"You must tell me," she said, gazing at him severely.

Hular looked into her dark eyes and found them too intense, too demanding, to resist. He told her about the poppies, then, more hesitantly, about the scene last night. "I do not think Rofina knew what she was doing," he finished. "She did not remember, Durak said."

"No. I suppose she did not." Anger came into Mara's face, made it hard and rigid. "How can they can do such things!" she hissed furiously. "They have made her as she is, by giving her too much of this potion, then taking it away so she must beg, so they can make her do as they wish... It is monstrous; truly, it is monstrous...."

Grabbing her water jug, Mara marched back to the hut and faced Runor. "You cannot hide this from me any longer," she said angrily. "Hular told me and anyway I had guessed something of the kind. Only I did not know... I did not know anyone could be so cruel, so willing to hurt, to use another for... for what?"

Her voice rose to a wail, and she turned away, her features contorted with pain. For a moment Hular thought she was going to weep, but she did not. Instead, her face hardened again, and now he saw only determination in her eyes.

Mara turned to her mother. "You must tell us how we can help Rofina," she said in quieter tones. "That is most important now."

"Yes," Runor agreed, though she was not sure it was true. What was most important now was Mara, that the corrosive bitterness did not reach her soul.

How strange it was, Runor thought sadly, that she herself had planted the poppies that now held Rofina in their terrible grip. She had brought them from the south, had persuaded them to grow in the protected meadow so she could help people in pain. Nothing relieved pain as well as the oil from poppies. Now, they were being used not to heal, as she had intended, but to destroy.

"You can collect some of the poppies and bring them to me," she said finally. "We can prepare them tonight. Rofina must be weaned from them, as a child is weaned from its mother's milk."

Mara nodded. "I will get them. We can go together to find Rofina and tend to her." Her lips tightened harshly. "But after that..." She stopped abruptly.

"After that, I must find Zena and tell her what has happened," Mara continued, but Runor was certain that was not what she had first intended to say.

"Zena must know," Mara insisted, as if aware of her mother's suspicion. "To stop Korg and the Leader is even more important now, lest they harm others as they have harmed Rofina. Perhaps Hular will help me to look for Zena.

"Now, we must get the poppies," she finished. Picking up a large basket, she headed for the meadow. Hular followed.

Runor watched them leave, then she went to the place where she had hidden the Goddess. Like Hular, she had seen the determination in Mara's eyes. The words Mara had not spoken worried her even more. What Mara had really meant to say was: After that will come the revenge.

Pulling the Goddess into her arms, Runor spoke in a strong voice, uncaring of who might hear. "Great Mother, giver of all life, hear me now. All my life I have tried to live by Your words; even when all others have forgotten I have held You in my heart. But now I must follow my own heart, must do what has to be done, lest Mara, too, be forced to live in fear. I will not let her be turned her to stone as I have been turned to stone, let her strength be drained from her as mine has been drained from me. She must not be forced to fight to live, to speak, even to hear Your voice. No, Great Goddess, it must not be. I will do what must be done. Mara must be saved."

For a long time she sat patiently, staring into the face of the Goddess. Slowly the picture of what she must do became clear, as if the layers of her thoughts were peeling away, revealing a kernel of truth in the center.

Another truth emerged: her actions would not pass unnoticed. She would have to answer to the Goddess for her sin. It was a bargain well worth making.

Carefully, she replaced the Goddess, and when Mara and Hular returned she was bent over her pestle as she had been before. She glanced up as they entered, and Mara looked at her in surprise. For the first time in years there was no fear on Runor's face. In its place was serenity - a serenity Mara could not understand.

CHAPTER NINE.

The old woman lifted the baby from its mother's unresisting arms. It did not protest; its eyes were closed, its breathing regular but shallow. Krone was pleased. She had put the herbs in the mother's drink earlier, and as she had hoped, the infant had also been sedated when it suckled. If it had to be sacrificed, at least it would not feel fear. The mother would suffer less as well. When she woke, it would be over.

She gazed down at the tiny face and felt a terrible pity. Another feeling followed quickly, a premonition. One day this child would walk, something inside her said.

Do not count on that, she scolded herself brusquely. Long ago she had been a seer, or so the others had said, and it was true that many events she had seen in her mind had come to pass, but no one wanted to hear of such things any more - especially the Leader. Not that she cared for what he thought. It was just necessary to live through these times as she had lived through so many others. To go against what other people believed seldom worked. Better simply to wait for more changes to come.

Sighing, she wrapped the baby carefully in the soft cloths she had prepared. Would the herbs keep him soothed long enough? She thought they would, but she had not used herbs very often in the last years. Only Korg and the people he selected were allowed to administer them now, though she did anyway, sometimes. Of this, she was certain Korg had no knowledge. The people she had helped had kept her secret well.

A cackle of laughter rose in the old woman's throat. If Korg and the Leader ever did find out, ever accused her - well, she knew more about them than they knew of her. Had she not helped at their births, watched them grow? Yes, there was much she knew. The Leader had not always been as fine and gentle as he now appeared to be. She had seen him when he was very different. Mordor, he had been called then. As for his younger brother, Korg - once a sapling was twisted it did not straighten. There had been a third boy who hung around the brothers, she recalled, a thick ugly child who never spoke because his mind was not right.

Krone shook her head in momentary pity. The boy's father had beaten him on the throat to make him speak but that only made the problem worse. After that, the boy had attached himself to Korg and Mordor like a leech and had helped them with their nasty tricks. She had never been sure which of the brothers planned the tricks, only that the three of them had terrorized the village. What had that other boy's name been? She could not remember, only that it had a hard sound. He had been unusually strong.

But of course, all that had been a long time ago, she reminded herself. Perhaps the brothers really had changed. After all, she had left the village before they were grown, when she herself was still young. Probably that was why they had never recognized her.

Krone looked again at the infant in her arms and shook her head. No. They had not changed, or Korg had not at least. Their willingness to kill an innocent baby was proof enough of that. They just made it seem as if what they did was good. They had excelled at that from the beginning. Korg had always had the ability to deceive, and Mordor had always been able to persuade those who listened that what he and his brother had done was just and right, even if others had been hurt. That had certainly not changed. People usually did not change.

When the two brothers had first come to the village, she had tried to tell the others what she knew of them, but no one had wanted to hear. She was only old Krone, they said, who no longer remembered as well as she should. Perhaps that was true; often she did not remember what happened between the time the sun rose each day and set again at night, but the past she remembered well. She knew what Korg and Mordor had done, why they had left their home. If she had to, she would speak, and make the others listen.

The sound of drumming came to her ears, and her heart began to pound in terrible anticipation. Would this really happen?

Brulet came into the hut, and the old woman's eyes lit up. Brulet was the only one who listened to her, who understood. She had heard all the old stories, wanted always to hear them again and again, as if she could never get enough of them. Still, Krone had never told Brulet what she knew about Korg and the Leader, fearing that the knowledge would be dangerous. If what the child heard showed on her face, they would know.

There was a strange expression on the girl's face now, the old woman saw. She looked apprehensive, but it was the kind of apprehension that contained not just fear but hope. Had she, too, felt a premonition?

The feeling came back to her, stronger now, and she looked closely at Brulet. The girl met her eyes squarely. Neither spoke, but a message, undefined but still understood, was exchanged.

Brulet came closer to look at the infant, but Krone pulled it away from her. "It is better not to look again," she said gently.

Fear suddenly dominated Brulet's face. Her eyes closed for a long moment; then she nodded and slipped from the hut.

"It may not be, it may not be," the old woman mumbled to herself, and wondered if Brulet heard.

"What may not be?" The voice was challenging. Niva, a stout dark-haired woman, stood before her, arms extended for the infant.

"It may not be that a storm comes," Krone said in a dreamy voice, one she often used to fool people.

Niva shook her head resignedly. The old woman was not worth listening to any more. She peered down at the baby. "Good, he sleeps peacefully," she said in a satisfied voice. The satisfaction was not for the infant's sake, Krone knew, but for Niva's. Niva was proud to have been chosen to hold the baby until he was needed in the ceremony and did not want him to embarrass her by wailing.

A dreadful woman, Krone said to herself. In the old days, the other women would have pulled some of that self-pride from her in the Ekali. But now it had all changed.

"May the Goddess protect you, little one," she said aloud, as Niva carried the infant away. No one else would dare to say that, she thought with satisfaction, but she was only old Krone, to whom no one paid any attention. She said the words again, to make certain the Goddess had heard. Perhaps they would help.

Outside, the people had already gathered for the ceremony. At one end of the clearing where they sat a large circle had been swept clean; against the backdrop of trees at the rear of the circle was a platform covered with a dark cloth that fell to the ground on all sides. It glistened still with dew, for the sun had not yet crested the high mountains to the east.

Niva took up her position at one edge of the circle and waited, her face solemn as well as proud. Once, she turned, frowning, as if feeling the eyes that bored into her back, then she returned to her former stance.

Lief lowered his eyes and crawled deeper into the bushes that concealed him. He had often noticed that animals knew when his eyes were on them; they looked up suddenly from their feeding and grew restless. It was the same with people. They did not know why they looked around them but they always did. He must be careful. He had not wanted to stare at the woman anyway; he had been trying to see the infant. It was very still. Had they killed it already, perhaps with too much sleeping potion? What would happen then to their plan?

He thrust the thought from his mind and forced himself to concentrate. He must do everything right; all of them must if the plan was to succeed. Mara and Hular had arrived only the day before and had finally found him and Zena in their hiding place. Mara had come instead of Durak, who had stayed with Rofina. Lief was not sure why. There had been no time for explanations. There had been no time for practice either, only time for Zena to explain her plan and for all of them to get ready. They must do it perfectly the first time, or the child would die. They might die as well, Lief thought with a spurt of fear, more for Zena than himself. So much depended on her.

Squinting across the cleared area, he tried to spot Mara and Hular in the bushes on the other side, but they were invisible. He saw Brulet disappear into the woods at the back of the clearing, though. In her hands were pieces of wood and a large cone made of birch bark. Lief checked his own.

The drums beat steadily. The rhythm was different from the first ceremony he had witnessed. It was less insistent, softer, calmer. This sound made him sad, or perhaps the sadness came from the flutes. They soared to high sweet notes that quickly sank back to the same melancholy refrain. The people's faces reflected the sounds. They were still and patient, resigned to what would happen, but Lief could not see excitement or even fear. Perhaps that would come later.

Korg entered, not dramatically as before, but with slow, sensuous leaps that moved one into another like ripples in the water. His movements were graceful, but to Lief they were also sinister. It was in the out-thrust hips, the face contorted by the effort to rise into the air that seemed no effort at all, in the elongated fingers that seemed to clutch at everything with demented energy. So they would clutch at a struggling infant, Lief thought grimly. He strengthened his grip on his slingshot. The stones were beside him, ready for use.

Could they really stop this terrible ceremony? It seemed ridiculous to him suddenly that a young and inexperienced woman like Zena could save the infant with the help of a few friends. Worse, he had probably put her in danger by helping her. He knew what might happen to them if they failed.

The Leader entered the circle, and Lief's attention snapped back to the present. As before, the tall man stood perfectly still until Korg executed a final leap and prostrated himself, hands extended toward the Leader's feet.

Long moments passed in silence. Then the Leader began to speak, his voice as compelling as it had been the first time Lief had heard it. In powerful tones, he invoked the Great Spirit and described the horrors that would come if the child were not returned. This time, the magnificent voice had no effect on Lief; he was too busy waiting for the signal. The villagers listened raptly, though, their faces absorbed, their heads nodding in agreement.

"Remember that this child is born not of man but of spirit," the Leader reminded them. "It does not feel as a child does but as a spirit feels, glad to be released into a realm that is truly its own. Do not feel pity but gladness that it should be so."

He believes it himself, Lief thought, watching the Leader's earnest face. He believes what he is saying, truly believes it. He had not realized this before. The thought distracted him and he was unprepared for the jolt of terror that plunged through him as the dark-haired woman walked slowly to the platform and placed the infant on it. The baby stirred. So it was alive. Lief breathed a sigh of relief, but his tension increased.

The drums were stronger now, and suddenly the rise and fall of the flutes was filled with menace. Another sound joined them and Lief looked up briefly. A flock of dark birds flew in, warbling and screeching to each other as they settled in the trees. The noise seemed strange, out of place, and yet it was welcome. Even in the midst of such horrors, birds still called.

"Great Spirit, we know you are here among us," the Leader intoned, "ready to receive our greatest gift." He spoke more words that Lief barely heard so intense was his concentration on what would come next. The timing must be perfect...

Slowly, with great dignity, the Leader turned and walked toward the cloth-draped platform. Behind him, Korg rose almost invisibly to his feet. In his hand was a long knife.

A muffled gasp emerged from the clearing, audible despite the drums that were pounding loudly now, as if to distract the watchers from what must happen. When the gasp had subsided, no one moved, no one seemed even to breathe. Lief felt his muscles tighten with readiness. The moment had come. He must act.

The Leader stood immobile above the platform for a long moment, looking down at the sleeping infant. His face was tender, full of love. Spreading his arms toward the sky, he invoked the Great Spirit one last time before the sacrifice.

"Great Spirit," he began, his voice rich with feeling, "we feel your presence, and are prepared to give..."

Abruptly, he staggered backward, as if he had been struck. Recovering his balance, he took a step toward the platform; then he staggered back again. His hands went to his forehead, and he looked wildly around him. Again, he tried to go forward, but instead his head jerked suddenly to one side and he swayed. With a great effort, he straightened. His eyes were glazed now, unseeing. Another jolt went through him and he swayed again. Then, like a huge tree toppling, he crashed to the ground.

All across the clearing, people's mouths opened wide in consternation. Murmurs rose but stopped abruptly as Korg turned to face them. Anger made his features almost unrecognizable, and the villagers shrank back in fear.

"Who has done this?" he snarled, his voice harsh, accusing. "Who has done this?"

With a savage gesture, he threw down his knife and ran to the fallen Leader. As he looked down on the prostrate form, something seemed to hit him in the chest. He gasped and doubled over, his arms wrapped protectively around his body. Raising his head, he stared into the trees and pointed that direction. The dark cloth that draped the platform hid his gesture, and the watchers did not see. Nor did they see the second blow that hit him, this time on his forehead.

Korg screamed, suddenly, obscenely. "Traitor!" he bellowed. "Traitor!" He turned to face the people again, his eyes malevolent as they raked the shocked faces. "I will find out, I will find the one!" Grunting with the effort, he tried to rise, then his body jerked back in a convulsive movement and he fell heavily across the Leader. He did not move again.

Now there was no stopping the murmurs. They rose into the air, mingling with the birds, the drums that beat still more strongly, oblivious to what had happened, the high wailing of flutes that continued their menacing refrains. The voices were filled with horror, with stupefaction and fear. As if it had absorbed their fear, the infant began to scream. The thin wail penetrated the other noises, made them seem discordant, almost nauseating.

Into the cacophony came a loud clap that sounded like thunder. Another clap came, then another, startling the people into instant silence. Even the infant ceased its wailing.

The people looked up at the sky, puzzled. The claps had come from all directions, bouncing back and forth across their heads, as if storms were brewing all around them. Yet there were no clouds; the sky was completely clear.

Abruptly, the birds took flight. They careened into the air and circled the clearing, then settled slowly back into the trees. They, too, were silent, waiting to see what would happen next.

The silence stretched out. Then, with a suddenness that startled the birds into flight again, a voice spoke. "Know now that the Great Goddess has returned. The Great Goddess has returned."

The words came from all directions, in multiple voices that reverberated across the clearing. It was as if the earth itself had spoken, and the trees, even the sky.

"Know now that the Great Goddess has returned. The Goddess has returned to the people."

Again, the message came, this time not all at once, but in constantly repeating patterns that filled the air and left no room for any other thought. The effect was hypnotic. No one spoke, no one even moved. Then, slowly, people began to look around , seeking the source of the voices, but there was nothing to be seen.

One pair of eyes, then another, turned back to the platform where the infant lay, seeking an answer there. And once they had looked they could not tear their eyes away. The sun had just topped the mountains, and the platform was enveloped in filmy clouds of mist as the morning dew evaporated. Into the mist a figure was rising, a figure draped all in white. Even its face was white, save for eyes that glittered green within the dark lines that circled them. Long white feathers crowned its mass of flame-colored hair that blazed like fire in the sunlight. And when it raised its arms, the people saw that they were wings, as if the creature was both human and bird.

Higher and higher the figure rose until it was taller by far than any person could be. Then it was still, surveying them. The brilliant eyes seemed not hostile but loving.

The eyes closed, the arms that were wings stretched out to encompass the people, and a single vibrant voice emerged.

"The Goddess, the Great Mother, has returned. There is no other than the Goddess, Mother of all life."

The people's faces, amazed at first, became uneasy, and prickles of suspense ran up their spines.

"I am She who speaks for the Goddess," the clear strong voice went on. "For too long has She been absent from your lives, but the love She holds for you has never dimmed. Though you have pushed Her from your hearts, still She welcomes you into Her own; though you have erased Her from your minds, still She knows you are a part of Hers. Even to those who long ago ceased to live by Her ways, the ways of love and compassion, the Goddess extends Her mercy; even to those who have denied it, Her wisdom, the wisdom of the circles, is still there for all to use. Never will the Great Goddess, the Mother, forsake Her people, as you have forsaken Her.

"To forsake the Goddess is to forsake life itself. This, you must never forget."

The voice stopped again, and the people waited anxiously. Conflict marked many of the faces now, and dismay.

"Raise your faces to the sky," the voice continued, "the sky that brings rain to nourish all that grows; feel the brilliant sun that warms and gives its strength to all that moves beneath it. Let your eyes roam the land, the trees and fields and animals that provide your food, let your fingers dig into the earth that sustains you and all other living things. Remember that they are of the Goddess, that the Goddess is in them, that She, the Great Mother, created everything that lives upon Her earth. This you know, have always known in your hearts and minds, and yet you have buried the knowledge. And so you have buried all that is best in yourselves.

"There is no other than the Goddess."

Silence came, a silence that slowly gave way to sighs, first one, then another, then sighing breaths that came from all over the clearing, as the people considered what the Goddess had said, thought of what they had done, what they had lost. Many of the heads that had been raised were bent low now in shame. Zena felt tears start into her eyes at the sight of the hunched shoulders, the bowed heads, but even more at the strength of the words that had come to her when she had not known what to say. They truly were the words of the Goddess, she realized; all she had done was to allow Her to speak, to help Her break through the walls of resistance and fear, so that the hearts and minds of the people were free again.

The faces turned toward her once more, and she looked into their eyes. From them, now, the strength came; she felt their need, and into it poured all the words that had ever been spoken by those who had come before her, all the wisdom they had gathered over so many years. All of it was hers now, for they were part of her as she was part of them, and all of them were a part of the Goddess. Especially, she felt her sister within her, as if their spirits had finally merged so that the beloved twin was no longer outside, watching her, advising her, but inside her. And so the words poured out, her sister's words, the words of the wise ones, the words of the Goddess.

Within the bushes, Mara and Hular listened and were amazed.

Lief, too, was amazed but even more he was watchful. Korg and the Leader were only stunned and he did not want them to awaken just yet. When Korg's head came up another stone was dispatched, when the Leader began to stir, Lief was ready. He aim was true, his force accurate. He had no desire to kill or maim, only to induce sleep.

The words continued, words that spoke of love and compassion and wisdom, of all that had happened to the Mother People, of their enduring faith. And still the people listened, quiet, unmoving, their faces taut with emotions long forgotten. Not until her voice was hoarse did Zena stop to rest.

"The Goddess awaits you," she finished softly. "As She has returned to you, so you can return to Her. Always, the Goddess is there for those who seek Her."

She was quiet then, trying to regain her strength. It was draining out of her; she could feel it disappearing, and for a moment she thought she would fall. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, aware that her mission was not yet complete. One last message must be given.

Anger came into her as she thought of it, and with the anger came renewed strength. When she spoke again, her voice was hard, compelling. The people's heads came up sharply at the unexpected sound.

"The Goddess has no wish for death," she told them sternly, staring at them with anguished eyes. "The Great Mother is giver of life, not seeker of death. All that dies She takes gladly back to Her heart, but death comes as it will. It is neither Her wish nor Her command that any creature should die for Her."

She thrust out the next words with fierce emphasis. "That you would sacrifice an innocent child in Her name is a travesty, a travesty that cannot be borne. She, the Goddess, weeps at such a thought, the earth itself weeps - and so should you weep.

"To kill in the name of the Goddess is forbidden! Never must this happen again! Never again may you listen to those who would tell you to do such..."

Zena tried to continue, but no more words would come through a throat choked with emotion. The anger had suddenly gone out of her, and now she felt only grief. Tears began to side down her cheeks, making dark tracks in its whiteness. She saw that many others, too, were weeping, and she was glad.

Below her the infant stirred restlessly, aroused by her shouts. Zena reached out and took him into her wing-clad arms. "This infant is the Mother's creation, as are all of you," she told the people in a softer tone, holding him out for them to see. "He is not spirit but child, who feels pain and fear and hunger like any other child."

As if to confirm her words, the infant began to wail. He turned his face to her chest, seeking food. Zena rocked him gently until he quieted.

"There is one among you who has remained pure of heart," she said then, looking toward the back of the clearing. "Though hardly more than a child herself, she had the courage to remember the Goddess when others had forgotten. Let her come forth now and take the infant, return him to his mother."

Brulet came slowly from the trees and made her way across the clearing. She did not look at those around her, only at the figure behind the platform. Gently, lovingly, she took the child from Zena's arms and bore him away. All eyes followed her, and when the people looked toward the platform again, they saw that the white-draped figure, with its winged arms and fiery hair, was slowly disappearing. Down and down the figure sank, seeming to melt away, until all that was left was the crown of feathers, starkly white against the dark cloth that covered the place where the infant would have died.