ICE BURIAL: The Oldest Human Murder Mystery (The Mother People Series Book 3)

by JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

Oddly, he still had not made an effort to speak to her, nor had she tried to speak to him except to exchange polite greetings. She was aware that her manner with him was stiff, even as she was intensely aware of his presence.

  Larak had also noticed that although Lief did not speak often, people listened with great attention when he did. Partly, that was because of his deep, soft voice, which carried a note of authority even as it was gentle, but his remarks were also worth hearing. Larak was especially eager to know what he had learned about the new leader during his travels. She suspected his opinions would be perceptive and interesting, and she was not disappointed.

  “I have not seen the new leader myself but I have often heard others speak of him,” Lief told her when she questioned him. “He is indeed persuasive and many people wish to follow his ways. Others follow him because they are afraid, though he does not use violence to make them obey, only words. In that way, he may be better than the northern leaders of the past,” he added, trying to keep skepticism from his voice. His travels had taught him that it was wise to determine how others thought before expressing his opinions.

  Larak, however, left him in little doubt. “That can also be worse,” she remarked wryly. “It is harder to fight persuasive words than fierce actions.”

  Lief nodded, impressed. Larak was indeed a wise woman. “You are right,” he agreed. “I have seen the effect of this leader’s words. It is very strong, and those who follow him seem unable to think for themselves.

  “I do not think his ideas will last long, though,” he added. “It is against nature for people to act as he convinces them to act.”

  Larak looked doubtful. “Most people prefer to follow,” she observed, “and if the message is strong enough they will follow blindly.”

  Lief grimaced. “I, too, have observed that,” he admitted. “What I do not know is how they can be weaned from obeying without any thought of what that means.”

  Larak was as impressed by his answer as he had been by hers. She smiled at him, telling him without words that they understood each other. “Nor do I,” she replied after a moment. “I do know, however, that I am glad you have come to us in time to travel with Zena and the traders. You will be a great help to them, I am sure.”

  She regarded him for a moment, wondering whether to say more. She was almost certain that his decision to join the tribe was connected to Zena. She had seen his eyes on Zena, observed how unaccountably shy, even awkward, he and Zena were in each other’s presence. They were intensely aware of each other but at the same time seemed not to know what to say to each other. Neither of them behaved like that normally, and the reason seemed obvious to her. She hoped she was right. Lief would be good for Zena. There was a steadfast quality in him that might help to make up for the loss of Teran.

  Larak’s face sobered. Zena was struggling, unable to find balance without her twin. Together they had made a seamless whole; alone, Zena felt incomplete, which was not surprising. Still, she would soon have to assume her position as leader of the Mother People, and for this she would need all the strength and power that lay latent within her. That they were there Larak did not doubt, but Zena had to realize this for herself. Perhaps Lief could help her with that.

  “You have some regard for Zena, I think,” she remarked, deciding to test her idea. Her eyes twinkled as she saw him redden slightly. So she had been right.

  “That is true,” Lief admitted, “though I do not yet know her very well.”

  Larak nodded. “That will come,” she said with a smile. “And I am glad you are here. Zena is very vulnerable right now, unsure of herself, and I believe you can help her regain her confidence.”

  “I would like very much to help Zena,” Lief confessed, and to his surprise found himself telling Larak about his experience at the Great Sea, his realization that he had to find Zena and be with her. He had never thought to tell anyone of that strange impulse, except perhaps Zena herself if the opportunity arose.

  Larak smiled to herself. So she had been right about that too. She had felt the hand of the Goddess in Lief’s sudden appearance, as she did in so many unexpected events. Her ways were devious indeed!

  She pressed Lief’s hand warmly. “That is good. I am pleased. Take care, though, that you do not get burned,” she cautioned, her eyes twinkling again. “There is more fire in Zena than any of us knows. And more power. One day, these will emerge.”

  Her face sobered instantly. “And when that happens, danger will not be far behind. That is always the way, whether we like it or not.”

  “I will take that chance,” Lief assured her, aware that he meant the words. A thrill of anticipation shot through him. A new adventure was about to begin, an adventure that would involve Zena; he knew that as surely as he knew the moon and the sun and stars moved in the sky. His inexplicable instinct to come to her had not misled him.

  A few days later, the small group was ready. As well as Zena and Lief, there were two other men, Durak and Hular, and another woman called Sorlin. All were loaded down with supplies; as a result the journey was slow, especially on the third day as they climbed toward the high peaks on the southern side of Mara’s village. Up and up they went, past a cold alpine lake buffeted by winds, then on to the pass. By the time they reached it, Zena wondered if her legs would take her down the other side; even more, she wondered how Mara had managed such a difficult trek so soon after the birth. At least there had not been much for her to carry - not even her newborn son, she thought sadly.

  The bleating of goats greeted them when they crested the ridge. Zena stopped, entranced by the vista. Lief joined her, and a jolt of sheer pleasure went through him when he saw her expression. She loved the mountains as he did; her face gave that away. He looked out for himself, and all his old love for high places came rushing back. The scene truly was beautiful. Craggy peaks still covered with snow ringed the lush valley below, making it inaccessible to any but the most determined, and the thick glaciers that thrust out between them gleamed blue-white in the afternoon sun. Waterfalls plunged from their ridges, spilling into steeply contoured hills that were brilliant with greenness. The scent of flowers permeated the air; the meadows were covered with them - red and yellow and white, pinks and blues and purples as well. Around them flitted multi-colored butterflies, and swarms of bees uttered a low monotone of buzzing that soothed the ear.

  Far below clumps of huts perched near a narrow river that wound lazily through the valley, many more huts than he had seen on his last visit, Lief saw with a frown. The leader must have attracted still more people. The realization made him anxious, and he decided to watch Zena with care during this visit, although he would also take care that she was not aware of his watching. He did not understand the decision, but instead accepted the fact that his instincts often knew before the rest of him what was needed.

  The climb down was easier, though steep in places. Children ran out to greet them, as exuberant as children everywhere, but the adults were oddly reserved. Usually in these remote villages traders were welcomed with enthusiasm.

  One reason for the villagers’ reserve soon became apparent. They were preparing for a ceremony of some kind and were busy with their tasks. They were also uncertain whether their leader would welcome traders at such a time. The traders were not sure either. Perhaps they should go into the hills for a day or two and then return.

  Their indecision was relieved when a tall man with a commanding presence strode up to them. All of them knew instantly that this was the Leader.

  “Welcome,” he said, his arms outstretched to confirm his words. “To have you with us at this special time gives us great pleasure. The ceremony of affirmation for the Great Spirit will soon begin.” Zena had never heard a voice like that before. It rang in the ears in the same way as the sounds made by a bone flute, penetrating, but beautiful as well. She was aware of wanting immediately to hear it again.

  Lief watched her face and felt suddenly cold. No one could fail to be attracted to such a v
oice. There was no harshness in it, only joyous certainty. This leader was a man to be reckoned with, perhaps even admired. His uneasiness increased.

  “We thank you,” Zena answered hesitantly. “We would like very much to witness your ceremony, if that is what your people prefer.”

  She was about to add that they would leave and come back later if that was best but changed her mind. She wanted badly to see what happened in this ceremony. How else could she learn more about the new leader for Larak, as she had promised?

  The Leader smiled at her and held out his arm, to motion her forward. Zena felt herself drawn toward him, though she had not consciously moved. There was no doubt he had power, she thought uncomfortably. Too much power, perhaps.

  “First,” the Leader said, drawing all of them along in his wake, “you must have food and drink to refresh you after your journey.” He beckoned to a woman, who came eagerly to do his bidding. “Bring food and drink for the strangers,” he told her. There was no command in his tone, only kindness. His face was kind, too, Zena noticed, kind and patient.

  “You must tell me of your tribe, where you come from,” the Leader continued, turning back to his visitors.

  Hular, the most experienced of the traders, answered, and Zena was glad of the chance just to listen while she watched the villagers going about their tasks. Most seemed content; others had an almost rapturous expression in their eyes. On one or two faces, though, she glimpsed fear. She did not see Mara and decided not to ask for her. That could cause trouble.

  A movement behind the Leader made her look up. A man had emerged from the shadows of a hut and stood watching them. He was stooped and thin, beardless, with pure white hair. Until he came close, Zena assumed he was old. She was wrong. His face was unlined, the hair not white as she had thought, but flaxen, so pale the mistake was easy to make. His eyes were pale, too, as if the blueness in them had been diluted by water. A feeling of revulsion washed over her as he approached. Never had she reacted that way to a person, and she was astonished.

  Lief noticed the pale eyes too, and remembered the woman he had spoken to in the woods while he was traveling. Hers had been the same. Could she be the sister of this man? The uneasiness he had felt then returned.

  “It is time,” the pale man said to the Leader. He did not greet the visitors or even look at them, but Lief was certain that they had been well studied, their faces memorized.

  “Then I must come,” the Leader answered genially. “Korg does not let me forget my duties,” he added to the others with a smile. He rose to join Korg and placed a friendly arm around the smaller man’s shoulders. Lief thought he saw Korg flinch but it was such a tiny reaction he could not be sure. The Leader seemed not to notice, nor did he remove his arm as they moved away.

  The woman came with food and drink. “If you will follow when you have finished, I will show you where the ceremony takes place,” she said in a low voice.

  “You should wear these,” she added, handing a dark scarf to Zena and Sorlin, the other woman who had come. “It is the custom here.” She waited patiently while they refreshed themselves; then she helped Zena and Sorlin put on their scarves and led them to a clearing.

  At one end was an area of bare well-swept earth, roughly circular; behind it was a backdrop of thick, low-branched trees. The villagers had already gathered and were sitting on the ground at the edge of the swept area, murmuring quietly, their faces expectant. After a while, a hush descended on the waiting group, and silence came. Once, a baby cried, but was instantly shushed by its mother.

  Gradually, sounds began to emanate from the woods behind the circle of dirt. They were deep, repetitive, with a booming quality the visitors could not identify. Faint at first, they grew stronger and stronger, more and more insistent, and the villagers’ bodies began to move to their rhythm. The booms came louder, faster; now they were impossible to ignore, and Lief and Zena felt their own bodies begin to move. Faster still, louder still, came the rhythmic pounding, until finally it reached a frantic crescendo that hurt the ears; then, very slowly, it tapered off until all they could hear were the hints of sound that had come in the beginning. And then, abruptly, there was nothing.

  The silence was absolute. Tension built among the waiting people; Zena and Lief could feel it, almost taste it. Moments passed, then more moments. The faces were taut with expectation, almost with apprehension, but still no one moved; no one seemed even to breathe.

  Just when it seemed that the clearing would explode with the strain of waiting, a figure erupted into it with such speed that Zena’s heart pounded in alarm. With long, graceful leaps, it swirled and gyrated around the circle of dirt. It had the face of a bird but the body of a man. Naked save for a cloth wound tightly around its loins, its hairless skin gleamed white, almost translucent, in the soft evening light. The figure moved as if it had no bones, only fluid, rippling muscles that did not know the normal boundaries of strength or rigidity, so that they could propel it into the air in impossible bounds or mould it into positions no man could assume.

  So fixated were all eyes on the figure, with its lithe form and intense movements that no one saw the Leader enter the circle. He simply materialized in its center and stood there, still as stone, while the cavorting figure leaped around him. His eyes were closed, his face raised to the sky, and his hands were held in front of his chest, palms together, fingers extended at an angle toward the crowd.

  The drumming sound came again, low at first, then louder, as the prancing figure continued its gyrations. Another sound joined it, and this one they recognized. Deep in the woods, someone played a flute. The notes rose and fell, beautiful in tone, even more compelling than the drumming. Their ears could not escape them any more than their eyes could escape the dancing figure. Faster and faster it whirled, higher and higher it leaped until the leaps were so high Zena thought it truly must be bird, not man. No man could jump so far from the ground, hang suspended in the air and then land as if on a cloud instead of the hardness of earth. But it was a man; she was sure it was. She thought, too, that it must be Korg.

  When the figure slowed, she was certain. The dance changed character as she watched. Before, it had been graceful in its intensity, magnificent to see, but as the movements slowed, the figure seemed to invest them with savagery. The revulsion Zena had felt earlier returned. Each gesture was exaggerated, drawn out; there was cruelty in them somehow, and the leaps were twisted instead of fluid, as if something twisted in Korg’s mind had come into them and contaminated them. Images of pain came into Zena’s mind and she was suddenly afraid, threatened by the malevolence that seemed to emanate from the gyrating figure. Lief watched her face and felt her fear, as if it had come into him instead.

  And all the time, the Leader stood perfectly still, as if rooted to the ground, like a huge tree that could not fall, would never fall. The contrast was extraordinary; the tall, commanding immobility of one, the insistent, almost obscene movements of the other, smaller figure that seemed never to stop.

  And then it did stop. The whirling creature executed one last leap straight into the air and fell prostrate at the feet of the Leader. It lay there as if broken, its arms extended toward the still form above it, its bird-like face cast in the dirt. Abruptly, all was silent once again; the booming noises stopped, the flute, too. Even the birds kept silence. It was as if everything, all the creatures of the forest and the skies as well as the people, were waiting for something else to happen, something profound, something that would change them so that they would never be the same again. Lief tried to pull his eyes away and watch Zena again, but he could not.

  Long moments passed and nothing moved. Then, very slowly, the Leader lowered his arms and spread them wide. He held them out there, immobile, waiting. All eyes were on him now, all breath suspended, as the people waited with him.

  Suddenly, with a dramatic gesture, the Leader brought his arms up in a great sweeping arc that seemed to encompass the prostrate figure at his feet, the cleari
ng and everyone in it, the earth below him and the sky above. His voice carved into the silence, and their breath caught in their throats at the sound.

  “The Great Spirit has come. All power belongs to the Great Spirit. Submit to the power, the power that will heal your hearts and minds, the power that will give you strength. Give yourself to the Spirit; it waits for you, waits for you...”

  All around the clearing a murmur rose as the people answered. “We give ourselves to the Great Spirit; to the Great Spirit that has all power we submit our hearts and minds.” Over and over they repeated the answer, their voices rising and falling in harmony, and then there was silence again.

  The Leader’s voice rose once more. “The Great Spirit hears you, hears us all and is pleased by our submission. Now we must wait for the words, the words of truth that will soon come...”

  A jolt went through his body, as if he had been hit. His eyes opened wide but he seemed not to see the people or the clearing. Words poured from him, measured words that came in a deep, sonorous voice that mesmerized the listeners with its intensity.

  “Know my people that I, the Great Spirit, am among you. Always, I am there. I see your faces, know your thoughts, read your hearts. All that you do I watch, all that is within you is open to me. Listen now as I speak the words of truth that tell you how you must live, what you must do to please the Great Spirit who rules you. There is no other but myself; there is only the Great Spirit. The Great Spirit is all...”

  The voice went on, lyrical, compelling. The villagers listened attentively, but Zena hardly heard the words. They did not seem to matter, so mesmerizing was the voice. It did not just make words as other voices did; it seemed able to use all the variations and tones and intensities of sound she had ever heard and make them magnificent, without equal. She wanted only to listen, to close her mind and listen.

  Reluctantly, with a great effort of will, she forced herself to hear the words again, to get meaning from them. And as she did, fear clutched at her heart. Just as each person must submit to the Great Spirit to avoid retribution so must each woman submit to the man who was selected for her. Only in that way could she be among the chosen, the ones who were blessed by the Great Spirit. There was no mention of the joy of Akat or the pleasure of children, only of obedience and submission. And yet, in the Leader’s voice, the words somehow rang with truth.