“Yes … all right,” Littlehorn murmured and gritted his teeth, then he jerked the vines hard, raking gashes in Diver’s body, breaking embedded thorns off at skin level, and wrapping him so tightly Diver could barely breathe.
Diver shuddered. The long thorns penetrated his flesh deeply. Blood flowed down his face so fast he could not blink quickly enough to keep it out of his eyes. He saw his tormentors through a pale crimson veil. Hot streams flooded over his chest. He should have been grateful that the men avoided his eyes and genitals, but he felt only hatred and loathing. When they had finished and stood musing about their work, Diver bent his head forward as far as he could without crying out in agony. Blood misted his entire body and trickled around his feet.
“Hallowed Sun Mother,” Littlehorn said hoarsely, backing away with his eyes narrowed. “What is Cottonmouth’s purpose in this? I can’t see—”
“Move!” Woodduck shouted. “The Spirit Elders are coming. Let us go. Cottonmouth said that when we had finished, we were to leave immediately. We will keep guard from a short distance away.”
The men trotted out, Littlehorn muttering darkly while Woodduck laughed. Diver saw several gray-haired men and women walking in his direction. Not one—not one of them!—looked at him as they threw down their mats, and sat down inside the shelter. They wrapped blankets around their bony elderly shoulders, and continued speaking in soft, genial voices … as if Diver did not exist.
His muscles quaked. What madness was this? For ten-and-four days Cottonmouth had kept him isolated. If a villager strayed close to Diver’s shelter, the guards drove him or her off with their atlatls. As a result, the only members of Standing Hollow Horn Clan that Diver had seen up close were Cottonmouth, a variety of taciturn guards, and the old woman Starfish. And now this?
Diver scanned the twelve Spirit Elders. They had arranged their mats in a distinct order. Two elders, one man and one woman, sat in front, facing Sea Girl, and the others sat in a semicircle behind them. Against the pale golden halo that had just colored the horizon, their silver heads gleamed.
“Shh!” the old woman in front hissed and held up a hand.
Every head turned, looking right through Diver to something in the village behind him.
Cottonmouth made a quiet entrance, walking slowly, his head down. He had changed clothes, and wore a green tunic with sea-urchin spines sewn around the hem. They clicked and clacked as he walked. The turtle-bone doll no longer stared at Diver from Cottonmouth’s belt. Had he left it in his shelter? Rounding the group, Cottonmouth went to stand in front of them, facing Diver. But when he looked at Diver, a strange expression slackened his face.
“Spirit Elders,” he said softly in that deep voice. “Today I would speak with you about suffering.”
People nodded and smiled.
“I am eager to hear your words,” the old woman in front said.
“Thank you, Alder. And you, Basketmaker?” he looked at the old man in front. “Is this topic acceptable to you as well?”
“Oh, yes. Proceed.” Reverence tinged that reedy voice. The old man’s eyes shone.
Cottonmouth nodded. “I will not speak for long.” He clasped his hands in front of him and breathed deeply for a time, staring at the sand. Then he lifted his head to look directly at Diver.
Diver tasted blood in his mouth. Salty and slightly earthy. He swallowed, and peered out at the horizon. Thick clouds had eaten the blue, leaving a sullen gray blanket in its place. Storm Girl’s scent rode the wind. For half a moon, Diver had been in Standing Hollow Horn Village, but had yet to understand it. The average person feared Cottonmouth, often looking at the man as if he were a loathsome creature just emerged from the ocean’s darkest reaches. But the elders, here and now, hung on his every word. That’s what gave Cottonmouth his Power. The elders considered him on a par with Brother Earth or Sister Moon, and their families and friends would never dishonor the elders by suggesting otherwise. But how had Cottonmouth so completely fooled these wise old men and women?
Diver glanced through the group. Cottonmouth had called the two in front by name. The man with long hair hanging over his shoulders like frost-killed weeds was Basketmaker. The ancient woman seated next to him, the one with the short silver braid and bulbous nose, was Alder.
“We are all wounded,” Cottonmouth began, his deep voice lilting over the gathering. Against the slate-colored sky, he looked very tall and muscular. He had pulled his hair back into a bun, making his silver temples more prominent. “That woundedness is the heart of what it means to be human. Agony is what draws us together. Not joy.”