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

by JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

  When they reached Zena's legs the hands rose abruptly, as if they had been kicked. The old one frowned. "There it lodges," she muttered to herself. "There it lodges..." Shaking her head mournfully, she pushed her hands back to the legs and began to massage them.

  "Atar! Come, you must help," she called out suddenly. "You too must help," she said, nodding at Torlan.

  The young woman ran to her and began to massage Zena's other leg, indicating with a gesture that Torlan should take the first leg while the old one rested. He imitated her movements, clumsily at first, then with more confidence, and she nodded in approval. After that, they took turns, the young man helping as well. Over and over they massaged, rested and massaged again. Finally, the old one spoke.

  Enough," she told them. "It is enough." Raising her hands, she repeated the dance she had performed before, then she sat back on her heels and lifted her wrinkled face to the sky.

  "Mother, Great Mother, in Your hands we place her," she chanted. "In Your hands, Mother, shall it be."

  No one spoke for many moments. Then the young woman broke the silence. "We will leave the medicines with you," she told them, "as much as you will need. And I will show you many times how to prepare them, so you are certain you understand. After that, as the old one says, it is up to the Goddess. We have done all that we can, and only She can do the rest."

  So they, too, worshipped the Goddess, Lilan thought. That was good to know.

  "You must have food now, and drink," she told the healer, helping her to rise. Anticipating this need, Pulot and Gunor had prepared some meat, as well as grains and nuts pounded into a strengthening gruel, and a few early berries.

  The three strangers accepted the food gratefully. "We have not eaten much these last days," the young man said, between large bites of meat. "We moved fast, for Lotta told us we were needed here. Sometimes I carried her on my back, to go faster, and that is hard work!"

  The old woman laughed heartily. "He is strong, though he is young, and that is why I bring him. He knows the herbs, too, and their uses, and so does his sister, Atar. When I return to the Mother, they will take my place."

  Her voice sounded perfectly normal as she spoke these words, then it reverted to the chant-like tone. "Their eyes are bright, their minds eager, they have the hands, the healing hands. The healing hands, that is what they have."

  "He, too," she added suddenly, pointing at Torlan.

  Torlan examined his hands doubtfully. They did not seem any different from other people's hands.

  A memory returned suddenly, of his mother, when her head hurt and nothing could make it better but his hands, stroking, stroking, pulling out the pain...

  "Your hands," she had sighed. "Your hands make it better." How could he have forgotten? He looked at his hands with new respect. Perhaps he could help Zena with them. Leaning over her, he stroked her brow as he had once stroked his mother's, and it seemed to him that some of the strain left her face.

  The old woman and her companions stayed to help for another day and then they disappeared as suddenly as they had come.

  When they had gone, Marita turned determinedly to the others. Her initial despair about Zena's condition had vanished. She was certain now that Zena would live, and she wanted everyone else to believe this, too.

  "I have seen this bark work," she assured them. "I do not know of the mold, but I knew a child who was sick in the same way as Zena, and when she was given the bark, she recovered. And we have Torlan, too. The old one said he is a healer."

  "I do not even know what it means to be a healer," Torlan said, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

  "Healing is more than just herbs," Lilan explained. "The healer must draw the poisons from the sick person and pull them into her own body, and then she must throw them into the darkness so they cannot return. After that, she must give some of her own strength to the sick one, and that is very hard. Only to a few does the Mother give the gift of healing, so you must not blame yourself if you cannot do it."

  Her words frightened Torlan. Could he really do this? What if he should fail? The old one had started the process and someone must continue it, but did it have to be him? He was ignorant, knew nothing of these things. He closed his eyes, trying to summon courage but feeling helpless in the face of such need.

  "I do not think it is necessary for the healer to be a woman," Marita comforted him, misunderstanding the reason for his fear. "I am certain healers can be men as well."

  Torlan tried to smile, grateful for her kindness. "I will do my best," he told the others shakily. “I must try, at least."

  “First, though, we must give her the medicine.” He knelt beside Zena, and Marita dropped down beside him to help.

  "Here, child," she crooned, unconsciously imitating the old healer's voice as she and Torlan poured the drops into Zena's mouth. "Here, child, you must drink this, for it takes the sickness away. Drink now, Zena. Drink... Now you must swallow, that's a good girl. Swallow this, and then once more."

  As always, some of the mixture dribbled down Zena's chin, but most of it went down her throat, and Marita was satisfied. Pulling herself to her feet, she addressed the others again.

  "The Mother did not save me, or any other, to watch Zena die," she declared emphatically. "Zena cannot die. The Mother will not let that happen. That is why She brought us the healer, why Torlan has come to us, so that Zena may live. Now, all of us must help to make it so."

  "All of us," she added fiercely. "All, every one, must ask the Goddess to let Zena live. We cannot lose Zena."

  Nodding soberly, the others followed Lilan into the circle of stones. One at a time, each member of the tribe spoke words of thanks, for all that the Mother had given them, then words of supplication, that She might help them now, and let Zena live. The words poured up from their throats, from their hearts. Hope poured with them. Surely, Marita was right. Zena could not die.

  When everyone had finished speaking, the sound of Rofal's music rose into the air. He had not spoken to the Goddess, but no one minded. Rofal spoke with his music instead. Torlan thought they were the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard.

  He studied Zena's face, to see if she had heard them too, but it was impossible to tell. He had not seen any expression on her face since the first days, when she had been in such terrible pain. Most of the pain had gone now, he thought, and he was grateful, but he was still afraid. Zena seemed so far away, as if she had gone to a place where no one could follow, a place that lay somewhere between the living and the dead. Even he could not follow her to such a place. Each day, she seemed to slip still further away, and he was not sure anyone could pull her back.

  *********************

  Borg sat on his haunches in the snow, skinning a hare. He had been doing the same thing, he remembered, skinning that huge hare he had trapped, on the day he had realized that Katalin and Bukkor were together. Anger still boiled in his heart when he thought of that time, but it was dimmer now. He should have understood, but he had not wanted to believe. That any woman could behave in such a way, especially Katalin, seemed terribly wrong to him.

  He wished he could see Marita again and explain to her what had happened. He worried about Bukkor, too, that he had hurt him more than he had intended. Rage had driven his fists, but he thought now that the fault had not been Bukkor's, but Katalin's. Of her he preferred not to think at all.

  He finished the hare and took it to the fire, where the other people in his tribe waited. When he had left Katalin, he had set off in search of his own people. Everywhere he traveled he had seen tribes coming south to escape the ice. His tribe had gone south, too, and he finally came across them in a long valley not far from the caves where he had first discovered Katalin.

  "I have found a good woman for you," his brother said as Borg settled by the fire. "She is plump and ready and more than willing." He grinned at Borg and gave him a jocular punch.

  "And she will be yours alone, once you have taken her, unlike the one o
f whom you spoke!"

  Borg had told them a little of his experiences, though he had not said how much he had cared for Katalin. In his tribe, to care for a woman was considered strange. Women were necessary for mating, for bearing young and making food, but they were not important in other ways.

  His brother had laughed at the Mother People's customs. "But that would be fine!" he had said, hearing that the women mated with all the men. "You could have every woman there, and not worry about a woman expecting you to bring food for her and for all the young ones she keeps whelping. If she mates with others, then you have even less to worry about."

  The words had made Borg uncomfortable. It did not seem to him that the men in Katalin's tribe had been eager to avoid caring for the young; instead, they had brought food for all of them, not just for those who might be their own. Perhaps that was one reason they mated as they did.

  Anger filled Borg, not at his brother, or even at Katalin, but at himself. He had wanted so much to be with his own people, but now that he was here, he felt just as uncomfortable as he had with the Mother People. Their ways had seemed strange, but now the ways of his tribe seemed strange as well. Even after a whole winter he felt out of place, and he did not know what to do. Restlessly, he rose and went back to the woods.

  "Shall I bring her to you?" His brother's voice followed him.

  "I will hunt for a time and when I return, I will decide," Borg answered. Behind him, his brother shook his head in exasperation. Borg had not been the same since he had left. To have to think before taking a woman who was eager to mate was foolish.

  Borg wandered aimlessly at first, looking for game, but then he realized his steps were taking him to the cliffs where the big caves had been, before the Great Hunter had destroyed them. To see the place again would do no harm, he supposed, and perhaps it would make him feel better.

  As he came closer, he heard voices and stepped quickly behind a clump of rocks. He had learned caution in his travels. Most of the tribes he had met were friendly and eager to exchange information, but those from the far north - the men with knives - were not. To approach them unguarded was not wise.

  Another tribe was living near the caves now, he saw. There were huts made of stones and animals bones, and a hearth fire in the center. He was about to creep to a closer vantage point when a strange sight stopped him. A horse was picking its way across the rocky slope ahead of him, and on top of the horse was a child, a small boy, Borg thought.

  He blinked and looked again. This he had never seen before! How had the child got up there, on top of the horse? And why did the horse not run?

  The pair came closer. The boy had not seen him, but the horse suddenly sensed Borg's presence and stopped abruptly, almost tossing the child over its head.

  The boy held tight to a rope attached to the horse and managed to stay in place. He looked up then and saw Borg. Fear came over the small face, but after that came curiosity.

  Borg stepped forward, holding out his hands to show he meant no harm. "Greetings," he said, hoping the boy would understand.

  "Greetings," the boy replied. "How have you come here?"

  "I came from the valley over there," Borg answered, gesturing behind him. "I am called Borg."

  "Borg?" The boy's husky voice became a squeak, and fear returned to his face. "But if you are Borg, you must go from this place. My mother has vowed..."

  Nordal stopped, suddenly aware that he was betraying his mother. And the man Borg could be dangerous, might decide to kill him, too.

  "But why should I go?" Borg was puzzled.

  Nordal did not answer. Borg did not look dangerous. He looked friendly, and he had a kind face. Perhaps he should be warned.

  His mother's voice came from the clearing. "Nordal," she shrieked. "Nordal, where have you taken yourself?"

  "She comes," Nordal said to Borg. "She comes and you must hide." Pulling the rope to one side, he turned the horse and urged it away with his knees.

  Borg ducked behind the rock again, in case the boy spoke truth, though he could not imagine how the child had known his name, or that he was in danger. When the sound of the horse had gone, he crept stealthily toward the huts.

  A woman had just returned to the fire and was speaking in a loud imperious voice to two men. Borg could see her face, but the men had their backs to him. The woman reminded him of someone, with her flaming hair and long face, but he could not think who it was. One of the men turned, and Borg stifled a gasp. He was one of the two who had been with Vetron. Was that the reason for the child's alarm?

  The boy was suddenly beside him again, this time without the horse. "You must warn Torlan," he whispered. "Torlan and the girl called Zena. They must be warned."

  The woman's voice came again, and then they heard the sound of footsteps coming toward them.

  "Who wishes to harm them?" Borg asked urgently, as the child turned in fright.

  The boy's lips twisted painfully. "She is my mother," he said in an agonized voice. "Veeta is my mother..."

  He turned and ran. Except he could not really run, Borg saw, because one leg dragged behind. He fell just as he reached the clearing, and the woman shouted at him to hurry. Borg winced. He wanted badly to pick the child up, set him on his feet again with a comforting word, but he did not dare.

  He stayed where he was for a long time, listening. The woman seemed to be arguing with the two men.

  "The snows are almost gone," she said. "I wish to go on now, to look for Tron, and for Borg and the tribe with which he travels. You will lead me there."

  Another man emerged from a hut and answered her. "I will decide when we travel, Veeta, not you. Winter lingers longer now, and we cannot travel further until it has passed."

  The woman rose angrily. "You are a coward! That is why you wait. Must I avenge Vetron myself?" Without waiting for an answer, she strode away. She was coming right toward him, Borg realized. He melted into the trees. A twig broke under one foot and he froze, cursing himself for being careless.

  Engrossed in her thoughts, Veeta did not see or hear him. She was too angry - at Gorn, at the snow that had not gone, at the long delay in finding the people she sought. Already, more than a full cycle of the seasons had passed since the two men had told her of Vetron's death. Most especially she was angry at the feeling of this place, where the Mother People had once lived. They had left long ago, she had been told, but it seemed to Veeta that she could still feel them everywhere. They made her shiver with their presence. She even thought she saw them sometimes, high in the cliffs, where no person could possibly go, or in a narrow opening that might once have led to the caves, in many other places as well. And even if she did not actually see them, she certainly felt them, as if their spirits had somehow infected the stones, the trees, the land itself.

  Such things were possible. She knew that from the old women, her grandmother especially, who had told her the Mother People were witches who could send their spirits wherever they wanted. They roamed in the night, she had warned, looking for children to capture. Vetron, who had often raided Mother People tribes, had said the same. They could use their spirits to harm others from a distance, even leave the spirits behind so no others could take their territory, he had told her. Before, Veeta had not known whether to believe them; now, she knew they had been right.

  The Mother People were powerful - too powerful, she thought fearfully. She had not realized until she had come to this place, lived here for a time, how powerful they were.

  The women were the most powerful, Vetron had said, because they worshiped a female called the Great Mother, who stole the strength from men and gave it to women. Since women were usually the ones who made spirits, Veeta thought with a growing sense of understanding, that was why their spirits were also so powerful.

  She shuddered. They were dangerous, these spirits. She wanted them gone! This place would make an excellent new home for her tribe; there were fertile valleys, plenty of game, all they could wish for - except for the spir
its. Somehow, she must get rid of them. But how was she to do that?

  An idea came suddenly into her mind, an idea so much bigger than the revenge she had been planning for all the years since Tron had left that she felt dizzy for a moment. It was not just a matter of avenging Vetron, of taking the revenge she had planned on Tron and his tribe, she realized - she had to take this same revenge on all the Mother People. That would take away their power, and their spirits, even more surely than killing them. Besides, to make them suffer as she had suffered would give her great pleasure.

  Excitement engulfed Veeta. The idea worked; she knew that because she had already tested it on some groups of Mother People passing through. It was as if she had known, deep inside herself, what she must do, even before she had thought of this plan. Now, all she had to do was keep on, track the Mother People down until their power was completely destroyed. They would be hers then, to do with as she wished. Their power would be hers...

  Another realization interrupted, making her eyes glow with fierce satisfaction. Their land would be hers as well. Once she had destroyed the Mother People, this place and all the area around it would be hers alone, to do with as she wished, just as she could do as she wished with them.

  Veeta began to pace, too exhilarated by the thoughts that were crowding into her mind to stay still. The plan was good, very good, but she would need help. To carry it out, she would have to permit some of the other tribes from the far north to live in the area - but only if they agreed to help her take revenge on the Mother People and to help defend the territory so that no others could hunt here. She would make that clear.

  A smile came to her lips. To have power over the men who led the Northern tribes would be good indeed. They thought themselves so important, but she knew the truth, that they were not. They were always boasting, always trying to show that they were better than any of the other men, but most of them were stupid, incapable of thinking of anything but the hunt - and mating. That, they spoke of endlessly. She was the only one who thought of what was truly important, of how they were to live if the ice came still further south, of banding together so no others could live here, where the hunting was still good. Gorn never thought of these things, only of his honor and the honor of the tribe. Of what use was honor when there was no meat?