"We will find enough," Menta assured them. "I feel the Mother's hands in these events. Perhaps it is not only Zena for whom something waits in the mountains. Perhaps it is the Mother Herself who waits for all of us there, and it is Zena who leads us to Her. We shall go there and see."
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The huge man peered out at Zena from his hiding place behind a rock. Despite his thick, heavily muscled frame, he could move as quickly and silently as the lions and tigers with whom he competed. Like them, he stalked the reindeer, even the bison, crept up upon them so he could plunge his spear into their thick hides. The others helped him, even the children. They had to. Many were needed to take an animal, and few were left in his tribe. Most of the women had died in childbirth or been stolen by the fierce hunters from the north, where they had once lived. All the men save himself and one other had died trying to defend the tribe from these savage people. He had led his people south to escape them, to escape the ever-increasing cold and snow as well, but now hunting threatened to kill still more. To hunt with so few was dangerous. All of them bore the scars. Yet they had to hunt, if they were to live.
He should be hunting now, but he was unable to repress his fascination with the slender woman, the one who could ride the bison. He had taken her to the man in the big cave when he had found her, for he had sensed they belonged together. There was meaning in their coming, he suspected, though he still did not know what the meaning might be. The strangers did not seem strong enough to be of much help. The man was as thin and undernourished as the woman, and all he had done in the time they had been here was scratch at the rocks within the cave. Still, he had helped the woman when she was too cold. That was in his favor. But neither of them would be much good at the hunt, of that he was certain.
He would continue to watch them, see what they did. Now, he must join the others. Soundlessly, he scrambled up the cliff face and disappeared among the rocks.
Zena looked up, alerted not by a sound, but by the feeling of a presence. She had felt it often in the months she had been in this place. Oddly, the presence did not frighten her. It did not feel the same as when Tron had watched from the tree. This presence was curious, not dangerous.
"Do you feel it?"
Conar was drawing, so absorbed that he hardly heard her question. "Feel what?" he asked.
"Someone watches," Zena answered. "Perhaps it is the one who carried me."
Conar grunted and went back to work. He had been drawing ever since the day Zena had arrived. He used the colors in the rocks, mixed them with water to make brown and orange and black, sometimes a reddish shade, to outline the shapes of bison on the rocks. Zena could see them easily now, as he had seen them even before he had created their forms. They leaped and soared across the walls of the cave, as graceful and strong in Conar's representation as they were in life.
They were beautiful, Zena thought, a wondrous gift to the bison, to the Mother, for leading her to the huge animals. They could not, however, be eaten, and at the moment, she was worried about food. So far, they had been lucky. They had been here for more than two moons, and only one snow had come. It had turned to rain, wild, torrential rain that had sent the river careening over its banks, had made her glad to be in a secure cave. Next time, though, only snow would fall and then there would be no more late fruit, no juicy grains, not even tubers, for the ground would be frozen and they would be unable to dig beneath it. Then, they had to have meat, and to get it they had to kill animals. She did not like killing, and Conar hated it, but they would have to do it anyway or they would starve.
Determinedly, she pulled on her fur boots and went outside, leaving Conar to his work. The boots were all that was left of a rabbit she had taken. It had sat perfectly still in front of her, when she was very hungry and cold, as if the Mother had told it to help her. She had thrown a stone hard and killed it. To do such a thing was almost impossible, and made her certain the Mother had helped. But the Mother could not make animals sit still every time she was hungry. She would have to get better at catching them.
She spotted some tunnels just above the ground, where rodents burrowed, and crouched beside them. When the earth rippled, she plunged her sharp stone against it. She was too late with her movement and the animal disappeared. She watched again, struck again, without success. After the third try, she sighed and gave up. There were still some nuts and a few wrinkled berries farther up the slope, and the grains of certain grasses swelled when she put water on them. Heated, they made a nourishing gruel. That would have to do for the moment.
She and Conar were eating the gruel the next afternoon when a grunting noise that sounded almost like a gasp of surprise brought them to their feet. At the entrance to the cave was a huge, pale-haired man. His chest, his arms and legs were almost twice as thick as Conar's, though he was not much taller. He was staring up at Conar's drawing. His hands reached out toward the flowing bison, as if in supplication, and an expression of profound awe covered his face.
He turned to look at Conar and nodded his head up and down, over and over again. Then his eyes moved to Zena's face. She saw worry in them, and again the supplication. He reached out a hand toward her, then swept the hand backward and pointed out at the hillside, as if he were urging her to go that way.
Hesitantly, Zena rose. "He wants me to come," she told Conar. "I think this is the one who carried me."
"He is very big," Conar objected, worried that the male would want Zena to stay with him, perhaps as a mate.
"I do not think he will harm us," Zena said firmly. "There is kindness in his face. I must see what he wants."
"Then I will come too," Conar said.
Zena touched the big man gently and curved her arms into a carrying position, then pointed to herself, as they followed him up the hill. His wide lips stretched into a smile of recognition and he nodded. Then the worry returned to his eyes. He uttered a few nasal sounds that had no meaning to Zena and pointed to her thigh, forming his hands into a smaller shape, as if describing a child. His face twisted, to show pain.
"Child hurts?" she asked, wondering if that was what he meant. Perhaps one of their children had been injured.
That she had guessed correctly was evident the moment she entered the shallow cave where her rescuer sheltered. A young girl lay on the ground near the fire. She was utterly still, and her face was waxen. Zena thought her already dead until she saw her chest rise and fall in rapid, shallow movements. Her small fists were clenched in pain, but she did not make a sound.
As Zena bent over her, the child's eyes opened. They were blue, bluer even than the sky, and the thick hair that fanned out around her face was yellow, like fields of grain in summer. Startled, Zena looked at the others in the cave. Another man, younger than the one who had carried her, had entered, and there were two women beside him. The belly of one was distended in pregnancy; the other was barely adult. Hiding behind their knees were two small boys. An aged woman crouched by the fire.
All of them except the old woman, whose hair was like snow, had the yellow hair, the intensely blue eyes. Coloring like this was unusual. In her tribe, only Lune and one or two others had light hair. But Lune's hair was paler, her eyes too, and she was small and slender. These people were big, much thicker than any in her tribe. Even the child's body was wide and sturdy.
The blue eyes were fastened on Zena's face. The girl did not seem surprised at her presence but only stared imploringly, with perfect trust, as if certain Zena could relieve her pain.
Why would she think such a thing? Zena frowned, trying to understand. Then she saw the cause of the child's distress, and all other thoughts disappeared. A deep gash ran all the way from the front of her thigh into her buttock. Angry red lines spread from the gash into her back, her belly.
Zena's heart sank. The wound was bad, and it had begun to fester. She was not sure anyone could fix such an injury. Lune had trained her, had taught her about the plants and herbs that helped healing, had show
ed her how to concentrate her mind, her energies, so that she could draw pain and sickness from another's body. Never before, though, had she tried to do these things by herself, without Lune to help her. To heal in this way took enormous strength, and most were not able to do it at all. Healing was a gift from the Mother, given only to a few. Lune had told her that.
She looked up at the expectant faces around her. Surely, one in their tribe was skilled in healing? But if that was so, why had they not put yarrow, or other plants that drew out poisons, on the wound? Was it possible they did not have this knowledge?
The two women, as sturdy as the males, though shorter, came up to her, and their gestures told her she was right in this guess too. They spread their hands wide in helplessness, as if to say there was nothing they could do. They must have tried to help and had failed, and now they wanted her to try.
The big man came close and gestured toward the wound. He tossed his head, then pointed to Conar and made motions with his hands as if drawing.
The bison. That was what he was trying to tell them, that a bison had gored the girl. How had such a thing happened, that a child was so close to the bison? And why did all of them seem to think she could heal such a wound? That they did was obvious. In all the watching faces, Zena saw the same trust she had seen in the child's eyes.
She closed her eyes, trying to summon the strength to live up to their trust. The big man had saved her life, had carried her to Conar. Now he wanted her to save the life of this child. It seemed an impossible task, but she must try, at least.
She called to Conar, and asked him to go back to their cave and bring the special basket she had made to hold medicinal plants and herbs. One of her first tasks had been to collect them before the snows came, and now she was glad she had been so determined. She breathed a message of thanks to Lune, that she had shared her vast knowledge of plants and herbs so faithfully, had worked so hard to explain how a healer's power could help the herbs to work.
Would she ever see Lune again, be comforted by her firm voice, her energetic presence? Sadness pressed against Zena, softening her resolve, and for a moment she wanted only the release of tears. She pushed the sadness firmly away. Now, she must think of nothing but the child.
"Water," she called out, gesturing as if to drink so they would understand. Lune had told her that it was important always to remove dirt from her hands before touching one in pain. The water was brought in a stone dish, and Zena wondered at it as she washed her hands. A bowl like that would be very useful.
Conar came with the herbs, breathing hard. Zena selected one for pain, the yarrow and lichen to rid the body of poison, and ground them with some fresh water in another bowl. She put an arm around the child's shoulder and urged her to drink. The medicines must work inside her body as well as on the wound. When the bowl was empty, she mixed up a potent poultice and smeared it gently all across the vicious gash.
The big blond people came closer, to see what she was doing. Apologetically, Zena gestured for them to move a little away. What came next was hardest of all, and she needed space to breathe. To heal, Lune had explained, a medicine woman could not rely on the herbs to do their work alone. She must draw out the poisons with her mind and body, absorb them into herself, then scatter them into the winds where they could do no more harm. After that, even though her body was still weak from the effort of drawing in the poison and forcibly ridding herself of it, she must summon the strength to give of her life force to the sick one. She must provide energy, vitality, through the power of her hands, power that came from the Mother, but which still had to be summoned by the healer, given freely to the one who suffered.
Slowly, Zena calmed her mind, opened it to the knowledge Lune had given her, opened it to the Mother, for it was She who would help most of all. When the calmness had spread to her breathing, even her belly, she moved her hands slowly across the child's body. She did not touch her, but only passed her hands just above the wound, along its length, along the angry red lines that splintered from it. Now she ceased to see the people around her, ceased to see even the cave, or Conar. She saw only the wound, the poisons that had entered the child's body through the terrible gash. They were real now, tiny bits of harmful matter that would wreak destruction if they could. She must fight them, draw them into her hands, scatter them to the winds. She felt their resistance, felt their power as they battled the healing herbs, struggled against the force of her concentration. She fought back with her own power, her will to heal. Over and over again, she passed her hands above the wound in long, slow strokes, to ease the pain, to force the poisons to submit.
The child sighed, and her face began to relax. Zena sighed with her, let her face go loose in the same way. She matched the child's breathing, felt air enter her own body in exactly the same way, leave her lips with the same small sound. Soon the pain entered her as well, and the poisons, for she had become the child, was attached to the child. Without conscious volition, she had ceased her stroking and had clasped the child's fingers tightly in her own, so they would be separate no longer. Now the poisons must battle her body, too, must kill her as well as the child if they were to succeed.
Slowly, Zena's hands grew warm, then hot as the poisons attacked her. She pulled them in, refused to let them go, though the tingling was terrible now, made her hands and even her arms feel as if they were on fire. Still, she pulled them in, held them harshly in her hands. When she had taken all she could hold, she let go of the child and lurched outside, to shake the poisons away, glad that the wind had risen and the night was dark, so they would scatter easily, be lost in the blackness. Then she returned and clasped the child's hands again.
Many more times, Zena drew out the poisons and shook them from her hands into the night sky. Only when the child's face was free of pain and the burning heat had gone from her body did she stop. But still there was work to be done, work that could last for hours, even days. Now she must give the child some of her own life force, for only that would make her well again.
Zena bowed her head and called on the Mother for strength. Her body felt weak, depleted of all reserves. She began to shake uncontrollably. Someone handed her a bowl filled with liquid, and urged her to drink. It was Conar, she thought, but she could not be sure. Her eyes still seemed to see nothing but the child and the wound and the need to heal.
The liquid settled warmly inside her. Her shaking stopped, and Zena was grateful. It was hard to be strong when her body shook. She closed her eyes and listened to her mind. It spoke of warm air and grasses, of the smell of ripe fruit and grains, the languorous heat of the sun. She felt it sink into her body, restore its vitality. And after that, she saw the bison, running in long, graceful leaps, saw herself astride the one she had ridden. The exhilaration came back, and the ecstasy. They filled her, even more fiercely than before, as she lived the ride, became one with the bison again. Her legs were strong, her arms and hands filled with power as she clung tightly, swayed in rhythm with the animal's powerful gallop.
Zena smiled, feeling strength flow into her body and mind. She would fill the child with this new energy, with the joy that came to her as she remembered the Mother's gifts of food and sun, remembered the wondrous aliveness of the bison, the exhilaration of her ride. This, surely, would make her well.
She placed her palms against the child's palms and wrapped her fingers around the small wrists, so the life force could spread easily up the inside of the girl's arm and into the rest of her body. Settling herself as comfortably as she could in this position, Zena pushed the strength the Mother had given her into the child. Slowly, as she watched, color began to return to the small face. Or perhaps it was the warmth of the sun, the taste of the fruit that Zena was imagining, or the wind in her face as she rode the bison, that pushed the warm blood from her hands into the girl's body and thence to her cheeks.
For hours, Zena sat there, all her energies focused on pushing the life force back into the child. And when she finally collapsed, not kno
wing she had moved, the child was sleeping peacefully. If there was pain in her body, none could see it; if there were poisons, they no longer showed in angry lines on her leg or in the heat of her body.
Gently, the big man laid Zena on a warm fur, though he was careful not to remove her hands from the child's. He had seen how she had given up her strength, passed it on to the girl he loved so dearly, and he did not want to break the bond between them.
He looked down at the sleeping pair. He had been right. There was magic in this woman. He had suspected it when he had seen her riding the bison, and now he knew it was true. He had told the others what he had seen, and they had agreed. A woman who could ride the fearful bison would surely have the power to heal the child they had hurt.
Her magic must be very strong, he realized, to have fixed the little one so quickly. If she had that much power, she might also be able to help when the time came for his mate to give birth. Perhaps now, this mate would not die as so many others had, when their infants had refused to be born.
The thin male must have magic, too, since he had made the bison come alive on the walls of the cave. His scratching on the rocks had not been so useless after all. With one hand alone, he had made the animals run and leap where all could see. If he had the power to do that, he would surely be able to tell the bison, maybe even the reindeer, to give up their lives more easily, without harming those who needed their meat.
Relieved, the big man lay down beside Zena. For the first time in many seasons, his mind was at peace. Now, all would be well with those who remained in his tribe. The two strangers had come to help them, just as he had thought. In return for their help, he would give them meat. Since both of them had power over the bison, the animals he hunted would surely cooperate, and the hunt would be less dangerous. Besides, now that he had seen the strangers more closely, he was certain they would not be able to get meat for themselves. They might have magic, but they still looked too weak and thin to hunt.
CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) Page 41
