People of the Lightning(112)
Seedpod opened his bag and removed about two tens of stakes. He handed half of them to Black Urchin, and said, “I will do the south half if you will lay the north half.”
“Yes, Elder,” the short, stocky warrior replied. His dark brows knitted as he began the process of staking Ashleaf down.
It required little effort. The bottom of the Pond was so soft, and the stakes so sharp, that all Seedpod had to do was work his stake through the edge of the outermost blanket, then drive it into the sticky peat. When he and Black Urchin had finished, a rough circle of stakes framed Ashleaf’s body.
Seedpod stood and faced north, toward the crowd. “Let us Sing him to the afterworld,” Seedpod said quietly and lifted his voice in the Death Song:
I have come with living waters,
To give these healing ways of the Wolves,
these healing ways of the living water Wolves.
Look northward now, Ashleaf,
down the pathway of living waters to the
Wolves in the Village of Wounded Souls.
Hear them call you?
They are calling you, Ashleaf.
calling, calling.
Your Spirit Helper was Otter,
Wait for Otter,
He will show you the way.
Wait for Otter,
Wait for Otter,
He will show you the way
through the living waters
to the village of living water Wolves.
One last time, Seedpod bent down and placed his hand on his good friend’s shoulder, then he rose and waded out of the Sacred Pond. The soaked hem of his tunic felt as heavy as stone.
People followed him down the curving trail that led back to Windy Cove through the palmettos. Fronds slashed at his legs as he hurried past, and when an eagle cried, Seedpod looked up to watch it circling against the background of wispy clouds, its white head and tail shimmering like polished shell in the sunlight. When he broke from the trees and headed out across the white sandy beach toward the shelters, his steps faltered.
On the eastern horizon, thunderheads billowed high into the sky, and stretched long black arms northward. A huge flock of Lightning Birds soared through the clouds, burning them pale blue, then bright white. Very faintly, Seedpod could hear their thundering voices echoing over the soft roar of the surf.
Black Urchin stopped beside him and his brows plunged down. “Blessed Spirits,” he whispered. “Storm Girl looks angry.”
“Yes,” Seedpod murmured.
“Perhaps we should stay in our shelters here until the weather clears, then head south to Manatee Lagoon?”
A curious tingling grew in Seedpod’s belly, and he felt suddenly frantic, wanting to be away from here now, this instant. He couldn’t explain it. But the longer he gazed upon those clouds, the more urgent the feeling became.
Thorny Boy trotted up and hugged Seedpod’s leg. Distractedly, he lowered a hand to smooth the boy’s tangled black hair. They all frowned out at the building storm.
“No,” Seedpod said. “No, I think we should head south this afternoon. As soon as we can.”
Twenty-five
Cottonmouth tossed and turned, shoving at his sweat-drenched blanket, reaching for a woman who was not there, who had not been there for two-tens-and-six summers. The dream hurled itself at him from the darkness of the past, and he saw her as clearly as he had that day so long ago. Beautiful, heartbreakingly young, crying.
“Musselwhite!” he shouted, as he ran through the forest behind her. His voice echoed from the palms and oaks. “Musselwhite, please. Don’t do this! Stop!”
Distorted, monstrous images flared and died. He fought them, but still they came … .
He ran wildly, slapping fronds and vines out of his way. She was so fast. On the flats, he could outrun her, but in the forest, her long legs and her greater agility combined to make her almost impossible to catch. White fragrant dogwood petals fluttered around him as he burst through a copse of saplings, leaped a fallen log, and headed on down the deer trail. He caught sight of her, hugging Glade tightly against her breast, as she veered off to the left. He ran harder, his lungs panting.
“Musselwhite!” he screamed. “Musselwhite, listen to me! Stop this madness!”
She shouted, “Leave me alone, Cottonmouth. Leave me alone! I must …” Her voice faded as she disappeared into the spring leaves and newly budded brush. Limbs clattered in her wake.
Terror had held them both by the throats for days as Glade grew weaker and weaker. But she had been frantic, and so desperate he feared what she might do to herself in punishment. She blamed herself for Glade’s fever. She had taken their son with her when she’d gone to tend a sick friend. Though Cottonmouth had asked her not to, she’d done it anyway. Then, three days later, the evil spirits had hatched in his chest. Musselwhite had been insane with worry, cursing herself, rocking Glade in her arms. Glade’s fever had soared, and on the fourth day Glade had smiled at her, his little mouth moving feebly as he blinked his fever-bright eyes. He had reached out, murmured, Mother, and Musselwhite had clutched him to her as if she would never let go, promising, “Don’t worry, baby. Everything will be all right. I love you, Glade. I love you so much.”