People of the Lightning(113)
Cottonmouth’s souls wrenched. That had been ten-and-eight days ago. For some time after Glade had fallen into the coma, Cottonmouth had been too angry with Musselwhite, and too frightened to do anything but wallow in his own grief. He had been so absorbed remembering Glade’s joyous laughter, and the love in his son’s eyes, that it had never occurred to Cottonmouth that she, too, might be remembering, and with despair as great as his own.
He veered left, and pounded down the same palmetto-choked trail she’d taken. Fronds slashed at his bare legs. He burst out of the forest into a clearing where a small pond glinted green in the afternoon sunlight. The shadows of swaying oak boughs mottled the surface, and tender shoots of reed and water lily ringed the edges. Musselwhite stood in the middle of the pond, crying against Glade’s chest. Soft, pitiable cries. His little head fell limply over her arm, his mouth ajar. The turtle bone doll lay tucked into the collar of Glade’s tunic.
Cottonmouth halted, breathing hard. When she turned, her hollow eyes gazed upon Cottonmouth as if he were a stranger. He walked forward slowly, his sandals silent in the wet grass. “Musselwhite? Come home. Bring Glade home.”
She rubbed her cheek against Glade’s. “No. I must bury him.”
Cottonmouth moved to the edge of the water. “In a pond? But Glade should go to the Daybreak Land, not—”
“I’ll be going to the Village of Wounded Souls, Cottonmouth! So will you. I want Glade to … to be there when I arrive. I must see him again. I must.”
His heart ached. “He’s not gone, Musselwhite. Not yet. Please, bring our son home. We will find a way to wake him up. I promise you. I promise you, we will find a way.”
“He is gone,” she’d choked out. “His body may be alive, but his souls have come unbraided. We must bury him before his souls flee and get lost! I don’t want our son wandering the earth forever! Alone.” She began sobbing again and clutched Glade’s limp body against her. “He needs us to help him. To … to leave this world.”
“Listen to me, please,” Cottonmouth said softly as he waded into the cool water. It came up to his knees. Each of his steps sent out bobbing silver rings. Gently, he wrapped his arms around Musselwhite and pulled her close. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and her long hair fell down his side like a curtain of midnight-colored silk.
“I’m sorry,” she wept. “I’m so sorry.”
The sound of her tortured voice made every muscle in his body go stiff. He held her tightly, with Glade’s thin body pressed between them. “It wasn’t your fault. Don’t blame yourself. Many other children in the village are ill. The evil Spirits would have entered Glade anyway. We must find a way of casting them out. Let’s take Glade home,” he whispered. “We will find a way of driving the evil Spirits out and weaving Glade’s souls together again.”
“How? How can we?”
He kissed her hair, and said, “I don’t know. But I’ll find a way. I will.”
The dream shifted.
Images swirled, filled with faces, terrifying, like being caught in a huge whirlpool, and sucked down, down … .
Sunrise. He’d been running all night. The pearlescent rays of dawn streamed through the trees, glimmering from the shallow water before him. A chill moss-scented breeze snaked about the swamp. Bright Feather hobbled about his shelter, shaking his bony fist and bellowing angrily. Little more than skin and rags and bulging eyes, he appeared to be ten tens of summers old. His freckled scalp held only a few wisps of white hair, and his lips sank inward over toothless gums.
Cottonmouth glanced around to see what offended the old man, but saw only swamp bays filled with birds, and three small alligators sunning themselves on the opposite bank.
“Fly away! Go on!” the old man yelled at the empty air. “How many times do I have to chase you off?”
His face was a sagging mass of wrinkles, but when he turned, his black eyes glinted with an inhuman light. He scratched his side and squinted at Cottonmouth as he hobbled to a folded pile of blankets on the south side of his shelter, and slumped down. Waving a hand he said, “Come in. The Spirit hawks won’t bother you. They’re after me! Besides, they are all cowards. They come soaring down like they own the world, and drive humans crazy with their constant squealing and swooping.” Sharply, he ordered, “I told you to come in! Now do it! What do you wish this time, Cottonmouth? Another love charm? Or something else?”
Cottonmouth warily advanced and knelt in the grass just outside the shelter, studying the sky for any sign of the Spirit hawks. He feared this ancient witch, and felt no shame at showing it. “No, Bright Feather. This time I need more. Much more. I am willing to pay you anything you wish.”