CIRCLES IN THE SKY (The Mother People Series Book 2)

by JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

  Bukkor must have persuaded her to bring him here. That was the only explanation. And for Bukkor to seduce his woman, after he had spent so much time teaching him, helping him... Truly, that was beyond understanding!

  He turned on Bukkor. "You have no right to take my woman! Do you know nothing of the right way to behave? Katalin is my mate, not yours! Never again may you touch her!"

  These words made even the patient Bukkor angry. He admired Borg, but no man should say such things to him. "You do not know what you speak of," he warned. "It is Katalin who chooses the men with whom she wishes to mate. I did not interfere when you mated with her. Now it is my turn and you must leave, as she says."

  Borg stared at him, too enraged now to absorb the words he was hearing. Bukkor stared back for a moment, then he turned away and put his arm around Katalin.

  Borg exploded. "That you may not do! Katalin is my mate!" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Bukkor and swung him around to face him. Bukkor jerked away, furious now. "Leave! Leave now!" he yelled.

  Borg drew back a fist and propelled it at Bukkor's face. It hit with a terrible crack, knocking Bukkor to the ground. Shaking his head groggily, Bukkor tried to stand again. Blood poured from his nose and dribbled from a cut on his lip.

  Katalin grabbed Borg's arm, which was raised to strike Bukkor again as soon as he was upright. "Stop! Stop that," she screamed, pulling with all her strength at the arm.

  Borg paid no attention. Bukkor regained his feet and reached out to swing at Borg, but the older man was too quick for him. Yanking his arm from Katalin's grasp, he lashed out, putting his whole body behind the blow. It landed on Bukkor's chest. With a strangled cry, Bukkor fell to the ground and lay motionless.

  Katalin ran to him in terror. "You have killed him!" she cried out. "You have killed him." She began to sob, great gulping sobs of bewilderment and misery.

  Drawn by the noises, the others came running. They arrived just as Bukkor landed on the ground. Pulot went immediately to Bukkor; Marita went to Borg.

  "What have you done? Borg, what have you done?" There was horror in her voice.

  "He had no right," Borg muttered. "She was my woman, not his." He turned away from her and left the glen. Grabbing his tools and some furs from the shelter, he strode into the woods. He did not look back.

  Only Zena saw him go. She had not left the clearing when the commotion erupted. She felt too tired and heavy to move, as if her body had suddenly grown so huge she could no longer raise it. Earlier, she had felt only a little ill. Many of the children had been ill, Lilan had told her, with a draining fever, but now they were better. She had felt better, too, but now she did not. She had hardly enough strength to keep her eyes open. To follow the others was impossible. Besides, she knew what had happened. She had seen it before, in her vision, only then she had not known the identity of the person on the ground. Sighing, she allowed her aching eyes to close, her mind to drift away.

  The others returned, supporting Bukkor, who was not dead as Katalin had feared, only stunned.

  "Why," Katalin moaned. "Why did he do that?"

  "He did not understand," Marita answered, and her voice was heavy with sadness. "I did not realize, but he still did not understand. He thought that once you had mated with him, you would not mate with others, as in his tribe and in the north."

  "And I did not mate with others," Katalin moaned. "I did not, because of the infant, because I knew Borg would be upset, until now... until I took Bukkor. I knew Borg would not like this, but I did not know he had never understood..."

  She broke off, sobbing, and Katli came to comfort her.

  "But how is it possible that Borg did not understand? He lived among us for many moons, and he must have seen how we mate," Gunor objected.

  "Perhaps not," Torlan observed. "The women take the men to their own places, where they are private. A man who did not understand would not know they took more than one."

  Lilan nodded. "It may be that we see what we expect to see," she observed. "Borg expected each woman to have one mate, and so that is what he saw. If I had realized this, I would have called the council as I had planned. Then, he would have known."

  "But did no other woman invite Borg to her mating place?" Gunor was still not satisfied.

  A young women spoke up. "I tried to ask him, but he only laughed, and when I asked again, he seemed angry. After that, I gave up." Another woman nodded, agreeing.

  "I think Borg is right," Rofal inserted. "Why must we have Akat as it is? To have only one mate would be better."

  "That way leads to violence," Marita said. "We have always known that this is true."

  "But now our way has brought violence," Rofal objected.

  "That is only because we did not understand each other," Marita countered.

  Rofal did not answer but stalked away. Sarila followed.

  "Now we must speak of these things in the council," Lilan said, watching Rofal's stiff back. "We cannot wait any longer. Tonight we will gather everyone." She looked for Zena, to see if she agreed, and was surprised to see that Zena was lying down. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be asleep.

  Torlan, too, had wondered at Zena's silence. Why had she not come to see what the commotion was about? It did not seem possible that she had slept through all that shouting.

  He ran to her and touched her face. "She is ill," he said urgently. "Something is wrong. She is too hot."

  Lilan came to join him. "I thought she was well again," she said, her voice tremulous, for Zena really was too hot. "Some of the children had fevers, but they are better now, and Zena seemed better, too. I cannot understand why she is ill again."

  Pulot bent over Zena and called her name, but Zena did not answer. "She is very ill," Pulot said gravely, and icy fear enclosed her heart. In Zena resided the wisdom of the tribe, the Mother's wisdom. She was guardian of the sacred knowledge, and without her, they would lose it all.

  Marita's anguished voice broke into her thoughts. "It was too much for her, too much for one so young," she moaned. "Zena has never mourned, never shed tears for her mother, for the others who were killed. We spoke of this, Pulot and I, but we could not think what to do. And now it is all closed up inside her, like a poison, and then these other troubles, of Rofal, of Borg... And the wolf; if only she had not lost the wolf!"

  Lilan stood abruptly, dizzy with fear and guilt because she had not helped Zena more, had not noticed that she was ill again. What would they do if she died? There must always be one called Zena, the Mother had told them, but because she, Lilan, had allowed herself to think only of her grief instead of performing her duties as wise one, Zena could die.

  Torlan grasped her arm. "You cannot let this weaken you," he told her sternly. "Guilt and fear cannot help Zena. Only your strength can help her now."

  Lilan stared at him. How had he known her thoughts? Her eyes closed for a long, agonizing moment, then she opened them again and nodded.

  "Yes," she said. "Yes, you are right." She was not a healer, as Zena's mother had been, but she would do her best.

  "Get me my basket of herbs," she told her oldest daughter. "Bring it to me here."

  She turned to the others. "Bring cool water from the stream, leaves for compresses, moss if you can find it. We must take some of the heat from her body." They ran to do her bidding.

  "I will get water, too," Bukkor said, struggling to rise.

  Katalin pushed him back again. "Stay still. To have you worse would not help."

  "She is hardly more than a child," Bukkor said, his voice filled with pity. "To be the one called Zena cannot be easy."

  Lotar had gone to kneel by Zena. Her pale face terrified him. "You must get better, Zena," he begged her. "You must! You are my best friend, and you are Zena, too, and we need you. Please, Zena, please get well again."

  Katalin removed him gently. "I am sure Zena hears you," she told him, "but she is too weak to answer now. Come with me, and we will look for more herbs for Lilan. Th
at will help."

  Lotar trotted obediently after her, brushing tears from his eyes. "We must find many," he said. "She is very ill, and I think it could take all the herbs we can find to make her well."

  The childish words sank into Torlan's heart like stones. Lotar was right; Zena was very sick. He had known it as soon as he had touched her face. All the strength had gone from her, and Torlan was desperately afraid.

  He knelt beside her and stroked her feverish brow with gentle fingers, murmuring words of encouragement. All night long, he did not leave her. He could not; he felt inextricably bound to Zena, had felt that way ever since he had met her. They belonged together, and without her, he did not think he could live. He did not understand why this was so, but the feeling was too strong to deny.

  There was another feeling, even stronger. Zena should not die. It was wrong for her to die. Somehow, they must stop her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Pain labored around Zena. It took over her body and her mind, making it impossible to be aware of anything else. A small, far away part of her knew the others were talking about her, fussing over her, but most of her did not. The pain was too encompassing. Strangely, though, she could not tell if it was inside her or outside. It was just everywhere, heavy, oppressive, making it hard for her to breathe.

  She pushed at it, wanting it to go away, but it had twisted itself around her like a huge garment, and she could not escape. Down and down it dragged her into a terrible tight place where she could not breathe, a place where there was no wisdom or love or compassion, only layer upon layer of misery and anger and wrongness. She saw faces there, faces of people she knew, but now they were contorted, dark with agony, for they too were being pulled down and down and down...

  Evil; she felt evil all around her. She had no word for this, the total absence of good, but still the idea resounded in her mind. Evil had come into the Mother's world; the evil was the pain that had come into her body, was all around her. They were one, the pain and the evil, and they were spreading, spreading out across the Mother's world. She must stop them, keep them from spreading...

  The pain was suddenly inside her, burning, undeniable. All of it was in her body now, trapped there by the twisting pressure that wound an unbreakable web around her. That was what the Mother was asking of her. She must hold the pain that was the evil inside her. If she could do that, the others could float free, and the Mother's world would be all right, the Mother Herself would live. For that, she must endure the pain...

  She groaned, and the groan turned to choking. So much worse, she thought, so much… It hurt terribly to breathe. She had better not let her throat work at all.

  The pain was tumbling her now, as if she was infant in a womb of pain, a deep, black womb. The evil could not harm her there, she thought. A womb was dark and safe, and there was nothing but the pain anyway, had been nothing else for a long time, so she need not worry. She had only to release herself to it, let it do as it wished. Besides, she sensed that her mother was with her now, tumbling in this cavern of pain.

  She was there; Zena saw her clearly. But then she disappeared, turned away and vanished into the distance...

  Zena moaned, without knowing she had made a sound. The pain became still more intense, unendurable. Her hands scrabbled at the ground beside her. There was something she needed, but she could not remember what it was.

  "She is worse." Torlan's voice was grim.

  "Yes." Lilan could not deny it. Three days had passed now, and in spite of everything they had done, Zena was not improving. They had kept cool mosses around her, given her herbs to take away pain and sickness, and to bring down the heat in her body, but nothing had helped.

  "If only her mother was here," Lilan said, unable to conceal the helplessness in her voice. "She was truly a healer."

  "But she is not here." Torlan sounded angry. He watched Zena's face, ran his hands gently over her body, trying to feel what she must be feeling. He felt the heat in her, but there was tension, too, a strange tension.

  Of course - the Goddess. That was what she wanted, why she was feeling around on the ground. He placed the small figure in her hands and was gratified to see her fingers close around it.

  Her eyes fluttered and he thought she saw him. Torlan stroked her cheek gently. He still had not left her side since she had become ill, except to run quickly to the bushes. He must be her strength now, he realized, since she had none herself, and he dared not leave her for more than a moment.

  Another day passed, then another, and still there was no change. Over and over, Torlan dribbled water into Zena's mouth, sometimes a little well-chewed food, and the potions Lilan had prepared. Zena seemed to take them best from him, and the others let him do it. Still, he was not sure his efforts really helped. Often, more of the liquid he tried so hard to insert went down her chin than into her mouth.

  "It is because she finds it so hard to swallow," Lilan comforted him, watching. "We must just keep trying.

  "The Mother must be helping," she added bravely, "or we would have lost her already. I have never seen anyone so sick. And when the Mother helps, there is hope..."

  She broke off as a rustling noise in the bushes made all of them look up sharply. A tiny woman, bent over like an animal, was lurking there, watching them. Her eyes had a peculiar brightness in her wizened face; they gleamed like berries washed with rain.

  She emerged and scuttled toward them with an odd, crab-like gait. Behind her were two more people, carrying various utensils. Borg and Bukkor were instantly on their feet.

  The old woman's voice came as a surprise. It was low as a man's, and it murmured on and on, like a bubbling stream. "No harm comes from us," she told them, waving a gnarled hand at the two men. "No harm at all. When sickness calls, we come... The girl is sick, and so we came. A healer I am, a healer..."

  Her voice faded as she leaned down to peer at Zena; then lowered herself carefully to the ground beside her. Her two companions stood respectfully beside her.

  "Here I am, my child," the old one crooned, stroking Zena's limp hand. "Here I am, with all we need to make you well. One day, you will look again at the stars, at the sunlight, and you will know that old Lotta once came to heal you. Yes, my child that will happen. Do not fear, for your time has not yet come."

  Her sing-song voice went on and on as she examined Zena, feeling her body with gentle hands, peering closely into her eyes, even her ears. The others watched, too astonished to speak. Where had the old one come from? And how had she known to come here? And who were the two young people who had come with her?

  Pulot was the first to recover. "We have not heard of this woman, Lotta," she told the old woman’s companions. "She is truly a healer?"

  The young woman nodded. "We come from far away, but we heard of the girl Zena. The old one knew, though I am not sure how. She knows such things, for she is truly a healer. She is too old now to go by herself, and so my brother and I go with her and learn how to be healers ourselves." Smiling, she shrugged her shoulders, as if to wander in this way was perfectly natural.

  "We collect the herbs and ointments as we go," the young man volunteered. Though he looked strong, he was hardly more than a boy, and Borg and Bukkor relaxed their vigilance.

  Marita, however, was still worried, and drew Lilan quickly aside. "Should we let her use her herbs on Zena? How do we know she will do what is right?"

  "We cannot know," Lilan replied. "But our own herbs have not helped, so I think we must let her try. Still, I will ask what she uses, see if I can tell if it is good."

  Before she had asked her question, the old one spoke. "It is bark I use, bark from the willows that grow by the river, to pull the fever away. Mold comes next, deep green mold that lurks in the secret places of the forest. From decay and rot it comes, but still it heals, still it heals. Its power is great, its uses many, but there are few who know... few who know..."

  Her voice trailed off again, then resumed sharply as she called for something from
the utensils carried by the two others. They handed her a tightly sewn skin bag and a small pouch, as well as some wooden implements.

  Marita's eyes opened wide. "I have heard of this bark!" she exclaimed. "Truly, the old one is right. Once I saw a child who was healed by it. Why did I not think of it myself? We could have helped Zena earlier..."

  She broke off as the young woman spoke. "The bark must be steeped for many days," she told them, "and the mold dried, but not in sunlight. Later, I will show you so you can make the medicines yourselves. We wish others to learn, so each tribe can heal their own people. But now, we must watch the old one."

  Obediently, Lilan and Marita bent down to watch. Torlan watched, too. He had not moved from Zena's side at the old woman's approach. She had nodded to him, accepting his presence, as if she understood that he had to be there.

  The young man held up the skin bag and poured a small amount of brown liquid into a wooden cup. Measuring carefully, the young woman sprinkled in a few pinches of green powder from the pouch. She stirred the mixture with a carved stick, then handed the cup to Lotta.

  "Just this much," Lotta intoned, "just this much, no more, no less. Each morning, each night, give her just this much." She held out the cup so they could see.

  Gesturing to Torlan to raise Zena a little, she dribbled the mixture into Zena's mouth.

  "We will show you again," the young woman whispered, "But now we must be quiet."

  "Back, stand back," the old one said, and her voice this time was sharp, almost grumpy. "I must have room to work."

  She glanced at Torlan. "This one may stay. He is connected, and that is good."

  Taking a deep breath, she leaned over Zena, and her hands began an intricate dance. That was the only way Torlan could describe it, a dance. The hands whirled and swooped, for a long time not even touching Zena's body but lingering just above it. Then, slowly, very slowly, the hands came lower, continuing their graceful movements. As soon as they touched Zena, the rhythm changed. Now the hands seemed to become part of Zena's body, as if they had merged into it. Caught in a kind of dream, Torlan seemed to feel them on his own body as well. The old one pulled Zena's arms up and he felt her stroke his own arms vigorously, then gently place them down again. Over Zena’s chest and his own the hands went, lingering longest where the breath went in and out. They passed on to the place where infants grew; even this Torlan felt despite his maleness.