CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) (18 page)

The difficulties
did not disappear as the babies grew.  They became stronger, but they also
got heavier and heavier, and they had to be carried for almost two years. 
Nyta and the other women with little ones came back exhausted each night,
without food for the group, for they could carry little besides their
babies.  Life was harder for the women now, Kalar mused.  But almost
before the thought came to her, she chastised herself for her complaint. 
After all, the problem was not so severe.  Their women were no longer
dying, and that was most important.  The Mother would send a solution to
this newest difficulty, just as She had for the last one, and all the others
through the years.  And just as they had before, the tribe would manage
until the Mother spoke.  Those without infants - the men and the older
children - could bring back most of the food.  Already, the men were
helping more, and that, surely, was good.

Still, she
listened carefully in case the Mother should send another message.  Each
day when she awoke, each night before sleep, she lay quietly in the shelter and
held her mind ready.  Often, she clasped one of the figures in her hand as
she waited.  These moments were precious to her, whether or not a message
came.  She loved to lie there anyway, hearing the slow, steady breathing
of the others as they slept, watching the moon or the morning sun filter
through the branches above her, just as the pictures the Mother sent filtered
into her thoughts. 

Tonight, no
pictures emerged.  But she was content, for all was well with her
tribe.  Cere lay beside her, one arm curled protectively around
Zena.  Kalar was pleased, for Mina's spirit and for Cere, who loved Zena
as her own. 

The name suited
the child, she reflected, glad now that she had chosen it.  Zena meant
remarkable woman, one who would lead, and Kalar was certain that would one day
be true.  It was an old word, and no one could remember its origin, but
her grandmother had told her she thought it came from a long-ago ancestor who
had served the Mother well.

One of the infants
squealed, the sound loud and abrupt in the still air.  Its mother held it
close to her breast, and stillness fell again.  Abruptly, as if on a
prearranged signal, the cicadas and frogs began their nightly chorus.  The
whirring calls rose and fell and rose again, lulling Kalar into sleep. Other
sounds broke their rhythm as the darkness deepened; a lion roared from the
hillside, and hyenas began to bark.  The herd of wildebeest across the
river shuffled uneasily.

Kalar
yawned.  They were safe in the shelter.  Constructed of thick rows of
branches from the thorn trees that grew nearby, it was almost
impenetrable.  The walls rose as high as their shoulders, and a low fire
in the hearth guarded the entrance.  No animal would try to get in, for
the thorns were sharp, the smell of people strong.

It was a good
shelter, and she did not want to leave it, but the time had almost come. 
Always, she led the tribe south to the lake just before the rainy season. 
Nuts and fruits were already ripening on the big trees that grew there, fish
and frogs would soon leap through the water, birds would lay their eggs in the
rushes.  But when the dry season came again, they would return to the
river, to the thick shelter and the circle of stones she loved the best.

Kalar's eyes
closed, and at just that moment, a picture came into her mind.  She saw an
animal, small and like a rat, except that it had a pouch on its belly where its
young sought refuge.  Why should the Mother send her this creature, one
that she had seen only once before? 

She shook her
head, unable to think what the picture could mean.  She would describe the
animal to Zena tomorrow.  Already, the child knew more than any
other.  Perhaps she would have an answer. 

CHAPTER TEN

The acrid smell of
smoke stung Zena's nostrils.  She sat up abruptly.  The others were
still sleeping.  In the dim light, they were little more than
indistinguishable bundles huddled against the earthen floor of the
shelter. 

She stared toward
the hill where lightning had struck the night before.  Fires at this time
of the year were not unusual.  As the rainy season approached, clouds
gathered each afternoon and covered the sky in thick gray layers.  But for
many weeks, no rain fell from them.  All they generated were ominous rumbles,
and heat lightning that struck savagely at the baking earth and bone-dry
grasses.  Usually the fires that resulted died out during the night, when
the wind dropped.  But this time, the fire was still burning fiercely.

Zena reached out
and touched Cere, to awaken her.  Cere sat immediately, alert as always to
Zena's slightest movement.  Their eyes met briefly, then Cere turned to
scan the group.  The sun had just broken free of the horizon and she
noticed what Zena had been unable to see.  Kalar was missing, and
Lett.  She pointed to their empty places, mouthing their names
quietly. 

Just at that
moment, shouts pierced the stultifying air.  Leaping to her feet, Zena ran
toward the sounds.  Bran, Kalar's son, and Agar, another adult male,
followed. 

Lett and Kalar
emerged from the crest of a hill to the north of the clearing.  The fire
burned behind them, outlining them in scarlet.  They were dragging
something, struggling with its weight.  When Zena reached them, she saw
that it was an antelope.  How had they managed to capture such a
prize?  The tribe hardly ever found more than bones or scraps left by
predators, but this was a whole animal.  She grabbed a leg and pulled,
eager to get the antelope back to the clearing before a lion or tiger came to claim
it.

Thick smoke
swirled suddenly around their faces, covering them with a thin layer of
soot.  Kalar turned to study the shifting blaze.  Zena watched her
anxiously.  At eight years, she was old enough to understand the wise
woman's dilemma.  Soon Kalar would lead the tribe south to the lake. 
But if the wind changed or the fire continued to spread, it could cut across
their path.

Fires were
strange, Zena thought.  They were welcomed in many ways, yet feared in
others.  A smoldering stick found in the woods after lightning had struck
lit the hearth fires that kept the tribe warm, and frightened predators away at
night.  Whenever their fire went out, they hoped for lightning, so they
could find another burning stick.  Fires brought abundance, too. 
Tender new shoots poked through the revitalized earth where they had burned,
and the next year berries proliferated on the bushes.  But when they
burned out of control, fires were menacing.  She had seen animals fleeing
in panic before them, and one of their group had been killed when he was not
quick enough to escape a change in the wind.  He had not burned, but had
died when fire had encircled his hiding place among the rocks.  Perhaps
that was what had happened to the antelope.

Zena
shuddered.  What if the fire came here, and trapped all of them?  The
winds were unpredictable this time of year.  It would be better to leave
soon, not take any chances. 

Kalar's words
confirmed her thoughts.  "We must get ready," she told the
others.  "It is time to leave.  Tonight, we feast, and thank the
Mother; when the light comes, we go."

No further
instructions were necessary.  Each member of the tribe knew what he or she
had to do, and they set about their tasks without hesitation.  They must
fill the baskets they had made of reeds and vines with food - melons and
tubers, and any nuts and firm fruit they could find.  There were gourds -
or ostrich eggs, if any were left - to be filled with water.  And this
year, they had the antelope to consider.  It would have to be butchered
and cut into small pieces, so they could take at least some of the meat that
was not consumed tonight. 

Zena was glad they
would not leave until morning.  She loved the times when they gathered
around the hearth fire to feast on an unusual treat like the antelope. 
First, of course, they thanked the Mother for Her special gift.  Then the
story of the animal's capture was told over and over again as they savored its
succulent flesh.  Often, Zena ended up telling the tale, for she had more
words than the others.  Once those who had found the animal had made the
event clear with gestures and actions and a few words, she elaborated, and
taught the new words as she spoke.  The young ones picked them up quickly,
as did Kalar.  The others were slower.

Lett had already
begun to make some new flints so they could cut up the antelope. 
Patiently, he grasped a stone in one hand and chopped at it with another. 
Sparks shot out, and small chips flew in every direction.  Sima, Nyta's
four-year-old daughter, picked up one of the sharp chips and screamed as it cut
her hand.  Nyta came running, but Lett paid no attention; he did not look
up from his work until he had forged three sharp cutting stones.  He
handed one to Cere, another to Bran, so they could help him cut the meat. 
Slitting the antelope's belly from tail to chin, he stripped the pelt from the
carcass and tossed it aside.  Later, he would take it to the river and
scrape it clean. 

The children stood
around him, chattering excitedly.  As soon as Cere and Bran began to cut
the meat, their small hands flashed out to grab chunks.  Zena grabbed
some, too, then she picked up the discarded pelt to help Lett by carrying it to
the river.  She held it against her cheek for a moment.  It felt soft
and supple, even though it smelled of smoke.

Suddenly the
picture Kalar had described to her a few days before, the one that had come
from the Mother, appeared in her mind.  She saw the small animal, with its
soft brown fur, its little one peeking from the pocket on its belly, just as if
it were there in front of her. 

Zena held the pelt
against her body, frowning deeply.  As she stood there, Nyta came to the
river to wash some chunks of antelope flesh that had fallen into the hot
ashes.  She laid the infant she had recently borne beside her. 
Suddenly deprived of the warmth of her body, it began to wail.  Nyta
grimaced and picked it up again, to suckle it for a moment.  But as soon
as she put it down, the wailing resumed.

Zena looked at
Nyta, then at the infant, then at the pelt.  Back and forth her eyes went,
considering.  A dreamy look came over her face as she pictured the small
animal once again.  Abruptly, determination replaced her
abstraction.  She spread the pelt on the ground, then she ran over to Lett
to ask him for a scraping stone.

He gestured toward
his place in the sleeping area, where he kept a supply.  Zena took one and
set eagerly to work.  Sima came to help.  Her skinny arms moved back
and forth with surprising strength, and soon all the flesh was gone.  Zena
dunked the skin in the river, rubbing it vigorously against the rough sand, then
stretched it out to dry in the hot sun.

The pelt dried
quickly.  Sima watched curiously as Zena cut a long strip, wider in the
middle, from one edge of the hide.  She tied the ends together in firm
knots, then she placed the strip over her shoulder and across her belly. 
It was too long; the sling came down to her knees.  Patiently, she undid
the knot and shortened it.  Then she asked Nyta to stand and arranged the
pelt around her shoulder and chest.

Nyta was puzzled,
but she submitted good-naturedly to the procedure.  She began to object
when Zena took the infant from her and placed it inside the loop of pelt at her
chest.  Then her eyes lit up in wonderment as she suddenly understood. 
The baby was slung tightly across her chest, where it could easily reach her
nipple.  But both of her hands were free!  She could pluck berries
from bushes, dig for tubers, reach for fruit high in trees, wash food - all
without putting the infant down.  She could not believe what Zena had
accomplished, and she danced around and around in a circle, hooting with glee.

Her hoots brought
the others running.  Eyes wide with amazement, they gathered around Nyta
to examine the device.  Zena paid little attention to the chorus of
appreciation.  The sling was not very secure, and the knot was
clumsy.  She had been in too much of a hurry.  The next strip was
wider in the middle, more tapered at the ends, so it tied better.  Cere
and Tempa, a young female who had joined the tribe a few years ago, vied for a
chance to try it, but Zena could make only one more of the devices from the
pelt, so they took turns.

A small piece of
usable hide was left.  Zena cut it carefully like the others, except
smaller, and tied it around  Sima's shoulder.  The child stood up
straight and tall, carrying her small sling proudly.  It was she who found
Kalar, to show her.  Kalar's eyes went straight to Zena's face when she
saw it.  She shook her head, bemused.  So
that
was what the
Mother had been trying to tell her.  But it had taken Zena's special
intelligence to make it happen.  Surely, she thought, the Mother's ways
and Zena's gifts were a wondrous combination. 

Her face grew
serious as she realized what a difference Zena's device would make in their
lives.  Now, early birth would no longer be such a problem.  Mothers
could keep their babies close against their hearts, even suckle them, while
they gathered food, or drank.  They would be able to carry food too.

The thought of
food-carrying brought mischief into her eyes, and she grinned.  Zena had
found a way to carry infants; perhaps she could find a way to carry
flesh.  They would feast on the antelope tonight, but much would still be
left.  They dared not linger another day to eat more, lest the fires trap
them.  Still, it seemed a shame to waste the Mother's bounty.

"Carry
antelope?" she questioned, pointing to the carcass, and then to the sling
Zena had made.  Her eyes were merry, for she did not really expect Zena to
take the question seriously.  Meat rotted too fast, anyway, and only
attracted predators.