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People of the Lightning

By:W. Michael Gear

One

Cottonmouth could not take his eyes from the young woman warrior who lay on her stomach before him. Feathers of long hair haloed her beautiful face, looking startlingly black against the white sand. Her short tunic, the color of dry grass, had been woven from the finest palm thread, and painted with the green images of bobcat, whale, and dolphin. In the past half a hand of time, so much blood had run from her wound that it had pooled, red and glistening, at her side. As his men moved among the dead, the amber gleam of their torches reflected in that pool like flashes of lightning.

Cottonmouth forced a shallow breath into his lungs. Every wet scent of the night smelled incredibly clear to him, as if it had soaked into his flesh and been carried through his veins like a powerful Spirit plant. The sweetness of the coastal pines mixed with the salty fragrances of fish and sea, and the earthiness of the rain storm that had washed the world just before the battle.

After his dart had pierced her back just below the shoulder blades, she had fallen, then weakly pushed up and tried to crawl away. When she could go no further, she had stiffened her trembling arms and legs, keeping herself upright so that she might turn and defiantly stare him in the eyes.

The shock of seeing that face had been like a hard fist in his stomach.

Blessed Sun Mother, how many times had he gazed into those eyes in his dreams? How many times had he tenderly touched that face?

Clenching his hands to nerve himself, he walked forward and knelt beside the young woman. Huge, amorphous shadows swayed through the trees as a few of his warriors lifted their torches momentarily to watch him, curious.

He had lost only two men in the battle. The remaining ten-and-eight moved through the camp, laughing and joking, kicking over the bodies, ripping Power bundles from around throats, plundering the dead for trinkets to take home to their wives and children. Against the wavering background of firelit palms, oaks, and pines, they seemed somehow unreal … more like scavenging ghosts floating over the sand than living men.

Cottonmouth broke off the dart shaft and flung it away. His heart had started to pound. He slipped his arms beneath the girl’s knees and shoulders, and clutched her slender body against his bare chest. Blood leaked from her wound, running warmly down his muscular belly and legs, soaking his breechclout. His long, graying black hair fell over her face as he lifted her and rose to his feet.

Disapproving murmurs came from his warriors. The customs of their clan, the Standing Hollow Horn Clan, demanded that enemies killed in battle be left for scavengers. If their relatives did not find the dead within two days, their souls would justly be condemned to wander the earth forever.

Mulberry, a small skinny youth, stepped forward and lifted his torch so that it glared in Cottonmouth’s eyes, forcing him to squint. The boy had coiled his black hair into a bun and fixed it with a manatee-bone pin. Blood spattered his legs. “Spirit Elder,” he said sternly. “We must leave the dead.” He cast a worried look over his shoulder. “The men expect it.”

Cottonmouth stared at his warriors. They shifted uncomfortably.

Anger creased Mulberry’s young face, hardening his jaw. Boldly, he stepped closer. “Elder, our men do not wish this filth to enter the afterworld and live among our relatives!”

Terse whispers passed back and forth.

“Have you searched the dead for Diver?” Cottonmouth asked. The very softness of his voice held threat. “Or did you allow him to escape?”

Mulberry tried to scowl, but his resolve quickly faltered and he wet his thin lips. “I … n-no. Not yet.”

“He is about my age, four-tens-and-five or five tens of summers. I will return soon. When I do, I will wish to know where he is. You had better have an answer for me.”

Cottonmouth walked away slowly, drowning in the sensation of her body pressed against his, the silken feel of her long black hair tumbling down his side. When he had first seen her, he’d stumbled and almost fallen. Only after moments of agony had he realized she must be Morning Glory, daughter of Musselwhite, and not Musselwhite herself—but she looked so much like her mother with those high cheekbones, that turned-up nose, and those fierce brown eyes, that he had been stunned and unable to take his gaze from her.

Cool wind blew across his face. Sister Moon shone so brightly tonight that every blade of grass threw a shadow. As he rounded the northern edge of a clearing, he could make out the gangly shape of a blue heron standing on one foot in the meadow, and a short distance further, a snowy egret.

On the western side of the clearing an ancient oak had fallen long ago, blocking the path. Great crooked branches held the heavy trunk off the ground. He would have to crawl through on his knees, then drag Morning Glory behind him.