When night came, Mara curled up in a depression in the earth and hoped no predator would smell the blood and milk and find her. She slept fitfully, shivering with cold and groaning with the pain of her breasts. She was almost surprised to find that she was still alive when the light came again. Perhaps the Goddess was watching over her. The thought was comforting.
She pulled herself up, aware that she was very cold. Walking would warm her at least. She had left her furs with the infant to keep him warm. Infants needed to be well covered, the women had told her. Their tiny bodies were accustomed to the warmth of the womb and were not yet ready to warm themselves.
Later, the coldness left her and she began to sweat, not from the warmth of the day, she thought, but perhaps from a fever of some kind. She decided to ignore the sick feeling inside her and save the herbs she had brought, in case she became worse later. By nightfall, she sensed she should take something, but it was hard now to remember what that was. Reaching into her pack, she pulled out a small bundle of herbs and stared at them. Was this what she needed? She would chew them anyway.
She wandered on. Where was she, and why was she traveling here? She could not seem to remember this, either. The infant’s face swam into her mind. He was the reason, she thought, but then she forgot him again in the effort to keep walking. She had come to a steep ridge, and wondered if she should go up it. But then it was too dark anyway and she dropped where she stood.
Light crept back many hours later and Mara stirred. There was somewhere she must go. She hauled herself up and walked on. Her breasts were swollen hard now, so painful that each step was agony. An image came into her mind, of a woman with huge swollen breasts like her own. Where had she seen this woman? Perhaps it did not matter. To know the woman existed was enough. If she could survive with breasts like that, then so could Mara.
She sighed and lay down to rest. When she rose again, she saw a strange sight. A child was backing fearfully away from her, his hand clasped over his mouth. Mara tried to speak, but no words came out. Instead, she took a step toward the child. He turned and ran. Mara watched him, puzzled; then she slumped to the ground. Later perhaps, she would walk some more.
When she opened her eyes again she was lying on her own pallet and her mother, Runor, was bending over her. The tent was in darkness, save for a small circle of light cast by the lamp. Her mother’s face was haggard, full of fear, and on her head was the hated covering, the one all women were required to wear. She did not speak. Mara stared into her eyes, trying to understand the reason for her fear, for the head covering, which she normally did not wear in the hut. Had they finally dared to punish her?
The tall figure of the Leader detached itself from the darkness of the entrance and came toward her. His kindly face was full of concern. “Mara, we have been worried!” he rebuked her gently. “You should not have stayed away so long!”
A shadowy form moved behind the Leader. Mara could not see him but she knew instantly who he was. Korg. She shrank back against the bedding. So that was why her mother was afraid, why she wore the covering.
Mara licked her lips nervously, trying to think how to respond to the Leader, and even more to the shadowy figure behind him. They had agreed she would say she had gone to visit her mother’s sister in another tribe. Young people often did this before taking on the responsibilities of full adulthood. That her mother had no sister, no one knew. Or did they? Rofina might have told them, not understanding.
Her mother saved her from answering. “Mara is still weak and cannot speak,” she said firmly. “Even I am not yet sure what happened to her.”
The Leader nodded. “Rest well, Mara,” he said. Behind him, Korg said nothing, but Mara thought his eyes rested on her speculatively before he turned to leave.
The sound of their footsteps died away, and Runor’s face relaxed. She pulled off the black headscarf and cast it aside with a contemptuous gesture.
“I am glad to see your eyes open,” she commented. Her voice shook despite her attempt to sound normal. “Have you the strength to speak?”
Mara saw the question in her mother’s eyes, and motioned her to come close so she could whisper. The men had gone, but they must still be very careful.
“The baby is all right,” she whispered into Runor’s ear. “It is a boy, and he is all right. He is with the one called Zena. She will care for him.”
Her mother’s eyes widened in amazement. “Zena? You have spoken to the one called Zena?” For the first time in years, Mara saw a glimmer of hope come into Runor’s lined face.
“She helped me. The Mother Herself helped me, will help the little one,” Mara answered. She tried to say more, but weakness overcame her and she had to stop. There was no need anyway. Her mother understood instantly.
“It is enough to know that,” she said, and now her eyes were filled with radiance. “When you are stronger you can tell me more. It is good, so very good, to know that the Great Mother is with us, after all.”
She stood still for a long moment, staring into space as if trying to absorb this momentous news; then she roused herself and began to mix a potion.
“Drink this,” she went on, holding a cup to Mara’s lips. “It will help the pain in your breasts. Later I will try to bring a little one for you to suckle, but no one must know.”
Mara drank obediently and after a while she thought the pain did decrease. She started suddenly. “Rofina?” she asked.
“The Leader cares for her still,” Runor answered, and Mara heard the grimness in her voice. “But she is content. Perhaps that is all we can hope for.”
Mara nodded wearily and felt a sensation of heaviness descend on her, about her sister Rofina, about her child, about her tribe. Then the weariness overcame her and her eyes closed. Later, she woke again, hearing voices. Rofina was speaking to their mother. When she saw Mara’s eyes open, Rofina came to kneel beside her.
“You are better, Mara?” Though she had been born many cycles of the seasons before Mara, Rofina’s voice had a child-like quality. Her face had the look of a child as well. It had not always been so, Mara thought, and the familiar anger filled her, replacing the heaviness she had felt before. She pushed the anger away. Anger would not help Rofina.
“I am better,” she answered. “It was a long journey.”
Rofina smiled a response, but the smile did not reach her eyes. They were empty of all emotion, had been empty ever since that terrible night when her child had been taken from her and killed. From that, she would never recover.
Rofina stood again. She was tall, slender as a young tree, and her long oval face was smooth, unmarked by pain, save for the deep shadows that sometimes appeared beneath her once-luminous eyes. She was well loved by all, especially by the Leader. He had taken her as his daughter after that time and was very kind to her, and now Rofina would not leave him. But was she only his daughter? Mara could only guess. The Leader spoke to Rofina as if that were true, and he did not require her to wear the headscarf like other women, but even he could not fail to see that she had the body of a woman, not a girl. Would Rofina understand what was happening if he took her as his mate? And what would happen to her if another child should come? And what of Korg? What was his relationship with Rofina?
Mara shuddered. She did not trust Korg. The Leader was kind, but Korg…
Rofina’s voice interrupted. “I will go back now,” she said quietly. Mara watched her glide gracefully across the tent and out the entrance. Rofina always became nervous if she was too long away from the Leader. Only in his presence did she seem to feel safe.
“She is all right,” her mother repeated. “Perhaps it is best this way.”
“Yes. It is just that I worry. Korg is too close.” As soon as she spoke his name, it seemed to Mara that he was in the tent again, standing behind the Leader in the shadows. Korg was behind the Leader in all things, and always in the shadows - except at the ceremonies. Then he was sorcerer, awesome to behold as he helped the Great Spirit to ente
r the Leader. There was power in Korg, evil power; everyone in the tribe felt it except the Leader, who brushed aside their fear. Perhaps, as the others insisted, the Leader was too good in himself to see evil in others, or perhaps…
Mara left the thought unfinished and allowed herself to drift into sleep again. Later, she felt a tugging at her breasts. Runor had smuggled in an infant to suckle. Was it really safe? The relief was wonderful.
Once each day, the baby came, until Mara’s milk gradually dried up. Only the child’s mother knew, and she was sworn to secrecy. Still, Korg had eyes and ears everywhere, and they must be careful.
Days passed, then a full cycle of the moon, and Mara ceased to worry so much that Korg and the Leader would find out what had happened to her. The knowledge that the Great Mother was with them helped. She and her mother spoke to the Goddess each day, asking for Her help and guidance, and even though there was no direct answer, Mara knew She was there.
Had the Leader not come, she thought to herself, she might one day have been the wise one for her tribe, as her mother had been many years ago and her mother before her, for many generations. Then, they would have journeyed south twice each year with all the other People of the Mother tribes to the sacred stones by the sea, to listen as their spiritual leader, the one who bore the name of Zena, called down the Goddess so that all could be renewed by Her spirit.
An idea came to Mara suddenly, that one day it would be so again. Perhaps that was why Zena had come to her, not just to save her child but to bring the Goddess back to them. Mara’s heart lifted at the thought and hope poured into her.
Just as quickly it drained away. Perhaps she only imagined that her tribe had been happier as Mother People, with Runor as their wise one. She had only been a child then, who did not understand. And after all these years, people might not wish to return to the Goddess. The Leader’s beliefs had infiltrated every aspect of their lives, and to be without them was hard to imagine. Besides, everyone in the tribe adored him. He was kind and generous, they said, and if he sometimes seemed cruel in his efforts to keep order or to assuage the Great Spirit, they understood. The sacrifices were small compared to the horrors that would come if they were not made. The spreading ice, the terrible cold that afflicted their ancestors, the fierce northern invaders who had followed had not been forgotten. The old people kept the memories alive, told how their parents and grandparents had died of starvation and cold as the ice crept across the land, how the plants and fruits had disappeared and the great herds of animals had lumbered south, with the savage tribes behind them raping and pillaging and killing all who did not flee before them.
Only if the tribe obeyed the rules the Great Spirit set down for them could these disasters and all the others, like floods and droughts and storms be prevented, the Leader told them over and over again. Most important was the rule that children born to the Great Spirit must be returned, sacrificed on the sacred altar.
“When the Great Spirit comes to a woman,” the Leader had explained, ‘she is blessed. If a child should form in her womb she is doubly blessed, for the child comes not from a man but from pure spirit. Her body remains untouched, and any child created by the Great Spirit is not child but part of the Spirit Itself and must be returned. It is in this way that we prevent the horrors from coming. Neither droughts nor floods nor endless cold, nor even the terrible moving sheets of ice that bury everything in their path, will plague us when the child is returned, as the Great Spirit demands. Only this will placate his wrath.”
Rofina had believed this, when the Great Spirit had come to her. She had been proud to be so chosen, had felt that she was blessed to be with child while still untouched by a man - until the child had been snatched away and taken to the altar.
Mara had not believed. To kill an innocent babe for such a reason could not be right, and she had known even then that she would never agree.
And then the Great Spirit had come to her, as if it had known her thoughts and wished to punish her for them. An image of the terrifying creature, whose densely furred body was larger than that of any man and whose face and claws were those of a beast, came into her mind. She shuddered with fear - not so much from the memory as from the dreadful suspicion that had come to her that night. Just before a potion that had been forced down her throat had taken effect, the visage staring down at her had seemed to slip away. Behind it she thought she had glimpsed a face - the face of a man. And when she had awakened many hours later there was soreness inside her. Though she had not mated before, she was certain that what the Great Spirit had done to her was what any man did to make a child. Rofina had sworn it was not so, but Mara could find no other explanation for the infant she soon discovered was growing inside her.
She had left as soon as her belly began to swell, determined not to let her baby be sacrificed as Rofina’s had. Even if her action meant that some disaster would befall the tribe, she was glad she had acted as she did. She wished now that she had managed to persuade Rofina to do the same. Perhaps then her sister would not be as she was today.
Mara watched her mother bend down to retrieve the statue of the Goddess, which they kept hidden in a hole in the dirt floor. Runor looked so old, so sad and frail. Once, she had stood tall and proud, now she always looked afraid. It was Korg she feared, Mara knew; what she did not know was why her mother’s fear was so strong, strong enough to turn her into a shadow of her former self. All the people in the tribe were afraid of Korg, but her mother’s fear was stronger, and that was very strange. Runor had never been afraid of any man before.
Korg had much to answer for, Mara thought bitterly, but until Runor was ready to tell her the cause of her fear she could not stop his persecution. All she could do was offer comfort, and perhaps hope.
She went to her mother and hugged her. “It will not always be like this,” she said, surprised at the conviction in her voice. “That I promise. One day, you will be wise one again.”
She turned away then, suddenly ashamed. “Before, I did not understand,” she said quietly. “I did not believe. I thought... I thought...”
“You thought I was just an old woman imagining the Goddess,” Runor retorted, but there was humor in her voice.
Mara smiled. The smile faded quickly as a form flitted past the door of the hut. Had someone been listening?
Runor saw it too. “We must not speak aloud of the Goddess,” she said in a forceful but almost soundless whisper. “We know already what is in each other’s minds. From now on, we will speak of Her only with our eyes and our hearts. For you are right. One day soon, change will come. I can feel it gathering around us. We will wait, and keep our silence.”
Mara nodded, believing her. Smiling, she formed her arms into a cradle and swung them back and forth. And when that time comes, she was saying, I will hold my child again.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mara’s baby stretched out his plump arms. Mara-Sun, they had decided to call him, so they would not forget his origins. His mouth opened in a wide yawn, and Zena saw the first tooth pricking through his pink gums. That must be why he had been irritable lately. Normally, Mara-Sun was placid and happy.
He began to whimper. Zena picked him up and carried him back to the clearing, where one of the nursing women could feed him. All of them adored Mara-Sun; his flashing grin was irresistible, as were his big blue eyes and the thatch of pale hair that stuck straight up all over his head. She wondered again what had happened to Mara. During the winter she had been unable to look for her, but now that the snows were gone perhaps she could start again.
An idea came to her. She would go to Mara’s village with the traders. Each spring, they set off along well-used tracks that led from one village to the next, carrying food and other items to be exchanged for the materials they needed. This year, she would ask them to include Mara’s village. She would have many days to find out what had happened to Mara while the trading was accomplished. She could also ask about Teran. Mara had known nothing of her, but some of
the others might.
Excited by her idea, Zena ran to find Larak.
“That is an excellent suggestion,” Larak agreed. “I am anxious to find out more about the leader in Mara’s village. It is especially important to know if he is as persuasive as others say. I feel the Goddess in these happenings,” she added thoughtfully. “It is as if She wishes something from us, but I do not know what it is. Perhaps you will discover this, as well as finding Mara.”
“I will try,” Zena replied, and then wondered if she could in fact find Mara’s village. All she knew was that it was across the mountains to the north, which meant the traders might have to spend days looking for the right village. Teran would have anticipated that difficulty, she thought despondently.
A newcomer to the tribe called Lief unexpectedly solved her problem. He had lived in the north for many years and had traveled widely. He knew Mara’s village; in fact, he told them, he had passed through the place only a few moons ago, and he would be happy to show Zena and the traders the way.
Zena had noticed him first when he had come to the Great Sea to watch the sacred ceremonies. She had been aware that his intense gaze was often upon her, though he had not spoken to her. Then, one day toward the end of winter, he had turned up in the village and asked to join the tribe. He was welcomed gladly. To have new people, especially a man as able and experienced as Lief, was always good. He was renowned for his skill with a bow and arrow or a slingshot, and could hit a target with great precision from long distances with both. His well-formed features revealed little of his thoughts, even less of his emotions, but the intensity in his deep-set eyes and the attention with which people listened to him told Zena they were there.
ICE BURIAL: The Oldest Human Murder Mystery (The Mother People Series Book 3) Page 4
