People of the Lightning(104)

Pondwader had no fighting skills. He rarely even carried weapons because he didn’t know how to use them. If he had walked out of the trees into a swarm of Cottonmouth’s warriors …

Beaverpaw turned to peer at Dark Rain. She had lost again and sat with her eyes narrowed, her jaw stuck out in rage. “Your son, Pondwader, may be dead, Dark Rain,” he said. “Don’t you care?”

Her eyes remained glued to her opponent’s hands. “Care? Why should I? When he married Musselwhite, he paid off all my debts. He served his usefulness. I don’t need him anymore.”

That cold voice made Beaverpaw feel as if he stood face-to-face with the darker side of himself. Had he not abandoned his own family just as casually? Used them and left them without even a good-bye? How easy it was for a man to lose himself in a woman’s flesh. To forget obligations and kindnesses when he felt that wanton warmth wrap around him. He longed to run away, far away. Home. Home. . . . The word called to him. He would bury himself in his childrens’ arms and hide. Their laughter and love would make him forget the stink of this place, the filth of these men … and the fierce glow in Dark Rain’s eyes.

For the first time in many summers, he felt tears burn his eyes. Tears he would not shed. Could not. So they would fill up his body and drown his souls. And he deserved it.

Beaverpaw turned and strode out into the forest. Dark Rain was right. He was morose. It was time he found his blankets.





Diver awakened to the sound of many footsteps, and scrambled up to a sitting position, trying to blink himself awake. It was not even dawn. The brightest Shining People still canoed across the Daybreak Land. Cool wind blew in off the quiet ocean and tousled his long hair around his bare shoulders. Diver felt cold to the bone. He shivered, and turned, as best he could, given his bound hands and feet. Cottonmouth stood on the west side of the shelter, at the forefront of a group of warriors, all dragging coils of rope or … vines. They looked like vines. Shriveled leaves dotted the lengths.

“What are we up to this morning, Cottonmouth?” he asked.

“A lesson.”

Graying black hair hung loose about his shoulders, fluttering in the wind. Cottonmouth stepped forward, and Diver almost cried out when he saw the turtle-bone doll tucked into Cottonmouth’s belt. Instinctively, Diver slid away, to the far eastern edge of the mats. His pulse began to race.

“A lesson about what?”

“Woundedness.”

“ … What?” Diver asked in confusion.

Cottonmouth waved his warriors forward. “Tie him. Do it quickly before the others arrive.” Then he turned and walked away.

Hard hands gripped Diver’s arms and dragged him to his feet. The warriors laughed as they hauled him to the middle of the shelter and pulled down the rope tied to the central rafter pole.

“Hold up your arms,” the tall, skinny man said. “Littlehorn, secure his bound hands to the rope.”

“Yes, Woodduck,” a young warrior, barely more than ten-and-six summers, said, as he hurried forward to obey. He wore only a breechclout and had his black hair cropped short, so that it hung at chin level. A coarsely woven headband kept it out of his eyes.

Diver soon found himself once again strung up to the rafters with his hands bound over his head. His shoulder and back wounds ached from the strain. How long would they leave him this time? Just hands of time? Or days?

Littlehorn backed away and wet his lips anxiously. “Now what?” he asked. “Woodduck, should we—”

“Yes. Bring the vines.”

Diver swiveled his head to watch the warriors run out of the shelter, chuckling and whispering about how crazy Cottonmouth was, and carefully gather up the coils of thorned vines.

“What are you doing?” Diver asked in alarm. “What is this?”

Woodduck stepped back to let his men crowd around Diver. “Littlehorn, you and Cloudfish, wrap him tightly from head to toe, just as the Spirit Elder said.”

“What? Why?” Diver demanded to know.

“I do not question my orders, filth. I follow them,” Woodduck replied and crossed his arms authoritatively.

Littlehorn came forward holding up a vine with long, thick thorns. He whispered, “Hold still. It will not hurt so much.”

The youth lifted the end of the vine toward Diver’s face and Diver stumbled back, trying to get away. “No!”

“Gullwing, hold the coward’s feet!” Woodduck commanded and sneered at Diver.

Another warrior ran forward, dropped to the mats, and grabbed Diver around the legs, holding him while Littlehorn and Cloudfish tied him. They wrapped him round and round … .

“Pull them tight!” Woodduck shouted. “This man is our enemy!”