparse growth of trees beyond the clearing. No one saw him enter the woods. It was fully dark now, and all the others were sitting around the fire deciding what they should do.
"Tron must be punished for this," he heard one of the men say. "To violate Dagon's daughter means revenge must be taken."
"I will gladly kill him," another man replied. "Tron may be a good hunter, but he does not belong in this tribe. He is not one of us."
The last voice came from one of Veeta's brothers, Tron thought. To kill a man for having Akat in that fashion seemed foolish to him, and he could not believe the man meant his words. But maybe a woman who was the leader's daughter was different. Perhaps he was not permitted to treat her like other women. Or perhaps they did not want a stranger in the tribe and would use this as an excuse to kill him. Well, he did not want to remain with these people anyway, nor did he want Veeta. She would bring nothing but trouble, and to be ruled by Dagon had become more irritating every day.
Silent as an animal, Tron slid through the dark trees. He did not think they would follow him for very long, but still he would be careful to hide his tracks. He did not intend to let anyone kill him, not right now. He had something far more important to do. He had to find Zena. If she had his child, he would take it from her. It belonged to him, and he would have it, for he was the one who had given it life.
*****************************
The child, Rofal, struck out sharply at his small sister as she jumped from a rock and stumbled into him by mistake. Zena took his hand and placed it firmly between her own.
"Look at me, Rofal," she commanded. The boy raised his eyes reluctantly.
"To hit is wrong," Zena told him. "To hit your own sister is doubly wrong. You should help to care for her, not hit her. She needs you to help her learn how to jump safely."
"I do not want to help her," the boy said stubbornly, and pulled his hand away.
Zena sighed and let him go. That this child had something of Tron in him had been obvious from the beginning. Ten summers had come and gone since his birth, and still he hit out at other children. Nothing she said or did seemed to help. Still, she must keep trying. She had failed to teach Tron how to care for others, but she was determined to teach Rofal. The Mother depended on her to succeed.
Only one child escaped his temper. Rofal never hit Sarila, the daughter of Nevilar and Gunor. She was a beautiful child, tall and slender, with long hair the color of sunlight. Young as he was, Rofal often stared at her with longing in his eyes, and if any other child tried to harm her, he rushed to her defense. She seemed to care for him as well, and often reached for his hand. Then he sighed with pleasure, as if his world were suddenly right, and his violent manner dropped away.
There was hope in his feeling for Sarila, Zena realized. He did know how to care. If she could help him to care for others in the same way, the part of him that had come from Tron would surely diminish over time.
She picked up her daughter, to comfort her. The child was staring at her brother with sad eyes, eyes that were remarkably wise for one so young. Even in infancy, the look of wisdom had been present. Menta had noticed it first. When the time for the naming ceremony had come, she had glanced back and forth between Zena and her baby daughter, momentarily puzzled, then her gaze had abruptly settled on Zena's face.
"We will call the child Zena, like yourself," she had announced, "for I feel the Mother within her already."
Conar was in her too, Zena thought, looking at the child's dark curls, the small, lithe body that were so like his. Perhaps it was because of the deep love between herself and Conar that their daughter was so clearly of the Mother.
Everyone in the tribe now knew that men as well as women helped to create new life, for Menta had called a council soon after she and Lune had spoken to Zena. The knowledge could no longer be hidden, the Goddess had told her, for the time when all Her people would know was fast approaching.
Some had been surprised, but others had guessed already. Bakan had only smiled when Menta had spoken, and when Lune had asked him why, he had pointed to her pale hair, then to his own, to their light blue eyes that were exactly alike.
"I have known this for many years," he told them, "but I kept silent, fearing that some men might try to keep a woman for themselves, so that no other could be the one to pass on a part of himself to her young. Then we would forget that the purpose of Akat is pleasure, and to keep peace within the tribe."
"I knew this as well," Katli confided, "from watching the animals. Among the wolves, I can sometimes see the look of one male in the cubs. This is the male chosen by the female who is the leader of the pack. The other males accept her decision, and do not fight among themselves. Instead, they help to raise the young. But among the reindeer, the males fight constantly to mate with the females and keep them. I knew we did not wish to live that way, so I did not speak."
"This must not happen, that the men fight among themselves to be the one to mate," Krost added in his deep voice. "Akat must remain as it is, with the women deciding. But the women must be even more careful than before to include each man, lest the others become restless. Then there will be trouble even in a tribe as peaceful as this."
"It is best if we act as we always have before until we receive more guidance from the Mother," Menta agreed. "The knowledge itself is not bad, She has told me, but only the fact that some men could abuse it, like the men from the north Gunor has described."
Gunor nodded. "The people there do not know the Mother," he told them. "The men believe that they are the ones who make new life within the women, and they fight each other to keep a woman for themselves. They treat the women harshly, force Akat upon them and even beat them sometimes. It is not a good way to be."
Tron was a man like that, Zena realized suddenly. If he knew that Akat helped to create new life, he would fight others to be the one to mate, would force himself on women even more brutally than before. He might even come to believe that the young belonged to him, not to the Mother.
His face came before her, brutal and filled with satisfaction, as it had been after he had attacked her in the Ekali. She flinched and thrust the picture away. Tron could not hurt them now. More than ten cycles of the seasons had passed since he had left. Probably he was far away, perhaps even dead. But there were many like him, as Gunor said, men who knew nothing of love or compassion, who worshiped one as violent as themselves, who encouraged the men to rape and kill.
Images crowded into her mind, so fast and sudden she almost ceased to breathe. She saw men, savage men, forcing themselves on women, even young girls, over and over again. They would not stop no matter how the women cried out in pain. Zena watched in horror as the women's bellies grew big with young. They swelled before her eyes, and then, one by one, the women gave birth and cradled the infants tenderly in their arms. But as soon as the babies could walk, the men snatched them up and carried them screaming into the distance as the mothers wept in desperation. She heard the men shout words she could not understand, but still she knew their meaning.
"Mine!" they shouted. "The child is mine!"
Tears streamed down Zena's face. She shook her head hard, to rid herself of the images. They were horrifying beyond belief, and she did not want to see them.
Rofal was looking at her curiously, a worried frown on his face. Zena reached out and hugged him to her, and for once he did not objec
t. She pulled the young Zena close as well. The child's round face was suffused with sorrow. Always, she had felt her mother's distress as if it were her own. It was as if they were one, she and her daughter.
Zena tried to smile, to reassure the children. It was not good for them to see her so upset. Perhaps she would take them to the caves, to distract them. They loved to creep among the tunnels, clinging always to her legs, lest they lose themselves in the maze. The caves would distract her as well, drive the terrifying images from her mind.
"How would you like to go into the caves, to see if we can find Conar and Lilan?" she asked.
The children nodded eagerly, their unhappiness forgotten at the thought of such a treat. Zena grabbed some lamps and led them through the labyrinth of tunnels to the cave where Conar and Lilan were painting. Gunor had showed her how to make lamps of animal fat, with a wick of moss, in the stone bowls she had noticed so long ago, when Pulot was wounded. The lamps burned very slowly and lasted much longer than the flares they had used before. With them, they had been able to explore many of the dark passages and caverns that wound beneath the craggy cliffs.
The lamps also allowed Conar and Lilan to paint even in the darkest caves. Already, the drawings Conar had made in the big cave where they lived had begun to fade. If the bison were to live forever, as he had promised, Conar knew he must create their vivid forms in caverns deep within the earth, where neither sun nor rain nor smoke from fires could erase the flowing lines. In these protected places, water from above hardly penetrated, and the temperature never varied, even on the coldest days.
Zena watched as Conar and Lilan pressed the children's hands against the cave wall, then sprayed color around them through a thin reed, leaving a perfect hand print. The children adored this game, and wanted to cover every empty spot. Even Rofal was quiet and happy, and did not need her attention.
Taking advantage of her momentary freedom, Zena took a lamp and crawled through the narrow passage that led to the next cave. This was the Mother's home, and to be here for even a moment would help restore peace to her heart.
CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) Page 45