CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) (52 page)

For a moment,
terror gripped her.  For as far as she could see in all directions, there
were only bison.  They stretched the whole width of the valley.  She
could not get out of the herd even if she walked for hours, and if she wanted
to reach the foothills, she had no choice but to walk among them.

Zena looked down
at the expanse of rounded backs, at the thousands of curved horns atop the
lowered heads.  All night, she had slept among them, and not a single
animal had threatened her.  There was no reason why they would threaten
her now.

Slowly, calmness
returned to her heart.  These were the Mother's creatures, like all
others.  If the Mother had put her among them, she would not fear
them.  Instead, she would be grateful for their warmth.  Plucking
some fruit to eat as she walked, she climbed down from the tree and rejoined
the herd.

All day, she
traveled with the bison, occasionally climbing a tree for nuts and fruit, or
gathering ripe grains to eat.  She found a few muddy streams and one big
pond, for water.  They were well trampled by thousands of hoofs, but the
water refreshed her anyway.  When night came, she snuggled down among the
warm bodies.  The big animals sniffed her curiously when she nestled
against them, and a few licked her with their scraping tongues, but none
threatened her.  When they rose again at dawn, she rose with them and
proceeded slowly on her way.

The Mother was
speaking to her through the bison, she realized.  All the materials she
needed to keep her alive - her garments, her tools and flints, even the company
of her own kind - had been taken from her.  She had only the bison now,
and the Mother. To place her life entirely in the Mother's hands was hard, but
it was the only way to atone for the act she had committed.  She had taken
a life and she must offer up her own, must trust the Mother to help her find
ways to stay alive if that was Her will. She must recognize the opportunities
the Mother gave her, too, even such a strange solution as a herd of bison.

By the third day,
Zena felt as if she had traveled with the huge animals forever.  When their
numbers began to thin, and she realized she was approaching the edge of the
herd, she was sad.  They gave her warmth and the solace of their company,
and she did not want to leave them.  Later, though, as evening approached,
a strong feeling of restlessness suddenly rippled through the herd.  One
bison raised its head and tossed it sharply; the next one imitated the
motion.  Soon all the animals around her were tossing their heavy heads
and stamping at the ground with their sharp hoofs.

For the first time
since she had been among them, Zena was afraid.  This, too, was a
message.  She was being warned, and she must listen.  She sprinted
toward a tree, to get out of the herd, but before she could reach it, the
animals began to run.  Zena ran with them.  She had no choice. 
Briefly, she was able to keep up, for the bison were not moving very
fast.  Then dust from hundreds of thundering hoofs rose heavily to fill
the air.  The thick cloud blinded her, made it almost impossible to avoid
the jostling, shoving animals, or even to breathe.  The bison could no
longer see her, either.  Soon, they would trample her.

Desperately, Zena
swerved toward another tree and scrambled onto a low branch.  It was
small, but at least she was above the herd.  The mass of animals charged
past her, seeming not even to see the tree.  It swayed and cracked with
the impact of their heavy bodies.  One of them crashed directly into the
trunk, and she felt the tree begin to topple.  She did not wait to hit the
ground, but launched herself onto the back of the nearest bison and clung with
all her strength to its shaggy fur.  The animal shuddered and twitched,
trying to throw her off.  Zena clung harder.  Again, it tried to
shake her off, then the momentum of the herd forced it forward.  Ignoring
her, it galloped on.

Dust-laden wind
tore through Zena's hair, into her eyes, blinding her completely.  She
pressed her head against the bison's shoulder and wrapped her thighs around its
back.  Only one thought had meaning for her now.  She must hold on,
must ride with the huge creature as if she were attached to it.

On and on the
bison ran, in long, lunging strides.  Slowly, Zena adjusted to its
pace.  She felt the ripple of its powerful shoulders beneath her thighs,
felt her own body begin to flow in rhythm with the strong, graceful
movements.  Though her muscles were taut with the effort of holding on,
within herself she was utterly relaxed.  Truly, she was a part of the
bison now, had become one with it, as if her body had merged into its
body.  They belonged together, she and the bison, as they charged across
the valley.

All fear left
Zena.  She felt nothing but the splendor of the massive creature beneath
her, the power of its thickly muscled body, the grace of its movements as it
propelled them forward.  The sensation was ecstatic, wondrous.  She
wanted it never to stop, to ride like this forever.

Gradually, the
herd slowed down.  Zena clung harder, for unlike its gallop, the bison's
trot was bumpy.  Sadness filled her, that the ride was ending, that she
might never again experience this ecstasy.  Her euphoria disappeared
abruptly as the animal beneath her began to snort and stamp, once again aware
of its unexpected burden.  The other bison had slowed to a walk, but they
were still restless as well.  She could feel their uneasiness, as if it
flowed from their bodies into hers. 

Something must
have disturbed them badly to make them stampede like that, she realized. 
Lions could have attacked at one edge of the herd, perhaps, and spooked them
all.  Now any strange smell or sight, like herself, would set them off
again.  To walk among them would be dangerous.

Zena clung grimly
to the agitated bison, hoping it would settle soon.  Her whole body shook
with exhaustion, now that the ride was over.  Her thighs were trembling,
her arms aching with the effort, and she knew she could not hold on much
longer. 

A wide patch of
lush grass appeared ahead.  One bison lowered its head to eat; another
followed suit.  Momentarily distracted, the animal she was riding began to
graze. 

This was her
chance.  Carefully, Zena lowered herself from the bison's back and crept
toward a small group of boulders.  Despite her caution, one of the animals
charged her.  She ran headlong into the protection of the rocks, grateful that
her ride had taken her even closer to the edge of the herd.  When she
clambered on top of one of the boulders to get her bearings, she realized that
the ride had carried her across the valley as well.  Finally, she had
reached the foothills.

Zena smiled, the
first smile that had crossed her face since she had left.  The smile
vanished quickly as she considered her predicament.  The bison had kept
her warm for three nights.  Now,  she would be without them. 
The light was fading fast, and once again, clouds were gathering.

Wearily, she
hauled herself up a rocky ledge and set off into the foothills.  She
tripped almost immediately.  Her legs were quivering so hard she could
barely stand, and she was still shaking all over from the shock of her
experience.  Soon, the cold reached her as well.  Her shivering
intensified until she had to pick up each leg with her hands and push it
forward in order to walk.  She forced herself on.  Up here in the
hills, she might find flints.  Maybe she could even find a cave. 
There were caves, she knew that from the dream.  Surely, if she could find
one, she would survive the night. 

Rain began to fall
in icy slivers.  Zena spotted some likely pieces of rock for flint. 
Hurriedly, she gathered leaves and bits of grass, anything she could find that
was still dry.  She struck one stone against another as hard as she could,
over and over.  On the third try, sparks flew out, but they did not land
on the little bundle of leaves.  The next time, though, the leaves caught
and blazed.  Quickly, Zena plied them with twigs.  The small fire
burned brightly for a moment, then the rain came down in torrents and it
fizzled into nothing.

Zena poked
helplessly at the embers, trying to summon the strength to go on, the will to
believe she could stay alive.  It was hard to trust in the Mother when she
was so cold, when there seemed to be no possible way to survive the
night.  How could she find a cave when she could barely walk, find dry
grasses and wood to burn when icy rain penetrated every crevice?

For a long time,
she just sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, her shoulders hunched
against the freezing onslaught.  Pictures came to her, pictures of fire
and warmth, the protection of a cave.  She imagined herself there, warm
and comfortable.  Her eyes closed, and the pictures were transformed into
dreams.  She was sitting in a cave, where there was no rain, where a big
fire radiated heat.

Zena snapped away
from the dream.  She must find a cave, had to make herself get up again
and look until she had found one.  That was what the Mother was trying to
tell her.  She forced herself to stand, but her legs collapsed under
her.  Again she tried, again they collapsed.  She crawled instead,
moving slowly along on her hands and knees, like an infant.  Her palms
began to bleed, but her hands were numb now and she did not notice.  She
felt the rocks scrape her knees, though.  The pain was sharp and
irritating.  She did not want to hurt.  She was tired of hurting, of
struggling.  It would be much easier just to give up, to let the Mother
take her.  Perhaps, after all, that was what She wanted. 

Sighing, she
pulled herself under a boulder so she could lie down where the slashing rain
could not reach her.  Unexpectedly, the rain stopped and sun broke through
the heavy clouds.  It blazed from the western horizon in a final brilliant
burst of light.  Zena crawled out to it and for a few blessed moments she
felt its warmth against her skin.  Then the sun vanished and darkness and
cold descended. 

Pain began to
shoot into her hands, an almost intolerable pain.  Her feet had the pain
too.  She bit her lips, trying to endure it, and after a while it went
away.  She felt peaceful then, ready to sleep.  Lazily, she stretched
out against the cold rock, only it was not cold now.  It was warm,
comforting.  She was in the dream again, was in a cave, and there was a
fire.

The dream
encompassed Zena, drew the pain from her body, the despair from her
thoughts.  She wrapped herself in it, sealed away the cold dark
night.  There was nothing anymore but the warmth and comfort of the
dream.  When hands reached out and lifted her, she did not notice, except
to wonder if one of the bison had come back.  There were bristly hairs
against her chest, and soft, grunting noises in her ear. She was moving again,
too, but this time, she was being jostled, jiggled up and down, as if the bison
were climbing.  Grimacing, she nestled closer, to steady herself. 
She wanted to sleep quietly, not be jostled like this.

The hands were
under her shoulders now, tight and rough.  They were forcing her to
stand.  Zena frowned, confused.  Bison did not have hands.  She
dismissed the puzzle and concentrated on resisting the hands as they pushed her
forward, propped her up each time she tried to sink to the ground.  She
did not want to stand or walk.  She wanted to sleep, but the hands would
not stop pestering her, and finally she gave up.  It would be easier to do
what they wanted.  Then she could lie down again.  She took one step
forward, then another.

Fire!  She
smelled fire.  Zena raised her head sharply.  The fire smelled
different.  It was a real fire, not the fire in her dream.  But that
was impossible.  Could it be real? 

Hope flared inside
her, broke through her numb oblivion.  Slowly, agonizingly, she forced her
frozen body to move toward the smell.  The darkness was impenetrable, and
at first she could see nothing.  Reaching out with her hands, she groped
her way along.  Then she saw a glow in front of her, a glow inside a deep
black hole.

Zena stared at it,
not daring to believe.  There was a fire, a fire in a cave.  She
staggered toward it, hands upraised, as if to ward off a blow, the blow of
finding that she was still in her dream, that the fire, the cave, the warmth
she felt already, were not real after all. 

Something moved
suddenly behind the fire.  It was a figure, a ghostly, unsubstantial
figure in the flickering light, one she had never thought to see, not here in
this place. 

Conar.  It
was Conar - but Conar could not be here.  He was with the others. 
She knew he was with the others, so she must still be in the dream.  The
fire, the cave, Conar, they were all a dream.  None of it was real. 

Disappointment
rocked Zena, made her sway on her feet, clutch at her belly as if she had been
hit there.  She slumped heavily to the ground, unable to sustain this
final pain.  It was too much, too much to bear, to feel the promise of
life and then have it taken away because it was only a dream.

A voice called her
name, reached through the depths of her misery.  She closed her ears, her
eyes, so she would not have to see or hear this dream that tormented her with
hope and then left her with nothing. 

Someone was
touching her, trying to carry her again.  Zena moaned and tried to tell
the person to go away.

"It is the
Mother's will,"  the voice insisted.  "If the Mother did
not want me to be with you, She would not have shown me your bag.  She has
sent me here."

Zena
frowned.  What did the voice mean, about the Mother and the bag? 
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.  Conar's face was right next to
hers.  Tears were pouring down his cheeks.  Were there tears in
dreams?

She reached up to
touch Conar's cheeks.  Perhaps it was only the rain - but there was no
rain now.  She felt tears prickle behind her own eyelids, as if in
response.