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

by JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

  “The Goddess has no wish for death,” she told them sternly, staring at them with anguished eyes. “The Great Mother is giver of life, not seeker of death. All that dies She takes gladly back to Her heart, but death comes as it will. It is neither Her wish nor Her command that any creature should die for Her.”

  She thrust out the next words with fierce emphasis. “That you would sacrifice an innocent child in Her name is a travesty, a travesty that cannot be borne. She, the Goddess, weeps at such a thought, the earth itself weeps - and so should you weep.

  “To kill in the name of the Goddess is forbidden! Never must this happen again! Never again may you listen to those who would tell you to do such...”

  Zena tried to continue, but no more words would come through a throat choked with emotion. The anger had suddenly gone out of her, and now she felt only grief. Tears began to side down her cheeks, making dark tracks in its whiteness. She saw that many others, too, were weeping, and she was glad.

  Below her the infant stirred restlessly, aroused by her shouts. Zena reached out and took him into her wing-clad arms. “This infant is the Mother’s creation, as are all of you,” she told the people in a softer tone, holding him out for them to see. “He is not spirit but child, who feels pain and fear and hunger like any other child.”

  As if to confirm her words, the infant began to wail. He turned his face to her chest, seeking food. Zena rocked him gently until he quieted.

  “There is one among you who has remained pure of heart,” she said then, looking toward the back of the clearing. “Though hardly more than a child herself, she had the courage to remember the Goddess when others had forgotten. Let her come forth now and take the infant, return him to his mother.”

  Brulet came slowly from the trees and made her way across the clearing. She did not look at those around her, only at the figure behind the platform. Gently, lovingly, she took the child from Zena’s arms and bore him away. All eyes followed her, and when the people looked toward the platform again, they saw that the white-draped figure, with its winged arms and fiery hair, was slowly disappearing. Down and down the figure sank, seeming to melt away, until all that was left was the crown of feathers, starkly white against the dark cloth that covered the place where the infant would have died.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The villagers milled about the clearing uncertainly while Niva went to see what had happened to Korg and the Leader.

  Korg’s head came up as she bent over him. “Leave!” he shouted. “All of you must leave and do not come back!”

  Niva hesitated but decided she had no choice but to obey. Korg would be furious if she did not. Herding the others ahead of her, she returned to the village. Behind her Korg shook his fist, then he collapsed against his brother as unconsciousness claimed him once again.

  Lief watched from the trees. As soon as everyone had left he darted in to make sure the two men were still immobilized but were breathing as they should, and that no one was watching. Then he helped Zena to crawl unseen from her hiding place beneath the cloth-draped platform into the thick trees. Her legs were unsteady, her breathing ragged. He supported her tenderly, understanding what it had cost her to play her role. She had been magnificent, inspired, but now she was only exhausted.

  When they had gone the clearing was empty once more, save for the fallen men.

  The sun was high before Korg stirred. He pulled himself slowly into a sitting position and rubbed his forehead. What had happened to him? Something had hit him, had hit the Leader first, and then him. After that, he remembered nothing, except for a vague impression of seeing something white behind the platform, something unexpected.

  His features contorted with rage. Someone had betrayed him. That much he did know, and that was what mattered.

  Beside him the Leader groaned and sat up. Korg took a deep breath and wiped the rage from his face. He could nurse it in his heart but he could not show it to Mordor. Once Mordor became angry he was hard to control. Better to soothe him, keep him focused on the familiar path.

  “I do not remember what happened,” the Leader said, frowning in confusion.

  “Nor do I,” Korg answered. “Someone threw stones perhaps.”

  Immediately Mordor was inflamed. “To interrupt our ceremony shows no respect for the Great Spirit!”

  “Indeed that is true,” Korg replied, his tone placating. “But do not worry. I will find the guilty party and make certain this does not happen again. Your task, as ever, is to continue to speak for the Great Spirit, to lead the people. You must not let yourself be distracted.”

  “You are right, my brother, as you always are. I must be strong, not allow myself to become aroused by these problems. Still, I feel in need of a restorative,” Mordor added, looking up at Korg with still unfocussed eyes.

  Korg considered. Normally, he tried to restrain Mordor, but now the restorative might be good. It would keep his brother away from the village for a time while he decided what to do next. Gurd, the man who had accompanied them from their old home in the north and who always attended to their needs, would look after him.

  “Some of the restorative, but not too much, dear Leader,” he answered finally. “The people depend on you.”

  “Of course.” The Leader nodded solemnly, but Korg knew he would take more than he should. The need always overcame Mordor when something unusual happened.

  “Let us go to the hut in the woods,” he said. “I have the restorative there.”

  A hut was always provided for them in the villages where they performed their ceremonies, but Gurd also built a small hut for the three of them deep in the woods. To have a private place to prepare for ceremonies or conduct special rituals, or to speak to people without being overheard, was essential. The Leader also needed a secluded place to which he could retreat when that was necessary. Gurd was always there to watch over him since he never left the cover of the thick trees. Gurd did not like any contact with other people. As a result, few people knew of his existence, and that was useful too.

  “What is that?” the Leader said, as they helped each other to their feet. Korg followed his pointing finger and saw white feathers glistening against the dark cloth of the platform. He went close to examine them. They were fashioned into a sort of crown, he saw. Who had put them there, and why?

  “I do not know,” he answered, “but I will find out.”

  He picked up the crown to take it with him but changed his mind. Someone would undoubtedly come to retrieve it, and when he found out who that person was, he would know who had betrayed him. He would ask Niva what she knew of the crown, too. She was loyal. He debated whether to ask Gurd, who saw and heard a surprising amount despite his isolation, but decided not to. Gurd was almost too loyal. When he thought Mordor was threatened he became unpredictable. That was dangerous.

  A movement at the back of the clearing caught his eye. Was someone coming for the crown already? Then he saw that it was only old Krone. She seemed always to be lurking somewhere. “Get away from here,” he shouted, horrified that anyone, even someone as useless as old Krone, should see him lying helpless on the ground.

  Krone ducked behind a tree and watched Korg and the Leader stagger into the woods. She smiled to herself. The others would have to listen to her now. They would soon see that she was right. She hurried toward the village but checked herself. First, she would retrieve the crown that had been left behind. She would keep it safe in her hut and give it to Brulet when she came by later. It was fitting that the child should have it. Had not the Goddess Herself spoken to Brulet, chosen her to take the infant back to its mother?

  Carrying the crown into her hut, Krone laid it next to her pallet. Then she joined Niva and the other villagers where they had gathered to talk about the ceremony.

  “Now you must listen,” she exclaimed excitedly, squatting beside them. “Long ago, I knew them, Korg and the Leader, except then he was called Mordor. We lived in the same village, but they have forgotten. I have not. I
know what they were like then, and they were not good and wise, as they pretend to be now. No indeed. In the end, they were banished because...”

  Niva interrupted before she could say more. “Old Krone does not know what she says,” she told the others harshly. “You must not listen to her!” Grabbing Krone by the elbow, she hustled her away.

  “I do know what I say,” Krone protested, struggling to free herself from Niva’s strong grip.

  “It is not good to upset people further,” Niva said angrily, pushing Krone into her hut. Really, the woman was becoming a nuisance with her stories of Korg and the Leader! Was it not enough that they had been attacked, knocked unconscious?

  “It has been a tiring day,” she added in a kinder tone, seeing Krone’s distraught face. “Perhaps you should rest for a time.”

  She led Krone to her pallet, noting with interest the white crown that lay beside it. Briefly, she wondered why it was there but forgot the question. She must get back to the others and explain, so they would not believe old Krone’s story.

  After she had checked to make sure the old woman had food and water so she would not need to leave the hut again, Niva hurried back to reassure the villagers, then she set off to find Korg and the Leader in their cabin in the woods. They should know right away what old Krone had said, even though her words were meaningless, and they should know about the crown. She needed to make sure they were all right, too. The tribe could not afford to lose them now.

  Krone shook a frail fist at Niva’s retreating back. As soon as she could get away, she would try again, and next time, she would not let Niva stop her. She was telling the truth, and it was important for others to know.

  Still, she was tired. In that, Niva was right. A good rest might help her to speak better when she tried again.

  She sank down on her pallet, thinking of the ceremony. How wonderful it had been to hear again of the Goddess, to know that She had returned. Best of all, the infant was still alive, just as her premonition had told her. And she, old Krone, had helped. After all, it had been her cloth, the beautiful white cloth she made for burials that had draped the one who spoke for the Goddess.

  Brulet had already returned it, she saw. It was folded neatly beside her, lying just where it had been before. She was a good child, Brulet. She usually came by in the evening to make certain her old friend was all right. Then, Krone thought happily, she could give Brulet the crown.

  Krone yawned, and her eyes slowly closed. Just as she was about to sink into sleep the name of the third boy came into her mind. Gurd; that was it! She wondered what had happened to him, but the thought slipped away as sleep overcame her. She slept for a long time, much longer than she had intended. Darkness was just falling when she heard the quiet footsteps.

  “Brulet, is that you?” she called out, and then realized it was not Brulet. The shadow was too large. There was no answer, and Krone did not speak again.

  *********************

  When Brulet came by that evening she saw immediately that the white cloth, which she had returned earlier and folded in a neat pile, was spilled carelessly in the dirt beside Krone’s pallet. Krone would not like that. She had made the burial cloth and she was very proud of it. When Brulet had taken the cloth for Zena to use in her ceremony, she had promised to take great care of it, and now look!

  Krone was already asleep. Perhaps she had not noticed. Moving quietly so she would not wake Krone, Brulet went to the pallet to straighten the cloth. She glanced down at the old woman; then she knelt to look more closely. Krone did not look right. Her body was twisted at an unusual angle, and her face was a strange bluish color. Brulet’s fist went to her mouth. She had not seen death many times, but she knew it immediately. Gently, she touched the withered cheek. Krone must have died in her sleep. The Goddess had been merciful.

  She was just about to go out to tell someone when Niva entered. “She has died,” Brulet told her sadly. “Krone has died.” Tears came to Brulet’s eyes, and she did not try to hold them back. Though she was old, Krone had been her best friend.

  Niva’s eyes opened wide with shock. “Died? Krone has died?”

  “She was very old,” Brulet said, surprised that Niva seemed so shaken.

  Niva came closer to look at Krone. For a long time she did not speak. “Yes,” she said finally. “Yes, she was old.” Her voice was strained and shook a little.

  Maybe Niva had been fond of old Krone even though she scolded her constantly, Brulet thought.

  Niva took a deep breath. “Perhaps you should go tell some of the others,” she said. Obediently, Brulet wiped her eyes and went out of the hut.

  When she had left, Niva bent over Krone. The old woman’s face was blue, and her body was contorted into an unnatural position. It seemed strange that she had she died just now, too. She had seemed perfectly well earlier.

  The fear Niva had felt when Brulet told her Krone was dead came rushing back as she stared down at the twisted body. If only she had not spoken to Korg and the Leader about Krone’s words, about the crown, there would be no doubt....

  Surely, though, that was not possible. Of course it was not, Niva reprimanded herself. What had come into her even to think such a thing? She must concentrate on the rituals of death, not waste her time speculating about something that had not happened. The old one could not just lie here, either. She must be tended, anointed with the proper oils, wrapped in the cloth she had made herself.

  With purposeful movements, Niva straightened the old body. Shaking out the bundle of cloth lying beside it, she arranged it over Krone’s body with meticulous care, and made sure her eyes were properly closed. The familiar gestures soothed her and calmed her fears, but a deep uneasiness remained. It might be best, she decided, if Brulet went to live with another tribe. She did not fit here very well, especially after the role she had played in the unwanted ceremony. The villagers would be angry at her. Korg would be even angrier when he found out what Brulet had done. She must watch the child carefully.

  Niva’s lips twisted with resentment. What right had that strange creature, whatever and whoever it was, to come here and interrupt their lives? They were accustomed to the Great Spirit, and to be reminded of the Goddess did not help anyone. All talk of Her must be forbidden as soon as possible.

  When Brulet returned to the hut, Niva spoke with surprising gentleness. “Will you come to my hut tonight, Brulet? I know it is hard for you that Krone has died, and you should not be alone with only Pila, who is not well. The women will look after her.”

  Numbly, Brulet nodded. She wished she could go to Zena but it was too dark, too late. And Niva was right. Without Krone, there was no one. Her mother had died long ago and now there was only her friend Pila, but she had not known her for very long. Besides, Pila was so ill she seldom spoke and the little energy she had was spent on the infant who had so miraculously been returned.

  “I will come. I thank you, Niva,” she answered, and allowed herself to be led away.

  Niva waited until Brulet was asleep, then she hurried back to Krone’s hut. She had forgotten to look for the crown. It had been right beside the old woman’s pallet earlier, but she had not seen it when she had examined Krone after her death. Still, it must be in the hut somewhere, and she must find it before Brulet did. For the child to be seen with the feathers would not be good.

  Krone’s lined face was waxen now, her skin cold, and Niva shivered when she touched it. She did not like being alone with the spirit of one who had died. Lighting a taper, she searched the hut carefully, but she could not find the crown. She frowned, wondering where it had gone.

  Abruptly, the fear she had felt earlier returned, and this time she could not make it go away. One of them must have taken the crown; Brulet did not have it, had not spoken of it, and no one else knew... And that meant one of them had come here...

  Niva did not finish her thought. Instead, she blew out her taper and fled from the hut. If they knew she had looked for it, knew she suspected them…


  That thought, too, could not be finished. Niva rubbed her arms hard to stop her shivering and tried to think clearly. She must say nothing, do nothing unusual, and then she would surely be all right. Brulet was another matter. The child must leave the village right away. Now, there was no choice.

  *****************

  Lief held Zena in his arms, wishing he could find a way to comfort her. Right after the ceremony she had been euphoric, but the feeling had soon drained away, leaving her exhausted but unable to sleep, and depressed. The effort of performing her role seemed to have depleted all her resources, all her confidence. Lief wondered if the Leader felt this way after his performances, and did not like the thought. Perhaps this comparison had occurred to Zena and she did not like it either.

  Caring for a woman like her had its drawbacks, he reflected wryly. Hers was the leading role and he must be her supporter. The realization was strange but still felt utterly familiar, as if all his wanderings had been undertaken for the sole purpose of arriving here, not in this village, but with Zena, wherever she was. That she felt the same about him, he did not doubt. He could see it in her face, in her eyes; in the body that was too exhausted now to surrender even to the restorative of sleep.

  He stroked her back, her shoulders and arms, knowing she could not respond but aching anyway to transport her once again into the wonderfully sensuous world they had discovered together, a world in which their bodies seemed to merge like clouds dissolving into each other and slowly drifting apart again, their individual shapes forever altered by the encounter. His was, at any rate; of that he was certain. He hardly knew the person he had been before he had met Zena. That man had never stayed long in one place, never stayed with one woman either, and had thought only of himself. Now he thought only of Zena.

  Zena stirred in his arms and he loosened his grip, aware that it had tightened protectively as he had thought about her. She touched his cheek gently, as sensitive to his need to comfort her as he was to her exhaustion. Lief always knew what was in her mind and heart, as she knew what was in his.