CIRCLES IN THE SKY (The Mother People Series Book 2) Read online

  CIRCLES IN THE SKY

  BOOK TWO

  THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES

  JOAN DAHR LAMBERT©

  JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

  IS THE

  AUTHOR OF CIRCLES OF STONE:

  Book One in the Mother People Series

  ICE BURIAL: Book Three in the Mother People Series

  AND OF

  WALKING INTO MURDER, WADING INTO MURDER, SKIING INTO MURDER and FORGOTTEN SISTER (Tripping into Murder)

  Books One through Four in the Laura Morland Mystery Series

  FROM THE PYRENEES MOUNTAINS

  TO THE BALEARIC ISLANDS OF SPAIN

  THIRTY THOUSAND YEARS AGO

  PROLOGUE

  Her mother was dead. Zena knew it absolutely. She had seen the images in her mind, dark and terrifying images of men with slashing knives, of desperate women and screaming children. When finally the cries had ceased, she had seen her mother struggling up the steep path to the sacred ledge, the Kyrie, to speak one last time to the Goddess. She was limping, bloodied...

  Zena closed her eyes hard, trying to make the pictures go away, but they would not leave. Only the coming of dawn would dim them. She knew that from experience.

  For as long as she could remember, she had seen in this way. The images came without warning, and they erased all else. She saw not the people around her, not the cave where they lived or the fire, only what was in her mind. Her mother had told her the ability to see what might come to pass before it happened, or long after, was a gift from the Goddess, given only to a few. Zena was grateful to the Goddess for Her gift, but she was not always sure she wanted it. Some of the images were wondrous, of places she had never seen or people she might one day meet, but others were terrifying, like the pictures she was seeing now.

  The sky lightened almost imperceptibly, and the images began to fade. Zena sighed with relief and rubbed her aching eyes. Though she was exhausted, she could not sleep. The knowledge that her mother was dead, that everyone else who had been in the big caverns where they worshiped the Goddess was probably dead as well, swirled deep in her heart, made a wound too painful for sleep. She could not even weep. The tears seemed stuck behind her eyes. Perhaps that was why they hurt so badly. Or maybe she had used up all her tears when she had realized she would never see her mother again. Pain sliced through her body, sharp as a wound, as she remembered.

  "Tomorrow, we must leave," her mother had said. "The men with knives are close, closer than ever before. Three days journey away are some smaller caves where we can hide. As soon as it is safe to travel we will search for a new home, away from the violence."

  At daybreak, they had set out, but her mother had never reached their destination. A man had come running up behind them, gasping for breath. His tribe was trapped in the Mother's chamber, he had told them. They had gone there for sanctuary, but the men with knives had followed.

  Her mother had not hesitated. "I must go back," she had said. "The Goddess calls on me to help."

  She had turned to Zena, trying in vain to hide her anguish that they must part. “You must go to the other caves with the people who guard you," she had said gently. “You will be safe there. The Goddess Herself has told me this. And I will soon be back."

  Even then, Zena had known it was not so. Thoughts had tumbled around and around in her mind, but she had been unable to speak.

  A rustling sound had aroused her. "This is for you," her mother had told her, drawing from her skin bag a small wooden statue, very old, with a big belly and full breasts. Zena had taken it into her arms, knowing immediately that it belonged there.

  "You must keep this with you always," her mother had warned. "It was carved long ago by those who first knew the Mother, and it has great power. The Goddess lives in the statue, and She will keep you safe as you journey through your life."

  Then she had pulled Zena close, hugged her as if her heart would break. Tears had flowed from her eyes, fallen warm and heavy on Zena's cheeks. Perhaps she too had known.

  "I grieve with all my heart that I must leave you, my daughter, but that is the will of the Mother. She will care for you, keep you from harm, for you are Hers. Always, the ones called Zena, like ourselves, belong to the Goddess."

  A sob rose in Zena's throat as she remembered the agonizing sense of loss that had overwhelmed her when her mother had finally drawn away. Zena had clung to her, terrified of losing her, but after a while her arms had slowly dropped. It was as if she had known her mother no longer belonged to her but had gone already to the Goddess.

  Her mother had risen, had stood with her arms spread to the sky. One last time she had spoken, and her voice was strong and compelling. Shivers raced along Zena's spine as she heard the words again.

  "Great Goddess, Mother of all life, I leave the child Zena in Your care. Keep her safe, Beloved Mother, so that one day she may fulfill her destiny as I go this day to fulfill my own. Great Goddess, I come to You now."

  For a long moment, her eyes had lingered on Zena's face. Then she had turned away, to go to the Kyrie, to the Goddess. To her death.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The child, Lotar, pulled his sister close against his chest and shrank even further into the shadowy crevice. The men with knives were still there; he could tell because the cavern was filled with flickering grey light. The labyrinth of caves and passages that wound beneath the cliffs was completely black unless someone came with a lamp.

  It was strange, though, that he heard no voices. Perhaps the invaders had gone and left the lamp behind? He moved slightly, trying to peer around the boulder that shielded his hiding place, but drew back almost instantly. It could be a trick. The men with knives could be waiting silently, to see if anyone was still alive.

  Did any of the others still live? He pictured their faces. His mother had been taken captive in an earlier raid, for she could still bear young. He had not seen her for a long time. The men had taken his older sister, too. They took all the women who could be forced to carry their seed. But the old women, they killed. Marita, his grandmother, was old, very old, so she must be dead. She had cared for him and his sister after their mother had been taken, and he loved her best of all, after his mother. Marita had brought them here after the latest raid with the others in the tribe who had survived, to seek sanctuary in the big caverns, but the men with knives had followed.

  He shuddered and pushed the images away. He did not want to think about the people who had been killed, the people he loved. Deep inside, he knew he would never forget the screams and groans, the sound of fists hitting flesh and bone, the desperate cries of the children and frantic appeals of the women, but another part of him resisted the horrors, wanted to make them disappear as if they had never happened. Had it not been for the smell, the terrible smell of sweat and blood and death, he might have succeeded. The sickening odor permeated the tunnel where he hid, assaulting his nostrils every time he breathed, and it would not let him forget.

  His small sister, Balinor, wriggled against him and opened her mouth to speak. Lotar's hand was on her lips before a sound could emerge. He warned her with his eyes and she subsided. She was too young to understand what had happened, but she had heard the horrifying sounds of death and knew that something was terribly wrong.

  He must get her out of here. Maybe the lamp would go out, and then they could move without being seen. He knew the caves better than most, certainly better than the men with knives. His tribe had lived nearby and he had played in them all his life. Even in the dark, he knew every turn, every hiding place.

  A muffled sound, like a body falling, almost made him gasp. He held o
n to Balinor and kept them both still. For hours, it seemed, they stayed still. Balinor finally slept, but Lotar dared not relax his vigilance. Hunger tormented him, and thirst. The skin water bag that hung around his neck had long ago been emptied. He ran his tongue around his dry lips to moisten them, but there was no wetness left.

  The light dimmed, and then, suddenly, the tunnel was pitch black. The lamp must have gone out. Lotar waited, holding his breath. No sounds came. He shook Balinor gently and waited until she was alert, then he whispered very quietly in her ear. "We escape now. Like the games. No noises at all!"

  She nodded; Lotar could feel the bobbing of her head. She had played this game with him many times before. He tried to get all the way through the caves without being spotted by his friends, while she trailed noiselessly behind.

  Holding tightly to Balinor’s hand, Lotar slithered out of the crevice and crept through the tunnel. The smell of blood was stronger here. The men of his tribe had stationed themselves in the higher caves to try to keep the invaders from getting this far, but they had not succeeded.

  Against his volition, memory returned. He saw again the cruel faces behind the flickering lamps, saw the knives flash. The men were laughing, he remembered, because they had found some more women and even some girls. One of them had grabbed Katalin. She was older than Lotar, but she was still one of his best friends. Lotar had flung himself at the man, trying to make him let go of Katalin, but she had screamed at him to take Balinor and run, and so he had. He had darted away and hidden behind the big boulder. There was a narrow crevice in the wall behind it, and he and Balinor had squeezed inside. No one had seen them.

  He bumped his head and came abruptly back to the present. The tunnel was low here and he knew he had almost reached the big cavern, the one where the Goddess, the Mother as they often called Her, had been born. The deep black pool at one end of the cavern was Her womb, Zena had told him. The Great Mother had given birth to Herself, Zena had said, just as She had given birth to the earth and all that grew upon it. Zena was the wise woman for the tribe that had lived here, and mother of the young Zena, who was one of his best friends.

  The circle of stones where they spoke to the Goddess was in the Mother's chamber, too. It was a sacred place. Perhaps he would be safe there. Lotar started to go through the narrow passage that led to the chamber, then stopped abruptly. An opening high in the rocks above the pool let in light, he remembered, and he and Balinor would be seen. He had better go back.

  Another thought intruded. The light would enable him to see as well. Zena could be there, and Conar, who was her mate and father to the young Zena. They had gone to hide with the young Zena but then they had come back to help. He had seen Zena standing before the image of the Goddess just before the men with knives had attacked. Only now the serene face that had smiled at him so many times would be covered in blood. To see Zena dead would be like seeing the Goddess Herself dead.

  Lotar shivered convulsively. He did not want to go there. He poked Balinor gently so she would go back, and led her out of the narrow passage into the next cave. This was his favorite because of the paintings of bison and antelope that leaped across the walls as if they were alive. Conar and his sister, Lilan, had made them. Lotar wished he could see them one last time, but the darkness was absolute. Still, to know the animals were there was comforting.

  He went on, through the winding tunnels and the caves that lay between them. When he heard the dripping he knew he had come to the cave with the magnificent formations. Some rose from the floor like huge underground trees that had lost all color but white. Others, long and slender, hung from the roof of the cave, and they shimmered with blue and yellow and purple when light was shone on them. They were more beautiful almost than the paintings. Balinor tugged at his hand, wanting him to stop and make a light so they could see. She loved this cave.

  "We have no lamp," he whispered. He heard her sigh, but she did not press him.

  "We come out soon," he told her, still whispering. "Then we must be very quiet. The bad men are still here."

  She whimpered softly, afraid. Lotar pulled her close and hugged her. "They will not catch us," he assured her. "But we must be very quiet, as quiet as we have ever been."

  They went up now, through a tight passage. The walls around them became dryer, the sound of dripping faded. Beyond the next curve was the entrance to the tunnels, and relief from the darkness. Lotar rounded the last corner and stopped abruptly. There was no light. Could the sun itself have been killed?

  Balinor pulled his arm, so he would come closer. "Night," she whispered in her quietest voice.

  She was right. It was night. The men with knives would be sleeping. Lotar breathed a sigh of relief but the relief quickly vanished. He and Balinor could escape more easily in the darkness but where were they to go? All the others were dead, or taken captive, and there was no one to help them. Never before in ten years of life had he been completely alone, without an adult to guide him, and he did not like the feeling.

  Sensing his fear, Balinor whimpered. He shushed her quickly and straightened his shoulders. After all, he knew what plants were good to eat, how to make a fire with flint. It was summer, too. Food was plentiful, the air warm. As soon as the light came again he would find a new flint, look for nuts and berries to eat. Now, he must get them away from here, so the men could not find them in the morning.

  Below him a fire flickered in the clearing where Zena and her tribe had once made their food and slept. He could make out the forms of bodies, and faint noises of heavy breathing and snoring, reached his ears.

  Another sound made his heart pound. It was Katalin's voice. "Do not think you can terrorize me, you brute," she said fiercely.

  A man's laugh rang out. Words followed, but Lotar could not understand them. The men with knives had different words. Still, the man's voice did not sound angry, only teasing. Lotar was glad of that. Katalin was alive, and she did not even sound hurt. All her usual spirit was there. She had the temperament of her mother, the others had told him, a woman called Katli who was a great hunter, better than most of the men. Katli and some others in Zena's tribe had left many moons ago to look for a new home. Katalin had gone with them, but then she had come back. Lotar did not know why.

  Perhaps he could rescue Katalin, or maybe she could escape. But how would he let her know he was here? He thought of the bird sounds. Katalin had taught all the children to whistle like birds. It would have to be an owl now since it was dark, Lotar decided, or the men with knives might become suspicious.

  He uttered a low, hooting call. There was no response. But of course, she could not respond. He hooted again, then one more time.

  Katalin's voice came again. "I must go to the bushes," she said. "Surely, a woman must be allowed to go to the bushes."

  The man's response was lazy, as if he were tired. In a few moments, Lotar heard the sound of footsteps. He hooted again, a lower call. A low hoot come back to him, then he saw Katalin's form outlined against the fire as she climbed up the slope. He hissed at her, and she turned abruptly in his direction.

  "Katalin," he breathed. She saw him then and knelt beside him. Tears ran down her cheeks and he was surprised. He had never seen Katalin cry before. His own eyes began to water, and he brushed the tears away.

  "Lotar! And Balinor," Katalin whispered. "Quick, you must get away. They must not find you."

  "You must come too," Lotar begged.

  "They will follow if I come now. But I will come after you as soon as I can escape. I will escape, truly I will. But you must go first. Go to Zena, the young Zena. She is hidden in some small caves to the west, where the men cannot find her."

  Relief surged into Lotar, to hear that the young Zena was still alive. The ones called Zena were special, closer to the Goddess than any other. For both of them to be dead would be terrible.

  A gruff voice called from below. Katalin stood. "I come," she called back. "I come, do not fear.

  "He will come aft
er me if I do not return. Listen now as I tell you where to go. You must travel west along the cliffs until you reach the hills beyond the mountains, three days journey away. Go only west, no other direction, keeping the cliffs always on this side, the trees on the other." She pointed to Lotan's left arm, then to his right. "You will know you have reached the hiding place when you see the grove of white trees. Only in that place are there the white trees. Go above them and make the bird sounds, not too loudly, lest the men with knives hear. They are everywhere. Whistle softly so that only the people who guard Zena will know you are there. They will help you."

  The harsh voice came from the clearing again, impatient now. Hurriedly, Katalin embraced Lotar, then Balinor.

  "The Mother goes with you," she said. "The Mother is truly with you, to have saved you. Have courage; I will follow..."

  The sound of a man cursing came from below, and then they heard footsteps. Katalin ran down the slope. "Do not let the men with knives see you," she hissed. "They must not find the young Zena."

  Her voice changed, became loud and imperious. "Do not be so impatient," Lotar heard her say. "Can a woman have no peace?"

  His eyes clung to her reassuring figure as she stood by the fire, warming herself, but when she sank down among the bodies littering the clearing and disappeared from view, he buried his face in his hands and let the tears fall unchecked down his face. To find Katalin, to know she was alive and then lose her again so quickly was almost worse than not finding her at all. Even the thought that she would follow did not touch his desolation. He was alone, all alone with Balinor, and to manage by himself seemed impossible. His body felt too heavy to move, and his head was strangely light. He could not seem to think. Which way was west? His thoughts tumbled randomly like bits of grain scattered by a restless wind, and he could not make them come together.