CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) (61 page)

"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 object.  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. 

She and Conar had
found the lofty cavern soon after the arrival of the rest of the tribe, as if
the Mother had been delaying the discovery until that moment.  The power
of the magnificent chamber had leaped out at them as soon as they had entered,
as strong and compelling as lightning from the sky.  And when they had
seen that the cave was shaped like a perfect circle of stones, they had known
Menta was right.  It was not only Zena for whom the Mother waited in the
foothills.  Here, in this sacred place, She waited for them all.

They had run to
get the others.  Zena smiled, remembering.  Krost and Tragar had
carried Menta as far as the narrow passage, for it was still hard for her to
walk.  Then Zena had led her, crawling, through the tunnel, had watched
tears form in the wise woman's eyes when she had raised them to survey the
wondrous chamber.  For Menta, such a show of emotion was rare.

"This is the
Mother's home, the place where She was born,"  she had said, her
voice shaking with awe.  "She honors us to bring us here."

She pointed to a
smaller circle of rocks on one side of the cavernous space that Zena had not
yet noticed.

"The Mother
Herself has placed them there," Menta told her, and Zena saw that she was
right.  The big rocks were too large for any man or woman to move, and it
did seem as if they had been placed there on purpose.  The flat expanse of
sandy soil they enclosed was just big enough to hold all the members of the
tribe.  Light from a narrow opening high in the rocks on the other side of
the cave shone on the circular space, as if assuring them they were welcome
there.  The light sparkled on a small stream that ran through the middle
of the cavern, shimmered across the opaque surface of a deep black pool that
lay still as glass on the opposite side.

The others had
entered after Menta, instinctively bowing their heads, then raising them to the
arched ceiling, as they always did when they entered a circle of stones. 
This circle was especially sacred, for the Mother Herself had created it. 
In this place She was Goddess, full of power and energy, as well as Mother,
with Her infinite compassion, and they came reverently into Her presence.

Zena sat quietly
and felt the Mother's spirit fill her body and mind, erasing the terrifying
images that had distressed her earlier.  There was truth in them, she
knew, but here in the Mother's home she was aware of nothing but the wondrous
mystery of Her presence.  Always, the spirit of the Goddess had been
stronger in this place than any other, and now it was stronger still. Here, in
the blessed circle of stones the Mother had created for them, Menta held the
councils, performed the ceremonies for birth and death, for the killing of an
animal or the coming of rain.  As the rituals were performed over and over
again, the voices raised, the minds opened to the Mother's ways, the power of
the place had grown, until even the smallest child could feel its energy, like
a vibrating pulse that rose from the sacred stone to enter their bodies. 
It seemed to attach them to the Goddess Herself as they spoke to Her and
listened for Her voice.

Zena sighed. 
To have found this place, so filled with the Mother's spirit, was wonderful,
but she still had not found the open space of her dream.  Surely, one of
the passages must lead to it, open onto the cliffs.

Voices interrupted
Zena's absorption.  Conar and Lilan were calling to say they would take
the children with them when they went for food and water.  Zena was
glad.  To have this opportunity to commune with the Mother was good. 
It was good, too, that she could once again feel joy in the Mother's
presence.  For a long time after she had discovered that Tron had helped
to make the child within her, she had felt only the sense of wrongness, and a
terrible restlessness that had made it almost impossible for her to listen to
the Mother.  Now, there was joy in her heart once again, and it was Conar
who had helped her to get it back.