CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) (53 page)

"You must
come by the fire," Conar kept saying as he pulled at her shoulders. 
Zena did not respond.  She was too tired to move, to try to figure out if
Conar was real or not.  She closed her eyes again, wanting only to sleep.

The tugging at her
shoulders increased, then ceased abruptly.  Suddenly, there were hands
near her mouth. 

"Drink!" 
Conar's voice was stern, sterner than she had ever heard it.  Obediently,
Zena opened her mouth.  Liquid poured down her throat, a warm, bitter
liquid that made her choke.  The warmth went down into her belly, into her
legs, even her toes.

She opened her
eyes again.  Conar's face was grim now.  He was rubbing at her hands,
her feet, chafing them furiously.  Zena pulled sharply away as sensation
began to return.  Her hands felt as if the fire were burning them, and her
feet -

"Good!" 
Conar sounded satisfied.

"It is not
good, that I should hurt,"  Zena shot back, surprised at the sound of
her own voice.

The rubbing
stopped abruptly.  Joy poured into Conar's face; Zena watched it flow in,
wondered at it.  A small portion of the joy pushed at her heart and tried
to enter.

Conar took her
into his arms and hugged her, kissed her face over and over again.  The
delicate touch of his lips, the warmth of his embrace mingled strangely with
the pain in her hands and feet.

"You are
truly here!" she said in surprise.  "Are you here?" 
The question followed immediately.  Still, she dared not believe.

Conar seemed to
understand.  "I am here. I have found you again - no, you have found
me - or perhaps the Mother has let us find each other.  You are here with
me, in the cave I found so you would come."

Zena stared at
him, and suddenly she knew it was true.  This was not her dream. 
Conar was here.  He was real.  The cave was real, and the fire.

She shook with the
relief of it, with the joy.  Reaching up, she brought Conar's face close
to her own, so she could feel his skin, taste his tears mingling with her own,
know with her lips and tongue that he was truly real.  Just as quickly,
she pulled away, unwilling to take her eyes from his face, lest he disappear,
become a dream again.  His features blurred and she clutched at him
frantically. 

Conar kissed her
eyes, wiped the tears away, and his face came into focus again.  "You
are here, with me," he repeated, and hugged her harder, so hard she had to
gasp for breath.

"Now you know
I am real," he told her, loosening his grip and grinning.

"I do not
want to let you go again, ever," he added fervently.

Zena held on to
him tightly, still trying to absorb.  She was here, in a cave with Conar,
and there was a fire, a wonderful, hot fire.

How had she come
here?  There had been hands... She remembered the hands.

"Did you
carry me here?"

Conar looked
perplexed.  "I waited here for you.  I did not carry you; you
came yourself."

Zena shook her
head, confused.  Something had carried her.  If Conar had not...

Perhaps the hands
had been part of her dream.  They must have been, but she did not think
so.

She gave up trying
to understand.  Tomorrow, she would try to find the answer.  And in
the end, however she had come, it was the Mother who had brought her here, had
helped her to stay alive even when she had begun to doubt, to give up. 
Her heart filled with gratitude.

Thinking of the
Mother brought another memory.  "I have banished myself," she
said doubtfully to Conar.  "How can you be here when I must be
alone?"

"The Mother
has sent me," Conar replied firmly.  He was sure it was true, but
whether or not he was right, he wanted Zena to believe his words so she would
not argue with him, try to send him away again.

Zena frowned,
considering, but her mind was too confused to work properly, and she could not
tell if Conar was right.  This puzzle, too, would have to wait.

"How did you
get here?"  she asked curiously, then realized she did not need to
know the answer.  Conar was here; she was here, and that was enough.

His response,
though, was simple.  "I walked," he replied, smiling down at
her. 

Zena sighed and
sank back against the ground.  She wanted to sleep now.  "I feel
cold," she told Conar.

"Then we will
go to the fire, and I will wrap your furs around you," Conar
answered. 

He pulled her to
her feet and supported her as she stumbled to the fire.  The tingling in
her toes was stronger, but at the same time her feet were numb, and she could
not feel the ground beneath her.  She felt the furs, though, that Conar
wrapped tightly around her, and the warmth of his body against her own.

"You found my
furs," she muttered drowsily.

"They kept me
alive," he responded gravely.  "Without your furs, I would not
be here now."

"Why are you
alive?"  The question popped out of Conar's mouth before he could
reconsider. But Zena did not seem to think it strange.

"The bison
kept me alive," she replied.  "The Mother sent me to the
bison."

Conar looked up at
the place where the bison had seemed to leap and run in the shadows of the
dancing flames, their bodies formed by the contours of the rocks
themselves.  He did not know what Zena meant, and he knew she was too
weary now to explain.  But if she said the bison had kept her alive, it
must be true.  Tomorrow, he would thank them.  He would give them
life, life that would last forever, by drawing their magnificent bodies where
all could see them.  Here, on the walls of the cave he had found for Zena,
he would make the bison come alive.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

Tron crawled
toward the bushes.  They had left him for dead.  That much he knew,
for he had heard them talking, but he did not remember the rest.  He had
let them believe it, had lain perfectly still, hardly breathing.  To feign
death was not hard.  He had done it often when he hunted, so the animals
would not know he was near.

Almost, he
had
been dead.  For a long time, he had been unable to move at all.  His
head still hurt badly.  He touched it cautiously, and his fingers came
away sticky with blood.  It was dark blood, thick and congealed, and there
was a lot of it - so he was wounded too.  But how had the wound come to
him?  And how had he come here, to the place where they buried the
dead? 

He frowned, trying
to remember.  He had followed Zena and Nevilar to the Ekali and climbed
the tree to watch them, but of what had happened after that, he had no memory
at all.  The events of the past months, though, the hateful lessons, the
forbidding of Akat, the humiliating session with the council, flashed through
his mind with perfect clarity.  He had wanted to leave then, but Menta had
refused. 

Rage coursed
through him.  Now, he would leave, and no one would stop him.  He
never wanted to see any of them, ever again.  But before he could travel,
he must regain some strength, get food and water, and after that, some tools
and furs for the trip.  Perhaps he could steal them while the others
slept.

Gingerly, he
pulled himself to his feet.  Dizziness overcame him and he sat
abruptly.  He would have to get help.  But how?

Nevilar.  He
would make Nevilar bring him what he needed.  She would do it if he
threatened her.  He crawled toward the river, knowing she came there every
afternoon to get water for her mother, and concealed himself in the thick
bushes.

When Nevilar came
down the path and knelt to fill her jugs, he was waiting.  She was pale,
he saw.  He would make her paler.

He called her
name.  She looked confused, and wary.  He called again.  This
time she rose and came toward the sound.  Just before she reached him,
Tron dragged himself to his feet.  She stared at him and went completely
white.  Her mouth opened wide to scream.  Tron clapped his hand over
her lips, so the sound could not emerge.  The effort cost him
dearly.  He almost fell over, but managed to prop himself on her shoulder.

"Do not
scream!" he ordered.  "Do not scream and I will let you go."         

She nodded, her
eyes wide with terror, and he released her.  He wanted desperately to sink
to the ground again, but he knew he would be far more menacing if he stood over
her instead.

"You are
dead,"  she whispered.  "You are dead."

"I am
powerful," he hissed,  "too powerful to die."

Whimpering in
fear, she shrank away from him. 

She believed him,
believed he had come back from the dead!   Despite his weakness, Tron
wanted to laugh.  He stopped himself.  It was more important to make
her do what he wanted.  To manage that, he would have to frighten her even
more.  Arranging his face into a terrifying grimace, he glowered at her
fiercely. 

"Do not speak
of this, that you have seen me.  If you speak, you will die.”  Now
her eyes were so wide with terror he thought they might pop out of her face. 
A snort of laughter escaped.  He disguised it as a growl.

"Bring me
food and water, to the place where we meet," he commanded.  "Tonight,
when the sun goes."

Nevilar's head
shook back and forth in frantic denial.  He grabbed her face with one hand
and put his face close to hers.

"Do this or
you will die!"

She nodded
dumbly.  Slowly, Tron turned away, using every ounce of his strength to
stay on his feet. 

Nevilar turned and
ran back to the river, her face rigid with shock.  Tron had come back from
the dead.  He had come back.  Zena had killed him, but he had come
back.  The image of his grisly face, his skull covered with blood, blood
raining down his cheeks, into his fur, was forever stamped on her mind.

Weeping, she sank
to the ground.  He had said he would kill her if she spoke of seeing him,
if she did not bring him what he wanted, but she could not go there, see him
again, see the blood.  But if she did not, he would kill her.  He
could kill her easily.  If he was powerful enough to come back from the
dead, he could kill her wherever she was, anywhere.

Nevilar's hands
went to her face in horror, came away again covered in blood.  She
squealed, a small animal sound of pure panic.  His blood, the blood of
someone dead, was on her face. 

Her mother's footsteps
sounded on the path behind her.  Quickly, Nevilar washed her face in the
river, started to fill one of the jugs.  Her hands were shaking, and the
water spilled out as fast as it went in.

"You take so
long," her mother scolded.

"I had to fix
the strap of the jug,"  Nevilar lied.

"Look! 
You spill the water as fast as you collect it," her mother said in
disgust.  "What is the matter with you that you cannot even get
water?"  Still grumbling, she took the other jug and filled it
herself, then trudged back along the path.

For once, Nevilar
was unaffected by her mother's harsh words.  She crouched where she was,
bent double with the horror of her situation.  She had to do as Tron said,
or he would kill her.  But the others always watched her now, especially
Menta.  How could she find food, sneak away with it?

She made her way
slowly back to the clearing, carrying the jug she had filled.  Perhaps if
she hid it, told her mother she had dropped it in the river...

With a quick
gesture, she shoved the water jug into a clump of bushes.  Later, when no
one was looking, she hid strips of cooked meat and some fruit she had gathered
in the same place.  But how was she to get it to Tron?

She was
lucky.  The whole group set off just before sunset to find honey. 
The bees had a big nest in the field nearby, and if they were approached
properly, they were willing to share it.  No one was surprised when
Nevilar elected to stay behind.  She was afraid of bees, and they seemed
to sense her fear.  They seldom stung anyone else, but they almost always
stung her.

As soon as the
others had disappeared, Nevilar sped to her small enclosure.  Tron was
stretched out on the hard ground, and he did not move as she approached. 

Perhaps he had
died again.  Nevilar went closer.  Still, he did not move. 
Relief washed over her, made her dizzy for a moment.  He must be dead
again, or he would have spoken. 

Hastily, she
placed the food and water beside him, for she could not think what else to do
with it, and crept away.  Just as she reached the edge of the glen, a hand
grabbed her ankle.  She fell headlong into the bushes.

She screamed, a
thin shrill scream that stopped abruptly as fear paralyzed her throat. 
Tron was dragging her backward; he was going to kill her, choke her, as he had
choked Conar.

Tron thrust his
face close to hers.  Blood and grime blackened his heavy features, made
them into a terrifying mask.  The gritty mixture coated his cheeks, his
nose, even the inside of his mouth as he opened it to speak.  He reeked of
blood, of waste and urine.

"I need more
food, tomorrow," he growled.  "Furs and flints, too.  And
much meat."

Bile rose in
Nevilar's mouth.  She choked, unable to speak.  Instead, she nodded
frantically, so he would let her go.  Tron twitched her ankle hard, then fell
back against the ground.

Nevilar ran. 
Vomit came from her lips, dribbled down her chest.  She would not come
again, she could not!

All that night,
she was tormented by dreams of Tron finding her, putting his hands around her
neck, hitting her with rocks until she died.  By morning, she was so
terrified she knew she had to do as he said.  Feigning sickness this time,
she stayed in the shelter until the others were busy with their chores. 
Then she thrust some flints and as much meat as she could find, as well as her
extra fur and one that belonged to her brother, into her bag.  Just before
sunset, she went into the woods on the pretext of finding herbs for her
stomach, and made her way to the glen.  This time, she did not go into it,
but left the bag in the bushes nearby and ran back to the clearing as fast as
her shaking legs would allow.