“Anything?” the old man said as he groaned himself into a more comfortable position, his stick-like legs extended. “Well, this must be important to you, then. Tell me about it.”
“My son is dying … .”
Memories tumbled, coming close and fading away. Fragments of scenes, of dialogue, flashed. Colors spun a sickening rainbow of shades … .
“I have breathed special Spirit Power into this awl,” the old man said as he leaned forward to peer into Cottonmouth’s eyes. “Take it. Give it to your wife. Do not tell her what it is for. It must have time to absorb part of her souls, too. Yours, hers, and the boy’s. Then, after you have captured your victim, and laid your sick son on his chest, use this awl to kill the man. His souls will seep up through the awl and flow into your little son.”
“The awl will give my son life again?”
Bright Feather’s gaze impaled him; it made Cottonmouth squirm, like a lance embedded in his stomach and twisted slowly.
In a hoarse whisper, the old man said, “This awl came from the most dreaded Power Bundle in the world. The Raven Bundle. It was handed down from Soul Dancer to Soul Dancer over tens of tens of tens of summers. Many people gave their very lives to protect it.” He turned the awl in his hands and wonder slackened his wrinkled face. “Sometimes, it Sings to me. Songs about ice walls and Monster Children fighting in the sky. It Sings in a voice so beautiful and fierce, it is unimaginable.”
Cottonmouth sat staring at the awl. It bore a brown patina from the tens of hands that had held it. “If it’s so precious, how did you get it?” he bravely asked.
Bright Feather smiled toothlessly. “I killed the man who owned it.” He held out the awl.
“If you wanted it so badly then, why would you be willing to give it to me now? What is your price?”
“Nothing. Take it.”
“W-why?”
That toothless smile metamorphosed into a terrifying grimace. His eyes bulged until Cottonmouth feared they might pop from their sockets. Bright Feather glanced around, then whispered, “It’s driving me mad. The awl hates me. It told me so. Take it. Take it, I say!”
Cottonmouth’s fear rose so strongly, he almost woke. With a shaking hand, he reached for the awl … and knocked over the gourd of water he kept by his bedding. The splash of cold across his arm roused him with a start. He sucked in a breath and stared wide-eyed at the night. Pitch blackness met his searching eyes. Not a shred of light illumined the world. Clouds must have moved in.
Cottonmouth sat up and rubbed his throbbing temples. The basket with the turtle bone doll and awl sat near the foot of his bed. He could just make out its squat shape, blacker than the darkness.
He’d given the awl to Musselwhite as a gift. She’d etched her mark into it. The next day he’d told her of his plan, hoping it would ease the pain in her eyes. Instead, a wild animal-like terror had filled her. She hated Spirit Power. It terrified her. They had argued violently. To stop him from trying to bring Glade to life again, she had plunged the awl into their little son’s heart.
And in that single instant, all his dreams, all his hopes had died.
He’d gone mad … tried to kill his wife … then her family.
He’d wanted to die himself.
He had succeeded only in destroying his own precious world.
Cottonmouth inhaled deeply of the wet scents of the night. Tired to the bone, he clumsily reached down for the basket and drew out the turtle bone doll. The doll had always comforted him … he felt certain that she had wanted Glade to live again, too.
Clutching the doll to his chest, Cottonmouth stretched out on his back and stared sightlessly at the creosote-covered rafters.
Kelp crouched on the outskirts of the warriors’ camp, her hands extended to her fire. She had darted a fat squirrel just before sunset, cleaned it, skinned it, and skewered it on a stick. It now roasted over the low flames, smelling sweet and succulent. The other warriors stood four tens of hands away, around a larger fire, laughing, talking, their tall muscular bodies silhouetted against the backdrop of star-spotted sky and frothy gray ocean. The blaze’s orange gleam flickered over their faces.
Kelp turned her stick so her squirrel would roast on the other side, and juices dripped down and sizzled on the coals. They had run all day. She had kept up, but every muscle in her body ached from the effort. Their legs were twice as long as hers. Would she be able to match their pace tomorrow? She had to. If things worked as Tailfeather expected, they might find the survivors of Windy Cove Clan by nightfall, and she would see Pondwader. The thought brought a smile to her lips. A brief one. The terrible possibility that he might have been killed had been plaguing her. Perhaps that’s when he had needed her—during the raid. Had the fact that she had been sitting safely at home in Heartwood Village doomed her brother?