CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) (55 page)

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 showed 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.