CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) (63 page)

Lune voiced Zena's
thoughts.  "The reeds do not mean your vision will come," she
assured Menta.  "It cannot be the same.  The sound you heard was
beautiful.  I remember you said so.  This sound is not beautiful."

That is certainly
true, Zena thought, relieved that the shrill piping was fading as Pulot led the
children down the hill toward the marshes where she had found the reed. 
But they returned quickly, each holding one for themselves, and soon the
clearing resounded with piercing, discordant noises.  Zena shooed them
away and went to join Menta and Lune.

"I have not
seen any of Menta's vision on the cliffs," she told them, trying to
reassure herself as well as them.  The fear in their faces had startled
her and forced her to confront the sense of uneasiness that had plagued her
recently.  The feeling was so nebulous she managed to ignore it most of
the time, but it never disappeared entirely.

"The Mother
shows me many things there, but she has not spoken of violence," she
added, almost defiantly.  "She speaks instead of the earth and its
creatures, of the sky and sun and moon, shows me how they are connected, how
intricate is the web of Her creation."

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.