CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) (50 page)

The bag slipped
from her fingers as she reached out to grab a branch floating beside her. 
She lunged after it, still holding the branch.  The precious bag bobbed
and dipped as it floated away.  Zena watched, despairing.  Without
her tools and coverings, she could not survive.

Abruptly, the
branch was jerked out of her hands and she went under.  Over and over, the
river dragged her down, then popped her up again.  Gasping for breath, she
kicked and flailed, trying to shove her body toward the opposite bank. 
Her foot hit a submerged rock; then she felt sand under her.  She dug her
toes into it with desperate strength.  One foot held, then the other, and
then she was able to wrench herself upright and stumble out of the river. 
Shivering with cold and shock, she began to run downstream.  She had to
find her bag.  She would die if she had no flints to make fire, no furs to
warm her.

Bramble-infested
bushes lined the bank; she plunged into them, hardly aware of the scratches
they inflicted on her numb legs and feet.  For almost an hour, she kept
going, scanning the river constantly for her bag as she pushed through the
tangled mass.  Finally, she realized she could not continue.  The
bushes had become impenetrable, and she could no longer even see the
river.  Besides, her bag would have gone too far by this time.  She
would never find it now.  Weak with cold and despair, she turned and
trudged back the way she had come.

Another thought
made her gasp in dismay.  The river could carry her bag almost all the way
to the clearing.  If the others found it, they would think she had
drowned.  Lune's desolate face, and Menta's, full of sorrow, came before
her.  She watched them grieve, and her heart twisted with the pain.

Zena crouched
against the cold sand on the river bank and wept.  She could not go
back.  The Mother's will was clear, but to have the others think she was
dead seemed so cruel.  How could the Mother allow such a thing to
happen?  Was it punishment, because she had failed at the task the Mother
had set her, because she had killed Tron instead of helping him? 

Hugging herself
with her arms for comfort, Zena crouched lower still and sobbed until there
were no more tears inside her.  Then she forced herself to her feet and
trudged slowly toward the mountains.  At least she had crossed the
river. 

The sun had
disappeared behind storm clouds, and the wind was rising.  A thin,
drizzling rain began to fall.  Zena wrapped her arms around her body and
trudged on as fast as her waning strength would allow.  She tried not to
think of the night to come, of the terrible cold that would grip her. 
Never had she spent a night without at least a covering.  Even when they
were hunting, they built a temporary shelter, had a fire. 

She could do that;
she could try to make a shelter of some sort.  Perhaps she could even find
some new flints, to make a fire.  Buoyed by this hope, Zena scoured the
rocky ridges of some nearby hills until the light had almost gone.  But
there were no flints, only the ordinary dark rock that did not make
sparks.  Shivering, she pulled branches off the thick bushes that grew on
the hillsides and tried to make a shelter between two boulders.  The
branches helped a little, but the rain was harder now.  There were bits of
ice in it, and the wind blew steadily.  She huddled against the cold
earth, trying to decide what to do.  If she stayed still, she would die
from the cold.  But she was too tired, too cold to walk, and the light was
almost gone.  She could not go on, but she must, or she would die.

Her chattering
teeth were loud inside her head.  The noise interrupted her thoughts,
broke them into thousands of incoherent pieces.  She forced the thoughts
back.  Once, twice, she imagined herself rising, walking on, and was
surprised to find that she had not moved.  She tried again, but still her
body did not budge.  Then her mind stopped working at all as the cold
gripped her senses, made them useless.  She did not know that she had
finally risen and started to walk through the dark and freezing night, uncaring
of the icy rain against her skin, the numbness of her body.  She had no
idea where she was going or why.  She had forgotten.  She simply
moved forward, swaying with exhaustion, until she fell.  Then she huddled
against the ground for a time, not knowing she was there, until once more she
rose.

For hours she went
on that way, falling and rising again for no reason except that somewhere deep
inside herself, in a place the cold could not reach, she knew she must keep
moving - and even that deserted her from time to time.  More than once,
she huddled against the ground for so long her breathing turned shallow. 
But the will to survive was strong in Zena, as it had been in the Zenas who had
come before her, and each time, she finally rose and stumbled on. 

Pictures tumbled
in and out of her mind, of Menta and Lune and the others.  She saw Conar,
and then, just a short distance ahead, she saw the fire.  The others were
sitting around it.  Zena smiled and ran forward, eager to join them. 
Thinking she was there, she sat on the ground and spread out her hands to feel
the warmth, but the fire had gone out.  Sighing, she lay down to sleep
anyway.  The others must have gone to look for wood, so they could make
another fire.  They would be back soon; she was sure they would, and then
she would be warm.  Contentedly, she closed her eyes. 

This time, she
might have slept and never moved again but for a strong, coherent thought that
suddenly penetrated her delirium: she had to stay alive so she could go to the
place where the Mother waited.

That was it. 
The Mother waited in the foothills.  That was why they beckoned her. 
She must go there.  Zena sat abruptly and staggered to her feet.  The
darkness was complete now, but it did not bother her.  She did not need to
see, for she was looking at pictures that moved in and out of her mind,
pictures of the place she had seen in her dream.  She felt the Mother
there.  Her presence was strong and comforting.  And Conar was there
again.  She saw him clearly.  The others were there too, except they
weren't there, they were here, walking with her.  Menta was right next to
her, and Lune was in front.  Zena could see her pale hair gleaming in the
moonlight.

She started to
run, eager to catch her, but Lune kept disappearing.  The others had
disappeared too.  Zena frowned, puzzled.  Then she saw them again,
right ahead of her, and her heart thumped with relief.  They were lying on
the ground; she could barely make out the dark shapes of their bodies, covered
with thick, warm furs.  She did not know why they would be lying there
instead of in the shelter, but it did not matter.  She had found them, and
that was all she cared about.  Joyously, she ran to them and lay down close
to their warmth.  They shuffled and moved restlessly, but she only nestled
closer, so that her back and her stomach, even her feet, were pressed against
them.  They were so warm, so blessedly warm.

Zena slept on
until the sun came over the horizon, aware of nothing, not even of the warmth
that was slowly creeping back into her body.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

Conar slid to his
feet in a fluid, soundless motion.  Grabbing the bag of tools he took with
him always, he followed Zena out of the shelter.  Earlier, when all of
them had prepared for sleep, he had noticed that she had positioned herself
near the entrance and he had determined to stay awake to watch her.  But
even before that he had suspected she might leave.  He cared for Zena more
than any other, and because of his caring he could see better than others the
thoughts that hid behind her closed face.  He did not know exactly what
Zena intended to do, but he did know she would find her own way to deal with
Tron's death.

Menta knew
too.  He was certain she did.  She seemed to know what was in all
their minds, though even she had been unable to grasp the extent of Tron's
capacity to do harm.  He glanced back into the shelter and saw that she
was awake, watching him.  She stared into his eyes for a long moment, then
nodded slowly.  Her lips formed words, and Conar strained to see them.

"Watch Zena
for us,"  Menta's mouth said, and her eyes moved toward the entrance,
as if she were visualizing Zena's slender body sliding quietly through the dark
night.

"Go with the
Mother," she added, still without sound.  Then she lowered her head
again as Conar stepped away from the small circle of firelight into the
darkness.

Zena was heading
for the woods.  Conar followed noiselessly as she gathered up her bag of
tools and an extra covering and began to walk through the trees.  He knew
he must not let her see him.  Ever since Tron's death, she had wanted to
be alone.  The posture of her body, the stillness of her face had told him
that.  She would want to be alone on this journey too.  If she saw
him, she would send him back.  He would not go, of course, but it would be
much harder to track her if she suspected his presence.

So far, she had
not suspected.  Ever since she had begun to teach Tron alone, Conar had
been following her.  He had always been nearby during the lessons, though
neither Zena nor Tron had seen him.  This, too, Menta had known, and Lune,
but they had not spoken.  Zena had asked for privacy and they had granted
it, but they had not objected when one of the men had watched anyway.  No
one, though, could watch as quietly as he could.  Tron had eluded the
other men, but he had not eluded Conar.  Once, Conar had even seen him
near Nevilar's place of mating, but he had not gone closer.  To spy on a
woman's special place was wrong.  Now he wished he had.  If he had
known how Tron abused Nevilar, he would have spoken, and then the terrible
events that followed might never have happened. 

Even more, he
wished he had gone closer to the Ekali.  Conar felt his throat tighten
with rage as he remembered.  He had seen Tron following Zena and Nevilar,
and had trailed him, had watched him climb a tree and crouch motionless between
two big branches.  He had not known, though, that Tron was staring down
into the Ekali.  That any man would violate the women's sanctuary had not
occurred to him.  Then Tron had abruptly vanished.  Now, Conar knew
he had dropped from the tree directly into the Ekali, but at the time, he had
wasted precious moments searching for Tron in the woods - until he had heard
Zena scream.

Conar took a deep
breath and forced the rage away.  When his throat tightened like that, he
could not breathe.  He rubbed his neck gingerly.  It was still sore,
but at least his breath was not ragged anymore, and Zena would not hear him
behind her. 

The woods were
denser now, and it was hard to spot her shadowy form among the trees.  She
disappeared from view, over the crest of a hill.  Conar quickened his
step, straining to see in the dim light.  Then the moon slid behind a cloud
and he could not see at all.  He stood quietly, waiting for a sound,
however tiny or indistinct, that would betray her presence, but the wind was
blowing the wrong direction and he could hear nothing. 

He tried to think
which way she would go.  If she continued to head west, she would come to
rugged, rocky hills, unfamiliar to all of them.  The tribe never traveled
that way.  But if she went south a little farther, she would come to the
river, which wound in a long curve from the clearing before it separated into
two branches.  Probably, Conar thought, she would go toward the
river.  Traveling was easier there.  He crept cautiously through the
trees in that direction, but after a time, he was not sure which way he was
going.  There were no stars to guide him, and the night was utterly
black.  It was cold, too, and the wind was still rising.  Each year,
winter seemed to come sooner.  Conar wrapped his extra garment around his
shoulders and stumbled on, hoping the moon would reappear so he could see, or the
wind would drop so he could hear.  But neither happened, and he finally
realized he could not go on.  He would have to wait for the light to come
again to find Zena.  

He crouched in the
meager shelter of an overhanging rock to wait for dawn.  Impatience
gripped him, that he should be sitting still instead of searching.  What
if she was hurt, or a predator had followed her?  How had he lost her so
soon? 

Too restless to
sit still, Conar got up to search again, but the blackness was impenetrable,
and he fell immediately.  Reluctantly, he sat again.  For hours, he
strained his eyes and ears against the darkness, trying to see and hear,
struggling desperately to stay awake, in case Zena  should come this
way.  He slept anyway, despite the hard ground, the wind that chilled him
even through the furs.  For two nights now, he had forced himself to stay
awake, so he would know if Zena left the shelter.  On this third night,
his body could resist no longer. 

When he awoke the
light was already strong.  Conar leaped up,  furious at himself for
sleeping so long.  He ran quickly through the trees toward the
river.  The distance was greater than he had remembered, and the sun was
already in the middle of the sky when he reached it.  All the way, he had
listened, even climbed trees to look for Zena, but he had seen nothing. 
Here, though, he was out of the trees, and he would surely find her.  For
hours, he scoured the riverbanks, climbed each hill that came before him, so he
could see into the distance, but still there was no sign of her. 

Conar trudged on,
too dejected now to fight the despairing thoughts that crowded his mind. 
He had lost Zena, might never see her again.  And Menta; he had failed
Menta.  She had trusted him to watch Zena, keep her safe.  The Mother
had trusted him too.  He knew it was so because the Mother made it so easy
for him to know Zena's thoughts, as if she were part of him.  Always,
since their first mating, Zena had been part of him.  Surely, the Mother
would help him now.