In a gust of wind, the shelters creaked and moaned. The air smelled like washed stone, damp and earthy. Here and there the clouds had parted, and he could see the Shining People canoeing through the clean sky on their way to the Daybreak Land.
Seedpod exhaled a small breath. Thunderstorm, his wife, lived there, hunting and fishing, laughing. It pained him that he would probably never see her again. Only those who died peacefully left this world on the backs of the shooting stars and were carried up beyond the sky to join the Shining People. Those who died violently went to a different afterworld. They had to swim through a long dark tunnel to get to the Village of Wounded Souls, a place of snow and cold and constant battles. Just the thought of that cold made his bones ache.
The fabric bags tied to the rafters creaked in the wind. Seedpod listened to them, but his eyes focused on the forest. What were those shadowy figures? Sentries, probably. But they might be ghosts. Seedpod had been quite a warrior in his time. He had killed tens of men, old men, young men, boys barely beyond the manhood rituals, even a few women warriors. Some of those souls still prowled the darkness. They had remained on earth too long before their families found them to be able to leave. Seedpod knew each one. Their faces had been carved into his soul, some bathed in rays of slanting afternoon sun, others in the dim, gray light of dusk. Still other luminous faces stared at him, dyed lavender by the gleam of a long ago dawn.
Strange that he saw them as they had been moments before death, rather than after, their glazed eyes blinded by blood and dust.
They had been enemies then … but over the long summers, they had become friends, appearing to warn him of impending battle, or heartache.
For two nights, he’d thought he had seen them, stalking the forest, their transparent bodies awash in silver starlight. In his dreams, they whispered truths so monstrous that he could not, would not, let himself believe.
In the silent recesses of his souls, muted voices wailed, “No, no, he can’t be. Musselwhite will break into little pieces.”
For two-tens-and-five summers, Diver had stood like a rock wall between Musselwhite and the world, encouraging, supporting her. Only Diver and Seedpod knew the times Musselwhite had sobbed through the night after seeing friends die. Musselwhite believed that a War Leader had to be invincible before her warriors, that any frailties she showed weakened everyone around her. But it meant she could never be truly human—not in front of anyone. Except Diver. And, on occasion, Seedpod.
He let out a breath. Four sentries stood watch on the outskirts of the village. A short, stocky shadow moved through the northern oaks, and he knew Black Urchin manned that position. The sentries would shout an alarm if raiders appeared.
Thorny Boy started to snore softly.
Seedpod picked up his gourd cup of tea, hooked his atlatl on his belt, and grabbed three darts, then tiptoed out of the shelter into the misty rain. His bare feet sank into the wet sand as he headed for his daughter. The Shining People lit the beach brilliantly, shadowing every seashell and leaf, and spawning ominous shapes that seemed to dance through the coastal trees.
Pools of rainwater glistened in every hollow.
Seedpod stood by Musselwhite in silence for a moment, following his daughter’s gaze up the shore into veils of rain.
“You have sentries posted, why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
Musselwhite barely moved. “I won’t sleep, father. I’ll just lie in my bedding and stare at the rafters. I am of more use here.”
“Any sign of raiders?”
“No.”
“The village has been quiet, too. Other than a curious spotted skunk who wandered in about sunset and had everybody fleeing for their lives, it’s been an uneventful night.”
Seedpod’s gaze drifted over the charcoal and silver landscape, checking every oddly shaped patch of starlight that penetrated the clouds, every waving palm frond, climbing the trees to look for enemy warriors hidden in the tangles of branches. “I brought my atlatl. I thought I’d stand guard with you for a while.”
Musselwhite did not turn, but her eyes narrowed. Softly, she responded, “I don’t want you out here for long. This rain will eat straight to the marrow of your bones.”
“Well;” Seedpod said. “My marrow can stand it—for a while.” He propped his darts in front of him and adjusted his hood, pulling it closed at his wrinkled throat. Already he could feel the warmth leaching from his muscles. “You shouldn’t be so worried,” he admonished. “Maybe they stopped to hunt a deer, or found a whale washed up on the beach and butchered some meat to bring home. They’ve only been out an extra day. That’s nothing. Why, when I used to go on war walks, we would often—”