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

by JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

  Reluctantly, she rose to her feet. The day was already well advanced. She must go back to the village and face the people, not as the powerful voice of the Goddess but as an ordinary young woman who wished only that she never had to move again. The thought was daunting. Just as bad was the sinking feeling of wrongness that had come over her, as if she had done something terrible even as she had tried to help. That she had been right to save the infant she did not doubt, nor did she doubt that it had been right to speak of the Goddess. Some people at least had begun to question the Great Spirit and to wonder how much they had lost when they had abandoned the Mother. No; what felt so wrong to her was that she had deceived the villagers, had pretended to be other than she was in order to make them listen. Why was what she had done any better than what the Leader and Korg did? In fact, it was worse. She had caused Korg and the Leader to be injured. That it had seemed necessary to make them unconscious did not mean it was right.

  Worst of all was the fact that she had been so pleased with herself for thinking of ideas - the cones to magnify the voices, the pieces of wood to clap together, the pile of wood for her to stand on so she would seem taller, for daring to undertake the role she had played at all. It had even seemed to her that the Mother was helping. The great white stork had appeared in the tree just when they needed food badly, had sat perfectly still while Lief shot a stone from his sling. Its meat had not tasted very good, but Zena had known instantly that its wings would decorate her arms, its long feathers make her crown. Brulet had told her of the cloth, made by old Krone for burials, and that too had seemed so perfect.

  Zena’s lips compressed. She did not think the Goddess would be pleased with so much self-pride. She must learn humility.

  Dismay suddenly filled her as a new thought came. Because of her words, her performance, innocent people could suffer. Korg would be angry, would question everyone, and soon his questions would lead him to Brulet, perhaps even to Mara or Lief. Why had she not thought of these possibilities before? If anyone else was hurt, she would have only herself to blame.

  “I must go back quickly!” she exclaimed, and began to run toward the village.

  Lief came up behind her. “If you will come with me first, I will scrub the resin from your arms,” he said calmly. “We should wash the dye from your hair and the chalk from your face as well.”

  Grudgingly, Zena smiled. She must look very strange. To speak to the villagers this time, she wanted to look like herself. “You are right,” she told Lief and wrapped her arms around him for a brief moment. “I could not manage without you,” she told him shakily. “You must stay near me always.”

  “You would manage better than you think but I will stay anyway,” he responded, ducking her head unsympathetically into the cold water of the stream.

  Her hair was still brighter than it usually was, and her arms still bore a few stains when she and Lief entered the village, but no one seemed to notice. Before either of them could greet the villagers, who were watching her curiously, Brulet came running up to them. Her eyes were reddened by tears.

  Zena took her hand. “What has happened, Brulet? Is it the infant?”

  “No. It is Krone. She has died,” Brulet told her sadly. “She was very old, but she was my best friend. She told me stories of all that happened before, and of the Mother, so I would know.”

  Zena pulled the girl into her arms. “I am sorry, Brulet. To lose such a good friend is hard.”

  “I do not know why she died so suddenly,” Brulet said forlornly. “She was all right when I left her earlier.”

  “Sometimes it happens that way,” Zena comforted her. “And it is good that the Mother took her gently.”

  Brulet nodded. “Niva came and took me with her for the night. She was kind to me,” she added, looking surprised. “She says I should go live in another village now that Krone is dead, that I might be happier somewhere else.”

  “You can come with us,” Zena offered. “I would like very much to have you join my tribe.”

  “I, too,” Lief agreed, smiling at the girl.

  Brulet’s face lit up. “That would be good,” she said eagerly. “I do not think Pila needs me any more. Everyone is visiting her now that the infant has been returned.”

  Niva approached them. Narrowing her eyes, she stared accusingly into Zena’s face. “You are the one who came to the Ekali, are you not?” she demanded. “You are the one who spoke of the Goddess as well, the one who took the child that had been promised to the Great Spirit.”

  Zena took a deep breath. “Yes,” she answered. “I am called Zena. Perhaps long ago, you have heard that name?”

  Niva nodded, her face tight and angry. The news did not please her. The people were already upset, and to have the one called Zena in the village would not help. Still, this might be a solution for Brulet, if the woman took her away quickly. That was vital, for everyone’s sake.

  She turned to Brulet. “Here is some food I have prepared for Pila,” she said in a gentler tone as she handed the girl a deep bowl filled with broth and pieces of meat. “Perhaps you would take it to her?”

  Brulet nodded, surprised again that Niva was being so kind to her, and to Pila. Before, she had ignored them, or scolded them, seeming always to be angry.

  When Brulet had left, Niva turned back to Zena. “Brulet must go with you, to your tribe,” she said abruptly. “She is not...” Her face changed, and Zena thought there was a warning in her eyes. “She is not happy here,” Niva finished, but Zena did not think that was what she had first intended to say.

  “I will gladly take Brulet with me,” she answered. “I thank you for your concern. Brulet has become very dear to me.”

  Niva nodded in satisfaction. “That is good.”

  “You should leave right away,” she added, and now the warning in her eyes was clear.

  Zena hesitated. “First, I must speak to the villagers about the Mother’s ways,” she told Niva. “That is why I am here. I would like to attend Krone’s burial too. Brulet told me that Krone remembered the Goddess and taught her all she knew of Her ways. To speak of the Goddess at her burial would be right.”

  Anger suddenly possessed Niva. Did this woman not realize the damage she was causing? Everything in the village had been fine until she had come, and now poor old Krone was dead, Brulet could be in danger, the people were all upset... None of this would have happened if she had not come.

  “We have no need of you here,” she said forcefully, thrusting her face close to Zena’s. “You only cause trouble! It is not right!”

  Zena took a deep breath. “It is not right that people should live in fear, either,” she replied.

  “We are more afraid now,” Niva hissed. “You do not understand! How can you say you speak for the Goddess, tell us how kind She is, when to hear of Her again only makes people anxious? And if you are as wise as you say, why did you not think of Brulet, of what would happen to her, before you forced her to help you?”

  “I did not force her. Brulet...”

  Niva’s angry voice interrupted. “Brulet is only a child,” she answered scornfully. “You should have thought of this!

  “You must leave us, take Brulet and leave!” Turning abruptly, she stalked away.

  Zena stared after her, shaken by the unexpected attack. Niva was right, that was the trouble. She should have thought of these things. She felt still more confidence drain out of her, and wondered how she would ever find the courage to speak to the villagers now. But she must. She could not let Niva stop her.

  She turned to Lief, her face drawn with anxiety, but before he could speak, another voice interrupted. “You must not let Niva bother you,” the voice said. “Not all of us feel as she does.”

  Zena turned, startled. A young man stood there, smiling at her. “I thank you for telling me this,” she said, trying to smile in return.

  “I, at least, would like to hear more of the Goddess,” the young man continued. “I am called Wulf, and if you will come
with me, I will take you to speak with some of the others who would also like to hear more.”

  He led them toward a group of villagers. They were greeted politely, but Zena could see that some at least were wary. Taking a deep breath, she sat beside them. Lief sat quietly by her side, and the touch of his warm hand on her arm seemed to send strength back into her. “I am Zena,” she began. “I have come to speak for the Goddess. I cannot tell you what you should think, but I hope you will listen, try to remember the ways of the Mother.”

  “We will listen,” an old man answered. “Yes, we will listen, and some of us will remember.” He nodded at her encouragingly, and she began to speak. At first, she stumbled with her words, but gradually they came more easily. A few faces were hostile, but most were interested, even eager, and she was pleased.

  She continued to meet with the people for many days after that, telling them again and again of the ancient ways of the Mother, the ways of love and compassion and respect for all that lived upon the earth, of the wisdom of the circles and the wise ones who had taught it to their people. She was able to speak of the Goddess at old Krone’s burial, too, and Brulet at least was comforted.

  Slowly, her confidence began to return. Whether her words had an effect that would linger long enough to convince the villagers to return to the Goddess, she did not know, but at least she had tried - and she had tried as herself.

  She was also able to ask about Teran during these discussions, but no one had heard anything about her. She wished she could ask Niva, too, suspecting she was the person most likely to have information, but Niva’s closed face made it clear she had no wish to be seen speaking with the one called Zena. She had not been able to visit the young woman whose infant she and Lief had saved, either. Niva did not allow anyone to go into Pila’s tent without her permission, and to provoke another confrontation seemed disruptive.

  During those days and nights Lief watched over her with care, Brulet too, lest Korg or the Leader seek revenge. But to his astonishment, and Zena’s, Korg and the Leader did not confront them, did not come into the village at all. They had gone to their hut in the woods, Brulet explained, and spoke only to those who came to them. Lief and Zena were relieved but also worried about what would happen when they left. Would Korg and the Leader accuse some people of helping Zena, of betraying them? Would the villagers be able to resist the Leader’s mesmerizing voice, his persuasive words, urging them to return to the Great Spirit?

  There was no way to tell, no way to prepare, except to take Brulet with them so she at least would not be accused.

  On the day they were to leave, Hular came up to Zena and Lief, looking worried. “I cannot find Mara,” he said. “Have you seen her?”

  “No, I have not,” Zena replied, and Lief said the same. They waited all morning for Mara, and just as they were beginning to become alarmed, she reappeared.

  “We could not leave without this,” she mumbled, thrusting the crown of white feathers into Zena’s hand.

  “I thank you, Mara!” Zena exclaimed. “I had thought we would never see the crown again. Where did you find it?

  “Are you all right?” she asked, taking another look at Mara’s strained face.

  Hular’s alarmed exclamation came before Mara could answer. “Mara, what has happened to you!” For the first time, Zena saw the bloody scratches on Mara’s arms and legs. She was covered with them.

  “I fell in some brambles, that is all,” Mara snapped. “I must get ready to leave,” she added, and walked quickly away.

  Zena stared after her, frowning. Mara was not just scratched and bloody - her face was tight, strained, as if she was trying not to cry, or was terribly angry.

  All that day, as they climbed over the pass and all the next as they walked on, Mara’s face did not change. When they asked her what was wrong, she only shook her head and would not speak. Not until they reached the lake on the far side of the next pass and she saw what had happened to Rofina, did she finally tell them what she had done.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rofina wrapped her arms tightly around her chest to quell her shivering. The familiar gesture was comforting. Durak had held her this way too, she remembered. Sometimes he had been so close to her that she had could not tell the difference between her body and his. She had liked the feeling. He was not here now, though. Only her mother was nearby, stirring something by the fire. Perhaps it was more of the potion. Rofina hoped so. What her mother gave her helped, but it was not the same as the potions Korg had given her. No matter how much she drank of her mother’s potions, they did not stop the shaking or fill the terrible emptiness inside her, as Korg’s had.

  Tears welled up in Rofina’s eyes. She wanted desperately for the shaking to stop and the emptiness to go away. But the only way to do that was to find Korg and the Leader, and Durak and her mother did not want her to leave this place.

  Too restless suddenly to sit still, she rose and began to pace back and forth by the fire. Runor saw her walking and was encouraged. This was the first time Rofina had moved around. Until now, she had only lain on her pallet shaking and shivering as if nothing would warm her again. Perhaps she was finally improving. Durak had gone back for more poppies, fearful that they would run out before Rofina was ready, but now Runor wondered if that had been necessary.

  “That is good, for you to be walking, Rofina,” she said approvingly.

  Rofina stopped and looked around her with startled eyes. “Where am I?” she asked, frowning in consternation. “I do not see the huts, or any people.”

  “We have left the village for a time,” Runor answered. “We came here so you could get better.”

  “I must go back,” Rofina said, as she had said many times each day since they had been here. She began to shake badly again and there was panic in her face.

  “We are not far away,” Runor comforted. “And Durak will soon return. He has gone for more of the potion, and that will help.”

  Her momentary spurt of hope vanished. She had been right to send Durak. They would need many more of the poppies before Rofina was truly healed - if that was even possible. The oil from their pods were most powerful before the seeds were ripe, and that time was past. What she was giving Rofina now was not working very well, and what Durak collected might not work at all. Even the sleeping potion she gave Rofina at night did not work as well as it had.

  “I want Durak to come back,” Rofina said, weeping now. “I need him. I need...” Her voice stopped and she began to pace again, hugging herself at the same time for comfort.

  Pity engulfed Runor as she watched, but after it came a frustration so fierce it left her breathless. It was Mara who needed her most, Mara who even now was in the same village as Korg and the Leader. She knew what she had to do to save Mara, had felt such peace because finally she had made up her mind to act. But now she could do nothing to help her, nothing at all. She was trapped in this desolate place, unable to leave Rofina. What was happening in that village? What was Mara doing, what was she planning to do?

  She should have made Mara stay with Rofina, Runor told herself bitterly, should have gone to look for Korg and the Leader herself - except she could not have. Her legs were too weak, too painful. Just to reach this place had taken all the strength she possessed. To retrace her steps to her village and then climb still another pass, an even higher one, would have been impossible.

  “They are cruel choices You have given me, Great Mother,” she cried out, uncaring that Rofina should hear. “To have to decide which of my daughters I should try to save is harsh, but to be unable to make the choice because I am old and frail is harsher still. And even before that to have to choose between You and the child I had nurtured in my womb… Great Mother, I did not know You could be so cruel...”

  She stopped abruptly as Rofina looked at her in alarm. Had she understood? But of course she had not. Probably she had not heard the words, only the unexpected tone. Rofina had noticed nothing in all these days except the craving th
at consumed her.

  Runor took a deep breath, calming herself. None of this was Rofina’s fault, and she must not be blamed. “Soon, I will give you the sleeping potion,” she told her daughter softly. “When you awaken, Durak will be back.” Rofina nodded and touched her gently. Perhaps, after all, some part of her had heard.

  Runor sighed. She was so tired, so very tired. She had been awake since Durak had left the evening before. Rofina had to be watched all the time, lest she try to go back. Her eyes closed involuntarily; she snapped them open again but felt them close once more. She had better give Rofina the sleeping potion now, she decided, instead of waiting for darkness. That would be safer, in case sleep overcame her.

  She went to the rough shepherd’s hut they used as a shelter and took out her bag of herbs. Deftly, she pinched out what she needed and put it in a cup, then poured some broth into it from a deep bowl and set it by the fire to warm. She would make herself a warm drink, too, Runor decided, pouring broth into another cup and setting it beside the first.

  Rofina watched her and felt a cautious stillness come over her. She had never felt that way before, as if she were planning something that she had not known she could plan. Durak had taught her that, she remembered.

  “If you have a problem,” he had said, “come to me and we will find the best way to solve it.” But Durak was not here, so she must solve it herself. What she had to do was find Korg and the Leader so they would give her the right potions, but Durak and her mother did not want her to find them. Durak was not here, so now there was only her mother, and if her mother slept...

  Runor rose to find more wood for the fire. In that instant, Rofina switched the cups. When Runor returned, Rofina was sitting by the fire, drinking from the cup she had taken. Runor picked up the other one and took a deep draught, then another, until all the broth was gone. It was not very warm yet, but still it tasted fine and rich. Now, perhaps, she could rest for a time. Rofina would soon be asleep.