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

  Slowly, very slowly, she stumbled on. Her steps were painful, the smell of blood around her strong, but she was strangely content. It was up to the Mother now. If the Mother intended her to reach Zena, she would. If She did not, then Marita would return to Her instead. It did not matter very much. And so she went on, waiting patiently for the Mother to decide.

  Dawn came, and she went into the woods to rest. A puddle of clear water in a small hollow tempted her. She crawled to it and drank, was pleased to see berry bushes growing beside the puddle. Perhaps the Mother did mean her to live, to bring her to food and water. There was shelter as well, she realized, in a hole left by the roots of a big fallen tree. Marita pulled herself into the hole and slept for many hours. When she awoke, the sun was high in the sky. She stumbled on, one step at a time.

  For two days and nights she traveled in this fashion. Once, she thought she heard a small voice in the distance, and she tried to go faster. It had sounded like Balinor, the child she loved more than any other, except of course for Lotar, Balinor's brother, whom she loved equally well. She had cared for both of them since the men with knives had taken her daughter. Then she realized she had just imagined the voice, out of hope, and she thrust the hope away. To think of Lotar and Balinor was too painful. They had been in the big cave with her when the men with knives had come. She had been right beside them and then she had not seen them again.

  Marita took a deep breath. She must not think of them, lest all her strength, her will to go on, should disappear.

  On the third night, strong tremors shook the earth as she slept. Marita stayed where she was, in a hollow in the woods, and listened to the noises. Rocks were falling in the cliffs, and far away tremendous crashes and booms came, from the place she had just left. She shook her head, awed by the Mother's power. The Goddess could make huge mountains tremble and fall. Even the men with knives, who thought themselves so strong, could not escape the Mother's wrath.

  Another day passed, then another. Finally, in the night, she came to a place that looked familiar. She had been to the small caves where the young Zena had been hidden only once before, but she knew that many birches grew there. The white trees were all around her now, gleaming in the moonlight. She staggered up the slope, looking for the entrance to the caves. But where the entrance had been was only rubble.

  Perhaps she was not looking in the right place. At night, it was hard to tell. The entrance might be in the pile of rocks below. She stumbled down the slope a short way, towards the fields. But here, too, the land felt wrong. It was cracked and bumpy, with great gaping holes, not flat as she remembered. Something else was wrong, she realized. There was no smell of fire. Surely they would have a fire.

  Understanding came so suddenly her legs collapsed under her. The earthquake had come here, too. It had put rubble where the entrance should be, made the gaping holes in the ground all around her. Had it made the caves collapse as well? Surely, though, the people would have run out, would have gone somewhere else. Maybe that was why there was no smell of smoke. And Zena; what had happened to the young Zena?

  Hardly aware of her movements, Marita began to crawl frantically across the hillside. There was terror here; she could feel it in her bones, her skin, but she did not want to believe it. She wanted to find something, anything that would assure her that the caves were still there, that some of the people who guarded the young Zena had escaped, that the child at least was alive. In her resided the knowledge and wisdom that had sustained the Mother People for so long; without her, it would all be lost. Surely, the Goddess would not let that happen, would not let the next Zena as well as her mother be killed.

  Tears poured from Marita's eyes, from helplessness, from pain and weariness, so that she could hardly see. But still she crawled, as if her movements would somehow erase the fearful certainty that was growing in her mind.

  Her hand touched something soft, and she scrubbed the tears from her eyes so she could see what it was. Then she sank to the ground with a low moan of despair. It was Taggart; she would know him anywhere by his wild and tangled hair. That was all she could see, his head. The rest of him was buried beneath the rocks. He must have tried to run, but the rocks had fallen on him.

  The agony of the next thought was so great Marita felt as if all the breath had been knocked from her body. If Taggart was dead, the young Zena must be dead. He would not have left her. He would have brought her with him, would have tried to save her. She must be there, too, buried in his arms beneath the rocks.

  They were gone; all of them were gone. Even the young Zena was gone. The Mother had taken them all.

  Marita's body went limp. Darkness descended on her, a welcome darkness that protected her from anguish too intense to be borne. All will to live drained away; she ceased to see or hear, ceased almost to breathe, but only lay still as death, waiting for the Mother to take her as well. Nothing roused her, not the soft light as dawn crept into the air, not the sound of stealthy footsteps in the woods below the hill, not even the man who stopped in surprise to stare at her still form. He almost tripped over her, but she never moved or opened her eyes.

  The man frowned in consternation. He had better look more carefully where he was going, instead of keeping his eyes always on the two children. The old woman was not really dead, he thought, only unconscious, and if he had stumbled over her she might have cried out. Then the children would have seen him, and he did not want them to see him until they had led him to the young woman he had claimed. She was called Katalin, and she was the first woman he had wanted since his mate had died. Katalin was fiery, full of spirit, as his mate had been.

  He sighed wearily. All the spirit had spilled out of his mate when the infant had been born, and then her life had spilled out as well. Sadness enveloped Borg as he remembered. He had cared very much for this mate. Still, the woman he had claimed would drive the sadness away. He was certain of it. He wanted to find her again very badly. Once he had tamed her a little, she would make an excellent mate.

  He and two other men had been searching for her ever since she had left, following the trail she and Torlan had made, but they had found nothing. Then, as Borg had sat slumped and disappointed against a rock, he had seen a slight movement above him. It was not Katalin he had seen but some children, covered in mud. His decision had been instantaneous. Pretending he had seen nothing, he had told the two other men to return to the clearing and leave him to search alone. He did not trust them. They might have killed the children, and Borg did not want them dead. Then they could not lead him to Katalin. Besides, to kill children was wrong. He would never do such a thing.

  The men had been glad enough to go, so they could find more women, plan more raids. Borg spat in disgust. This band was too brutal for his taste, and he wished now he had never joined them. Restlessness had driven him to it, after his mate had died. But he had soon been disillusioned. Except for the leader, who was called Vetron, all the men were young and untried, without sense. Most had come with Vetron from the far north, where all the tribes lived by violence. With no elders to restrain them, they killed children and old ones as easily as they killed a wild pig. Killing was sometimes necessary, Borg knew, but to kill people for no reason, even those without weapons, was wrong. He had tried to tell this to the men and make them stop, but they had only mocked him and challenged him to fights.

  Vetron was the worst, though he was old enough to know better. He hated the Mother People, and he had taught the younger men to hate them too. They were not really people, but spirits who would steal the strength and virility from men if they were not killed, he had said. Once he had started the killing, the other men had to prove they could kill just as easily. After that, they seemed unable to stop.

  Now, they themselves were dead, swallowed by the earthquake. He had watched from above as the clearing where they slept split in two, leaving a huge crevasse where once a hearth had been. The men had disappeared in an instant. Smoke from the fire had lingered for a moment longe
r against the rubble and then it too had vanished.

  Borg shivered at the memory. The Great Hunter must have been very angry at all the killing. He felt satisfaction that the men’s cruelty had been so swiftly avenged, but he was disappointed that the Great Hunter had destroyed the caves and the passages beneath the earth. They would have made a good home for his tribe. He could have gone back for his people, led them to the new place, with its fertile valley and warm caves, and lived there with Katalin. She had seemed to like him, even though she had shouted at him. Still, she had quickly become more compliant. His father had told him many times that women needed to know right away that they must obey. After that, they were content.

  He looked again at the old woman. She had not moved, seemed unaware of the children's presence, though they had spoken. A pale splotch against the dark leaves beyond her caught his attention. He went closer. It was the head of a man. The rest of him was buried beneath the rocks. So the earthquake had come here, too.

  The children emerged from the white trees and began to climb a low hill dotted with piles of boulders. Borg watched them carefully. The boy seemed to be searching for something among the rocks. Frowning in concentration, he stood still and pursed his lips. A sound emerged, one that was unfamiliar to Borg, but he knew it was the call of a bird. The noise jogged his memory. An owl had called the night Katalin had disappeared to go to the bushes, had lingered such a long time. Afterward, she had tried to leave again.

  Borg smiled in satisfaction. He had been right. The children were leading him to Katalin. She must have seen them when she went to the bushes, arranged to meet them here. Perhaps she had come already, was hiding nearby. As soon as he saw her, he would claim her again. No one could stop him from having her now - especially not Torlan.

  Borg's lips compressed in anger. That Torlan had taken his woman made him furious. He had treated the young man well, even helped him, shown him that unless he was very good at fighting, to go against the creed of the others was dangerous. Any man who did not behave as they did, or pretend to, was singled out and mocked, and forced to fight all the others as he himself had been. He had been able to win the fights, but for Torlan that would have been impossible. He was thin and weak. And then Torlan had betrayed him by running away with Katalin!

  As soon as he saw Torlan, Borg decided, he would challenge him. Once a woman was claimed, no other man could take her. Now, their knives would decide who kept Katalin. That was the only way.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Berries, Lotar, I see berries!" Balinor pulled insistently at Lotar's arm.

  Lotar grabbed Balinor's hand and pulled her back behind the boulder. "We must be quiet! We do not know who is here."

  "But I see berries, Lotar," Balinor repeated indignantly in a louder voice. She was very hungry.

  Lotar tugged at her arm again. "I see them too, but now we must listen for the bird song. I think someone tries to answer, but they are not very good."

  Below them, in the cave, Zena sat up straight. Was it really Lotar? Lotar and Balinor? At first, she had been afraid that the sounds were only a dream, or something she had imagined to comfort herself, but now she was almost sure they were real.

  She tried to call out, but a sudden rush of emotion filled her chest and she could not speak.

  Lotar pursed his lips to make the call of the thrush again, but before the whistle emerged Zena managed to make her voice work again. I am here!" she squeaked, as loudly as she could. "Here, under the earth!"

  Lotar's mouth opened wide in astonishment. He knew that voice, or he thought he did. It sounded strangely muffled, as if the person was near here, but still far away. He did not answer but began to creep around, looking for its source.

  The silence made Zena frantic. Was it possible she really was imagining the voices? Perhaps no one was there after all. "It is me, Zena," she called out again, clenching her fists with anxiety. "I am here, under the ground!"

  "Here," she cried again, and she stuck her arm through the hole above her head.

  "Zena!" The voice was utterly astonished. Fingers, warm and sticky, grasped her hand. Zena held on to them with all her strength. They were real fingers, Lotar's fingers. He was truly here, and she was not dreaming.

  "What are you doing down there?" In his confusion, Lotar sounded indignant.

  "I was trying to sleep, waiting for someone to come," Zena explained, glad that her voice was almost normal again. "I knew someone would come eventually, because the Goddess said She would keep me safe. And then I heard Balinor, but at first I did not dare to believe."

  "But where are the people who guard you?" There was fear in Lotar's voice.

  "They are dead," Zena whispered. "I think they are dead, from the earthquake."

  Lotar's fingers tightened on her hand. "Then there is only ourselves," he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. "Except Katalin could come. She told me she would follow..."

  His voice trailed off. He did not really think she would come. He had seen what the earthquake had done, from the hills above. He and Balinor had climbed there to get away from the shaking. All the area around the clearing where the men with knives had slept had disappeared, had twisted sideways and fallen into a great hole. Katalin had been there, with the men. Still, she was a good runner, better than any, he reminded himself, and she might have escaped.

  Zena's voice interrupted his thoughts. "You must get me out," she said firmly. "Then we will know what to do."

  "Why do you not walk out?" Lotar asked.

  "The passage is blocked," she answered, "and the rocks are too big to move. We must make the hole bigger."

  Lotar immediately let go of her hand and began to dig. Showers of dirt fell into Zena's face. "There is not enough space between the rocks," he told her. "I will try to move the rocks in the passage. Where do I enter?"

  She told him how to find the entrance to the cave, then listened to his footsteps recede. Panic assaulted her. What if something should happen to him and he did not return? "Come back!" she called. "Lotar, come back!"

  "I am here," a small voice said. Balinor. It was Balinor. Zena had forgotten all about her.

  "Tell Lotar to come back," she said. But Lotar returned almost before the words were out of her mouth. "The entrance is blocked, too," he told her.

  Zena sighed. "Can you get me water?" She thrust her skin bag through the hole. Lotar ran to the stream and filled it, then lowered it again. Zena drank deeply. When she had finished, Balinor's hand appeared holding berries. They were red and juicy, squashed into a soggy mass by her fist, and they tasted wonderful.

  Zena felt her strength and confidence return. "There is a way to get me out," she stated, surprised at her own assurance, "so we must think of it."

  Lotar sat above her, his chin on his hand, considering. "Maybe I could dig in another place, where there are no rocks," he suggested finally.

  "Good! I will dig from below in the same place."

  Zena picked up the sharp rock she had used before and began to scrape at the earth in the far corner of her enclosure. From above, Lotar dug with a sharp stick in the same place. Balinor came to dig as well. They worked until the sun was low in the sky, but they seemed no closer to each other.

  "Perhaps we should try another place," Zena said, trying to ignore the bits of dirt that fell into her mouth every time she opened it to speak.

  "Could I have some..." Her words were cut off by a great shower of dirt and pebbles cascading down on her face. And then, abruptly, the earth below Lotar and Balinor collapsed. They tumbled into the enclosure, knocking Zena to the ground.

  "We did it!" Lotar cried jubilantly, rubbing his head where it had hit a rock. "Look! There is a big hole now."

  Zena looked up through the cascading dust that glittered in the sunlight. She could get out! She could truly get out! Of course, she had always known she would be rescued because the Mother did not lie, but the relief was enormous. She smiled in satisfaction. The hole was big enough for them to
go in and out easily, but at the same time most of her cave was intact. She was glad; she liked it here.

  She looked behind her in alarm, lest the Goddess had been injured. But the little figure was still there, though she had fallen over. Zena straightened her.

  "We can live here until Katalin comes," she decided. "There is water in the stream, berries and tubers in the fields, even melons, I think. And we can make a fire. The smoke will go out the small hole. There is room for all of us to sleep."

  Lotar hauled himself out of the enclosure to inspect the hole from above, pulling Balinor with him. Zena clambered out behind them, desperate suddenly to feel fresh air on her skin, to stand beneath the great arc of the sky. Not a single cloud marred the brilliant expanse of blue. Her eyes feasted on the deep color, looked down at the greenness of plants, the brilliance of flowers, as if she had never seen them before.

  Balinor tugged at her hand. The chubby fingers were so sticky Zena could not loosen her grasp. Her mind turned to more practical matters. The child was dirty, very dirty, and so was Lotar. Their faces were streaked with dirt, their arms and legs as well.

  "You are brown all over," Zena said.

  "That was so the men with knives could not see us," Lotar replied, proud of his idea.

  "That was good," Zena responded. "But now I think we can take the dirt away, because we can hide in the cave. We must get food, though, before the darkness comes again."

  "We will go to the stream to clean ourselves," she told Balinor. “Lotar can come too," she added, seeing Balinor's alarm at being separated from her brother.

  They lowered themselves into a pool in the stream and splashed contentedly, then they clambered out to search for food. When the light began to fade, they returned to the sleeping place. Lotar brought out the flint he had found and made a fire with dry grass and sticks, positioning it carefully under the smaller hole so the smoke would go out.