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

by JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

  He lurched on, holding his wounded arm close against his body so the movement did not hurt so badly, watching the ground with great care. Despite his caution, his foot caught in a hole and he staggered, almost fell. He stared down at the hole. Why had he not seen it?

  The answer came slowly to his clouded brain. He had not seen the hole because it was carefully covered over with grasses and twigs. A snare; that was what had tripped him, a snare. One of the snares he had set so long ago? He must be close; Marita and the others could not be far away. He must shout, keep shouting...

  A loud yell came from him, then another. He tried to walk on, but then he realized he still did not know which way to go. He walked anyway. It was not far now, he told himself, trying to believe. Somehow, he must get there.

  Katalin came into his mind, surprising him. He had not allowed himself to think of her since he had left but now he could not stop. He saw her, felt and smelled her, as if she was in his arms again, and especially, he heard her laugh. She loved to laugh. Never to hear her laugh again would be terrible. He must find her, must go on until he found her.

  Determinedly, he took another step, then another, and then he collapsed. Rain cascaded onto his face, carried away the blood that was congealing on his shoulder, his arm. The rain felt warm now, almost comforting. Once, he remembered, he and Katalin had lain together as the warm rain poured down upon them. Perhaps he was there again, and she was beside him. He tried to reach for her, but his arm seemed strangely heavy. Sighing, he decided to wait. He was too tired now. Later, he would try again.

  Bukkor was the one who found him. They had all heard the shouts, but Bukkor got there first.

  "Borg!" he called out to the others. "It is Borg, and he is hurt, badly hurt."

  Torlan and Katli came running up behind him. "We must get him to the fire," Katli said after a quick look. "I will run back, get some others to help carry him."

  She returned quickly with three strong men. Gently, they lifted Borg into their arms and carried him to the fire. Marita had already placed rocks near the flames to warm, and Lilan had prepared a warm drink. As soon as Borg was settled, she lifted his head and poured some into his mouth.

  He tried to resist. "Katalin," he muttered. "I must find Katalin. No, it is Zena I must find, and Torlan..."

  "They are all here," Marita comforted as she packed the warm rocks around him. "You can speak to them but first you must drink this. Drink, and then you can speak."

  Her presence seemed to soothe Borg. He gulped the drink, then began to mutter again. "The cougar... except it was not the cougar that took the children. Some other animal..."

  He lapsed into silence as the calming drink took effect. Lilan called for her herbs, dressings for the wounds.

  "He has lost much blood," she said, "But the wounds are clean, at least. The rain did that for him. I think he will heal."

  When they had done all they could to warm Borg and dress his wounds, Katalin came slowly over to sit beside him. She had never expected to see Borg again, and now that he was here, her heart was pounding, not just with fear because he was wounded, but with something else, something almost like excitement. How could she be excited when Borg was so badly hurt?

  She studied his face, with its broad cheeks and full lips. His eyes were closed, but she knew they were blue, blue as the sky above the mountains in their old home. His yellow hair was tangled, full of dirt and twigs. She smoothed it gently. Her child had hair like that, though his eyes were dark, large and round and dark. Would Borg ever see him? She sighed, and bent over to wipe some blood from his cheek. The cougar must have scratched him there.

  Borg opened his eyes again and saw her face right next to his, a somber, brooding face that was new to him. Pain wrenched through his heart, and he looked away. To see Katalin and know he could never have her was too much. He had been wrong to find her. Groaning, he closed his eyes again.

  Blinded by tears, Katalin stumbled away. She had seen the look of pain, seen Borg look away again. He did not want her now, did not want even to see her.

  Marita, always observant, had watched Katalin come to Borg, had seen the pain in their faces. She settled herself beside Borg and spoke to him in a low, crooning voice. She was not sure he could hear her, but she knew she had to speak anyway.

  "Katalin has missed you very badly," she told him. "She did not know how much she cared for you until you left. Now she knows, and you must let her speak. When you are better, you must speak, too. It is not right, not to speak together."

  Borg did not respond but she thought he heard. She went on talking, about all that had happened while he was away, about the new home they would look for soon, about his son who had grown so big, about anything she could think of. She was afraid that if she stopped talking he might go away, might let death take him. That, she could not bear.

  For many days, Borg hardly moved; then, abruptly, he became so restless they could hardly hold him down. His eyes were wild, and he called out the same names, Zena and Torlan, and others they did not recognize - in a loud, harsh voice. He did not speak Katalin's name again, though he asked to see his son.

  The restlessness passed, and one day he looked up with normal eyes that seemed surprised. "How have I come here?" he asked Marita, who was tending to his wounds.

  Marita smiled broadly, overjoyed to hear him sound like himself again. "You were wounded, and we carried you here," she answered. "Now you must not move too much, lest you get worse."

  Memory returned in a rush. "I must warn them," Borg said urgently, trying to sit. "They must be warned."

  Marita pushed him back. Was he still raving, after all? It would be best to humor him, she thought.

  "You cannot sit, not yet," she told him sternly. "But if you tell me who you must warn, I will get them."

  "Zena," Borg answered, "and Torlan."

  Marita frowned, worried now. Why would Borg need to warn Zena and Torlan? Still, she pulled herself to her feet and went to get them. Torlan came quickly, and Bukkor carried Zena. Though full grown, she was still small and it was not hard for a man as strong as Bukkor to carry her.

  Borg looked on curiously. "Has Zena been wounded as well?"

  Zena smiled. "It is not wounds that keep me from walking, but the Mother's will."

  Borg did not understand, but he did not ask more questions. To give them his message was most important. "A child sent me, a boy called Nordal," he began. He recounted the scene of the boy on the horse, and the child's warning.

  "It was his mother, Veeta, the boy said, who wished to harm you," he concluded. "She looks exactly as Vetron looks, except that she is a woman."

  "I know Veeta," Torlan told the others, his face grim. "She is the sister of Vetron, and she is more cruel than any, even Vetron. She is even cruel to her own child. If she wishes to harm us, she will work hard to succeed."

  His face cleared as he thought of Nordal. "I am glad to hear of Nordal, though. He is a good child, very brave and kind."

  "I thought so," Borg answered. "But he does not walk well."

  "No, he does not," Torlan agreed. "That is one reason Veeta is so bitter, because of the child's leg. A man called Tron violated her, and that is why Nordal was born with this bad leg, the others said. At least that is the story I have heard."

  The name Tron produced a silence that seemed to crackle, like the air before a storm.

  Pulot finally broke the hush that had descended on the group. “We know of Tron,” she said bitterly. “Everywhere he went, he violated women. Zena’s mother, who tried so hard to teach him the meaning of kindness, was one of them, and from that violation Rofal was born. Many years later Tron came back and violated Sarila, whom Rofal loved more than any other, and so Rofal stabbed him, not knowing that Tron was his father…”

  She broke off to make sure that Rofal was not nearby and was relieved to see that he was not. To remind him of the violent legacy he bore seemed wrong. The manner of his birth was not his fault.

  “
Rofal was hardly more than a boy then,” she resumed. “He could not bear any harm to come to Sarila. That is why he killed Tron.”

  “And now another of Tron’s brutal acts has come back to haunt us,” Lilan said soberly. “Truly, there is no end to the harm he can do, even after he is dead. Will he never leave us in peace?"

  No one answered but Torlan could see that everyone was thinking what he was thinking: that one man, one violent man, could wreak such havoc on so many lives.

  Borg interrupted their thoughts. "Veeta looks for Tron also!" he exclaimed, suddenly remembering. "I heard her say she wanted to find Tron."

  "No one can find Tron," Lilan said quietly. "He has been dead for many years."

  "That does not mean he cannot do harm," Zena observed. "Even after death, violence follows a man like Tron because of all the violence he has done."

  Marita shook her head sadly. "I have often thought that somehow the violence would not end with Tron. May the great Mother protect us from all he has left behind him."

  Torlan frowned. "When I was with Vetron, I too heard him ask for Tron, but then I did not know who Tron was. Later, I learned of him from Marita's stories, but since he was dead I did not think to speak."

  "You are right!" Borg propped himself up on his elbows, and this time Marita could not push him back. "I thought I had heard the name before Veeta spoke, and it was from Vetron. He, too, was looking for Tron..." He sank back, grimacing in pain.

  Marita glared at him. "You have had enough! You have warned them, and we will think what to do, but now you must rest."

  Borg smiled up at her angry face. To have Marita fussing over him was pleasant. "I feel better already, now that I have done what I came to do," he assured her.

  Marita's eyes softened. "Still, you must be quiet now. I will sit here beside you to make certain you rest."

  "That will be good," Borg answered. "I am happy to see you again," he added, and saw her lined face grow pink with pleasure.

  The others moved away to let him rest.

  "This is bad news," Lilan said, watching Zena's face. "I cannot think why Veeta would wish to harm you, or Torlan."

  "It is because she hates," Zena answered. "Not many know how to hate, but this woman does. Perhaps it was Tron who taught her that. He did not know how to love, and she cannot love, either."

  "But why does she hate you and Torlan?" Lilan persisted.

  "She may hate all the Mother People, not just myself and Torlan," Zena answered, and they heard the anxiety in her voice. "I have dreamed many times of someone who wished to destroy us. I thought it was Vetron's face I saw, but I could not understand how that was possible, since he was dead. And somehow he looked different. Now, I know why. Borg said Veeta looks exactly as Vetron looked, except that she is a woman."

  She shuddered, remembering the dreams. Always, the person was smiling, a slow smile that had no kindness in it, only... Only evil, she realized abruptly. Was it from Veeta that the evil came, the total absence of good?

  She turned to Torlan. "I must go to my Kyrie." Her voice was urgent, and he rose immediately, signaling to Bukkor to help him carry Zena in her sling.

  The two men set Zena down in her favorite spot, a gentle slope where she could lie back comfortably, and went away, Torlan to watch from a short distance, Bukkor to the others. The wolf stayed with Zena. Gently, she stroked its warm flanks; then she left her hand resting lightly on its back. She always kept a hand there, for the wolf seemed to connect her with the Goddess, so that the visions came fast and easily.

  She looked up at the sky. She never tired of looking at the clouds, the stars, the endless space of the sky. She had flown there so many times in lazy circles, the soft clouds at her back. All things seemed to move in circles, she mused. The Mother's wisdom came to them in ever-expanding circles as all the knowing that came to them from the Mother gathered in their hearts and minds; the sky itself and everything in it made endless circles. Each time she looked up, the sun, the moon, even the stars, had moved within the circling sky that was their home, only to return eventually to the place where they had begun their journey, and then begin another circle.

  Perhaps, she thought, that was why the ancestors of the Mother People had always made circles of stone in which to speak to the Mother and listen for Her voice. They had stone circles; she had sky circles.

  Circles in the sky, she said aloud, wondering at their mysterious power. The Mother's thoughts came to her from that brilliant, ever-circling space; she could almost watch them come now, sometimes in gentle, rippling curves, at other times in violent waves, like the dreams of Veeta. Her face came again, more clearly now. There was a terrible hurt in Veeta, Zena saw, a pain that could not be borne, and that was why she had turned from all that was good. More than anything else, she wanted others to feel this pain, to make them like herself, a person without mercy, without goodness. She would make all of them like that if she could.

  She must be stopped. The thought was clear, commanding. Veeta must be stopped. And she, Zena, must stop her.

  Zena closed her eyes for a long time and then opened them again slowly. That was how the visions came sometimes. When she opened her eyes again she saw not the fields, the trees or even the sky, only the visions. Though it was daylight in her Kyrie, the air she saw had grown dark, heavy with clouds. Flames leaped from a fire, then settled to burn steadily. Sitting around the fire were children, many of them. They were alone, with no adults, only the children. They did not speak, though some of them were weeping. The sky grew darker, and one at a time, they lay down to sleep. A small girl clutched something in her hand. She had a sweet face, sweet and very gentle.

  A Goddess figure; that was what the girl clutched. Zena's hand closed around her own.

  Daylight came and the children rose. All of them had gentle faces, Zena saw, gentle and terribly sad. But suddenly the faces were not sad, not gentle, either. They were almost grown now, these children, and their faces had changed. There was brutality in them, as if the gentleness had slowly been squeezed from them. The boys were fighting, some of the girls, too, and those who were not fighting shrank back, afraid.

  Abruptly, the boys were men, the girls were women, and each man took a woman, forced her to the ground and violated her. The women did not resist, did not look alarmed, only resigned, as if they expected to be taken in such a way - except for one, the woman who had held the Goddess as a child. Her face was still sad, sad and hopeless. There was no sign now of the figure.

  The scene came faster, so fast Zena could not see it all at once. Over there, the men were raiding tribes; she saw their knives flash in the sun, their bodies gleam with sweat, but in another place a woman was giving birth, and then all the women were giving birth; over and over again, infants burst from them. The babies grew into men and women, and the men were fighting, raiding, taking more women and the women were having babies, more and more babies...

  Faster and faster the scene came until suddenly it exploded in a frenzy of whirling faces and knives and arms and legs. And then all she could see was an old woman's face, still sad and hopeless, carrying nothing but the memory of the Goddess she had once loved, whose image she had once held in her hand.

  Slowly, the old woman's face faded into the night sky and disappeared, but the memory she had carried with her became clearer and clearer. It was outlined in the stars, the figure of the Goddess, made brilliant by the bits of light. Circles of tiny stars made the head, the breasts, and the rounded belly was an oval of light.

  And then Zena saw the arm, the arm that pointed. Her eyes opened wide in understanding; the Goddess was pointing, as She had pointed so many years before, only this time Zena knew where she must go, where she must lead the tribe.

  Tears filled Zena's eyes, blurring the image. When it was clear again, she saw the most brilliant star of all, at the tip of the finger of the Goddess, pointing the way.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Zena turned her head and spoke to the wolf. "Get Tor
lan," she said quietly. This was the signal she had devised to let Torlan know she wanted him to join her.

  The wolf knew what she meant and trotted quickly away. Her sides were swollen now with unborn pups, but still she moved like an invisible shadow. Lupo, the children had decided to call her, the words for wolf and hidden put together, because of that ability to disappear even as they watched her.

  Lupo went to the place where Torlan was waiting and nudged him gently. He stroked her glossy head in thanks and followed her back. He always stayed a short distance away while the visions came to Zena, but when they were finished she wanted him close by. They were one, he and Zena, and she seemed not to feel complete without him, just as he was not complete without her.

  "The Goddess intended this to happen," Zena often told him. "That is why you have the mark, why it is all right that you come to the Kyrie. You are a part of me, not separate."

  She had laughed then. "I am the lowly worm who crawls, you the magnificent butterfly. But you cannot be as you are without me, and I cannot be as I am without you. So we are joined."

  "You are not lowly," Torlan had objected.

  "Always, those who lead must be that," Zena had replied. "Only then is there wisdom. My legs remind me to be humble."

  Zena's face was serene now, Torlan saw. Perhaps the vision had been peaceful. His eyes lingered on her wide brow, the strong angle of her nose, the mouth that seemed always to have sadness in it unless she smiled. He loved every curve, every expression, every part of her.

  Zena saw him looking at her and touched his face gently. "Soon, we will be lovers," she said, reaching out to draw him down beside her.