She had told Menta and Lune, and the others as well, of her discovery of the open space. No one else had tried to go there. Some were fearful of the black water, but they also believed that the Mother meant only Zena to enter Her sacred womb. And perhaps it was true, she reflected, for now the pool seemed to welcome her. Never again had it buffeted her with its dark power. Instead, an almost imperceptible current swept her across the glistening water to the other side, so she could climb the steep rocks to the opening that led to the light.
"The wisdom of the circles," Menta said, smiling faintly. "That is what you have discovered, Zena. Always I have called it that, for the Mother's thoughts can come from anywhere, from what has passed long ago, from what happens each day, even from what has never been. They are like a circle that has no beginning and no end, but always the circle expands as all that happens, all the knowing that comes from the Mother to our bodies and minds, gathers in the deep black pool of wisdom. It lies there, still and dark, waiting for us to seek its understanding. You will go there many times, and still there will be more to know.
"You are a wise one now, Zena," she added somberly. "The Goddess has made you a wise one by showing you the way to the open space, your Kyrie, where you will receive Her visions. Always, this must be a high place, so that if there is pain or violence in the Mother's revelations they cannot reach the earth but instead spew into the sky."
Zena sighed. "The visions can be hard," she said sadly. "Already, the Mother has sent one, though it was before I found the open space. In it, the men snatched children from their mother's arms, and carried them away. There was pain in all their faces, and I did not see how I could help."
"You help by seeing what the Mother shows you," Menta replied. "A wise one helps her tribe and those who come after her when she opens herself to the visions and absorbs the pain. Only in that way can she hope to change what will come to pass.
"I am glad it is your turn now to be our wise one," she continued, "for I can no longer go as you do to a Kyrie to accept the visions and listen to the wisdom of the circles. My spirit stays strong, but my body grows weak, and even all Lune's powers of healing, and your own, cannot make me well."
The old woman's voice was pensive, and a frisson of fear skidded up Zena's spine. Perhaps Menta's health was the source of her feeling that something was wrong. How would any of them manage without Menta to guide them?
As if sensing Zena's fear, Lune grasped her sister's hand and held it tightly. "You may be weak in your legs, Menta," she stated firmly, "but as healer I can tell you that many seasons, still, will pass before you go again to the Mother."
Zena smiled, reassured by Lune's comment. Menta was far stronger than she looked. Still, her uneasiness persisted, became stronger than ever as spring turned into summer. To hold fear in her heart when the earth was so bountiful, the faces of those around her so tranquil, seemed wrong, and Zena often berated herself for failing to enjoy the Mother's abundance, Her time of special joy. The air was sweet and fragrant, wildflowers grew on the hillsides, berries and fruits were plump and ripe, but the pervasive sense of impending wrongness did not go away.
Partly, she thought, it was Rofal who caused it. And that was truly strange, for Rofal was more at peace with himself than he had ever been. Fifteen summers had passed since his birth, and there were few signs of the violent nature that had marred his earlier years. Akat, Zena realized, was responsible for some of the change. Rofal disappeared very often with Sarila, the daughter of Nevilar and Gunor, and Zena was sure they were mating. She did not ask; their private activities were not her concern, but she smiled inwardly, glad for both of them.
Akat, though, was not the only cause of Rofal's inner peace. The other cause was Pulot's discovery: the reeds that made piping noises. Unexpectedly, Rofal had adored the pipes from the first time he had heard them. He spent hours making holes in the reeds to create a variety of notes, then blowing into them, always with an expression of profound absorption on his face. The sounds he made were beautiful, so beautiful that everyone sat entranced as he played. And that was why she worried.
As the days passed, her uneasiness escalated into a strong sense that something terrible was about to happen. She could hardly sleep or eat. Menta felt it, too, and Lune, but they did not speak of it. There was nothing they could do except wait.
Over and over again, Zena went to the Kyrie, seeking a message from the Goddess, but all that came to her was a feeling of wrongness, similar to the feeling she had had when she carried Rofal within her, but much stronger and sharper. She felt it like a wound in her belly, as if Rofal had been torn from her instead of coming forth in birth.
When the attack came, she was not surprised, though the horror of it still turned her heart to stone. That the events unfolded almost exactly as Menta had seen them did not surprise her either. She and Menta and Lune and a few others were sitting one evening around the fire, listening as Rofal played his reed. Most of the others were still in the valley below, gathering food, for in early summer the sun lingered long above the horizon. Rofal's beautiful sounds floated in the quiet air, soothing those who listened.
Suddenly, another sound pierced the air. A thin, high scream rang out and then there was the sound of weeping, low, anguished weeping. Sarila burst into the firelight and ran sobbing to her mother. Her long hair, the color of sunlight, was matted with dirt and twigs. Blood dripped from her face, ran down her legs.
Nevilar clasped her in her arms as recognition came slowly to her face. She had heard of this before, long ago: a young woman, tall and slender, had burst into the circle of firelight, weeping passionately.
"No," she breathed. "It cannot be."
Rofal sprang to his feet, his face abruptly drained of color. Someone had harmed Sarila, the one he cared for more than any other. Why had he not been there to protect her?
"What has happened, Sarila? What has hurt you?" He ran to her, tried to look into her face, but she buried it against her mother's chest.
"No," she cried out. "No one must touch me, not even you. He has frightened me, and I cannot bear it!"
Zena made her voice calm despite her pounding heart. "You must tell us, Sarila, so that we can help." She knew already what Sarila would say, but she must make sure.
Sarila shuddered. "I was near the path that leads to the Ekali," she blurted out, "when a man, a stranger, came up behind me and shoved me to the ground. He forced himself on me, and I could not get away. He cut my face with his flint knife - "
Her voice broke off as the sobs resumed. Zena met Nevilar's eyes, saw the horror in her own reflected there.
"I will kill him for this!" Rofal's voice, still light and youthful, was thick with rage.
Zena turned sharply, terrified by the change that had come over her son. Every vestige of the serenity that had marked his face only a moment ago had gone. Anger, harsh and uncompromising, had taken its place, but at the same time, he looked so young, so terribly vulnerable and untried. Soft, downy hairs showed above the lips that had curved so sweetly around his reed all summer long, and his youthful body looked fragile, not yet broadened into its full strength. Now the lips were taut and harsh, the body stiff with fury.
"I will kill him for this," Rofal repeated, and a deadly certainty invaded his tone. He ran toward the place where Sarila had emerged from the trees.
"No! You must not go alone," Zena shouted. "We must find the other men." But Rofal did not stop.
Lune grabbed the reed Rofal had been playing and blew into it with all her strength. A long, shrill whistle emerged.
"The others might hear," she explained. She ran to the top of the hill that overlooked the valley and blew again and again, long, discordant notes of alarm.
Her tactic worked, for in a few moments, the others began to lumber up the hill toward the clearing. Gunor arrived first, his face filled with apprehension. Conar and Krost were right behind him, after them came Katli and Pulot. The rest of the tribe straggled behind.
"Find the other women, especially the young ones," Zena instructed Katli and Pulot. "Someone has attacked Sarila."
"Go after Rofal," she said to the men. "He has gone to find the man who attacked Sarila. Please, do not let Rofal find this man alone."
They understood immediately. Everyone knew of Rofal's devotion to Sarila, his desire to protect her from any hurt.
The men searched far into the night and most of the following day. Rofal insisted on going with them, but Zena asked Conar and Gunor to stay near him, so he would not find the intruder alone. But the man had hidden himself well, and they saw no sign of him. Perhaps, they reassured themselves, he had left the area, fearful of being discovered. Zena hoped this was true, but in her heart, she knew it was not.
"What can we do?" she asked Menta, desperate to prevent further agony.
Menta considered. To Zena's surprise, Menta had seemed to grow stronger, more determined, now that her vision was upon them. Zena had expected her to be devastated.
"Perhaps we can use my vision to our own ends," she answered, "instead of waiting for this man to frighten us. While all of you were looking, Lune and I have been devising a plan."
She called Nevilar and Pulot to her. "Do you remember," she asked Nevilar, "how in my vision, two women were attacked next?"
Nevilar nodded. "You shall be one of them," Menta told her, "and Pulot will be the other. We wish to trap this man, so we will leave two women alone to see if he comes, and have two men hidden nearby to catch him. Are you willing to help us trap the man who violated Sarila?"
"In this, I will gladly help," Nevilar said firmly. She considered for a moment. "I will do it most eagerly if Gunor is not far away," she added, and now her voice trembled a little. "He is the strongest of all, and he cares for me more than any."
Pulot, too, was eager to help. Lune told her of Menta's vision and what they expected to occur. The thought of being attacked did not disconcert Pulot.
"If this man tries to violate me, he will be surprised," she stated, her bright blue eyes flashing. Despite her fear, Zena wanted to laugh. Almost as wide as she was tall, Pulot was a match for any man.
The next day, Pulot and Nevilar set off along the path Sarila had used when she was attacked. Pulot chattered cheerfully in her nasal voice even as her alert eyes took note of every movement in the shrubbery. Nevilar looked frightened but purposeful.
When they came to a small glen surrounded by bushes thick with berries, Pulot gestured that they should stop. It seemed a good place for a man to spring upon them from the concealing bushes, and there was a thick clump of trees nearby where Gunor and the other men could hide. The two women lingered there as the sun climbed slowly toward the middle of the sky, picking the juicy red berries and filling their baskets. Nevilar tried to eat some, but she was so nervous she found it hard to swallow.
She had bent over to catch a berry that had rolled to the ground when the man came up behind her. So quietly did he move that even Pulot did not hear him. His hand came over Nevilar's mouth and he forced her to the ground. Pressing her face hard against the earth, he pulled her arms behind her and began to tie her wrists together with a vine.
Pulot saw his movements then and sprang on his back, clawing and tearing at his skin like an angry cat. He turned, surprised, and Nevilar was able to twist from his grasp.
A cry of disbelief sprang from her lips. "Tron! You are Tron!"
Startled, Pulot stopped beating at him. Perhaps this was someone Nevilar knew, not the one who had attacked Sarila. But why, then, had he shoved Nevilar to the ground? She resumed her pummeling, but Tron knocked her away with a mighty heave.
Pulot crouched, ready to spring again, but before she could move, Gunor charged from the trees and launched himself on Tron. He pulled the strange male away from Nevilar and slammed a massive fist into his face. Snarling, Tron lashed out with his flint knife. The knife tore a great slash in Gunor's arm. Momentarily stunned, he dropped to his knees.
The other men sprang forward. Holding his knife in front of him, Tron stepped back toward the trees. His eyes were fastened on the approaching men, and he did not see the slight figure hurtling toward him from behind. But Zena saw, and she gasped in horror. It was Rofal.
"You have violated Sarila, and I will kill you for that," Rofal screamed, slashing at Tron with a sharpened stone.
Then, all was confusion. Everyone sprinted toward the fighting pair. Zena ran with them, terror in her heart. Rofal was not supposed to be here; they had not told him of their plan, lest he try to fulfill his vow. And now the man was Tron!
Rofal jabbed wildly. Zena could see the fury in his face, the answering fury in Tron's. Tron would kill him, kill the child who had come from him! Already he had knocked the stone from Rofal's grasp, and his big, unforgiving hands were reaching for Rofal's throat.
"It is your son!" she screamed at Tron. "He is your son!"
Tron whirled at the sound of her voice, and as he turned, Rofal retrieved the sharp stone and plunged it deep into the big male's chest. Tron screamed and fell to the ground.
Gunor grabbed Rofal with his good arm and thrust him toward Pulot. Rofal was shivering now, stiff with shock at what he had done. Pulot held him tightly, so he could not escape, but still her arms were comforting.
Zena bent over Tron. His eyes were open, but there was a filmy glaze across them. He stared into her face.
"He is mine!" he said hoarsely. "He is mine, for I gave him life. I came to take him from you. I will take him from you still..."
But Zena knew it was not true. Flecks of blood had appeared around Tron's lips, and already his skin was waxen. This time, he would not recover.
She called for water, a cool poultice for his brow. Tron had hurt her badly, hurt all of them badly, but he was dying, and they could at least offer him comfort. She began to tell him of the son he had never known. Perhaps to spend time with Rofal would have gentled him, pulled some of the violence from him, for then he would have seen the helplessness of a tiny child, seen how even a young man-child needed help. Perhaps it would have been so. She thought it must be true, for when Tron looked at her again, the challenge had left his eyes. He looked confused now, as if he could not understand.
"He has killed me," he said, so quietly only Zena heard. "I thought to take him with me, teach him how to hunt, how to..."
His voice faded. He sighed, a deep sigh that seemed to emerge from a place inside himself he had never known, just as he had never known his son. Zena held the big, hairy head in her arms and watched her tears fall on his dirt-streaked face. He had looked so brutal once, she thought. Now he only looked lost, lost and empty, as if nothing were left inside him.
*****************************
They buried Tron with great care, as if to make up for their earlier neglect. Zena herself saw to the washing of his body, massaged his limbs with lavender and other soothing herbs, to bring him peace during his journey to the Mother. The others brought fragrant flowers and placed them gently across his big frame, covering the jagged scars left by tearing horns and sharp hoofs. Tron had killed many animals, but the creatures he had killed had left their marks upon him.
When they had laid him deep within the Mother's earth, they went to the circle of stones, to remember him and commend him to the Goddess, as they always did for one who had died. Each person tried hard to think of something good to say of Tron, hoping the Mother would take him back to Her heart and thereby change him, so the violence that had seemed to rule his life would die with him.
"Tron was braver than any in the hunt," Krost said. "He did not hesitate to come to my rescue when an animal had turned on me, or any of the others. Once, he saved Bakan when a bison charged him, by thrusting his spear into its chest."
The others were silent for a moment, thinking of Bakan, who had returned to the Mother a few years ago. He had been the oldest and most respected man in the tribe, and they missed his wise and patient presence.
"Perhaps we should have
spoken more to Tron of our admiration for his hunting skills," Zena said finally. "Maybe then he would have felt better with himself."
"I think Tron never understood why he was not liked," Conar said quietly. "He tried to make us like him by acting strong, by becoming a good hunter, but all he did was make us afraid. We went away from him instead of coming closer."
"He liked to hurt, though," Lune said. "I could see it in his face. We must not make him better than he was because he is dead. Instead, we must try to understand why he acted as he did."
"It is true that Tron liked to hurt," Nevilar agreed, placing a protective arm around Sarila's shoulders. "Perhaps he learned that when I permitted him to hurt me."
"The desire to hurt was there already," Menta told her. "It was part of him from the very beginning, so you must not blame yourself. Nor is it Zena's fault that she could not change him. The badness was deeply ingrained in Tron long before she began. Even the Mother could not make it right."
"Perhaps he was born with this badness, just as an animal is sometimes born with the urge to kill others of its kind," Katli remarked. She opened her mouth to speak again, and closed it abruptly. Rofal was sitting across from her, his head bowed on his knees, and she did not wish to say what she believed, that animals born with this murderous urge sometimes passed the urge to the young they helped to create.
"The brutal men Gunor speaks of in the north cannot all be born with the desire to hurt," Tragar objected. "Some, at least, must learn it."
"Perhaps some are born with it, but many others must learn," Zena answered. "It is easy to imagine how that can happen in a tribe where those who fight are admired. Then, there is no one to teach the children that hurting others is wrong."
The others nodded, thinking of Rofal. Zena had insisted that each time he fought with another child, one of the adults must take him aside and speak of the need for kindness and caring between those who lived together. Their efforts had seemed useless then, for Rofal had just looked stubborn, but in the end, he had changed. The violence in him had seemed to disappear until the attack on Tron, and that they could understand.
CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) Page 47
