People of the Lightning(117)

“I would like that, Dace. I’ve been feeling lonely all day. Having a friend close would make me feel safer.”

He smiled broadly. “Thank you. I’ll go get my things.”

Kelp watched him trot away. His pack, atlatl and darts, nestled beside the dwindling flames of the warriors’ fire. Dace had to step around bodies rolled in blankets to get to his belongings. A few men grumbled and rolled over as he tiptoed passed. One man spoke to him, and Kelp heard the gruff words.

“What are doing with that girl?” the man asked. “She will be the death of all of us! Slowing us down, forcing us to watch out for her. Just because she is Moonsnail’s granddaughter does not mean we should have to risk our own lives to—”

Dace answered in a curt voice. “What I do is none of your business, Cord. Kelp is … is like my sister. It is my concern, not yours.”

The man flopped over and covered his head with his blanket.

Dace slung his pack over his left shoulder, gathered his weapons, and headed back toward Kelp.

… So that’s why he had come over. He’d heard the things the other men were saying about her, and had taken it upon himself to be her friend—despite the fact that they would probably isolate him because of it.

When he knelt on the opposite side of the fire, he smiled, and the firelight gleamed on his straight white teeth.

“Good night, Kelp,” he said.

“Good night, Dace … . Dace?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“For what, little sister?”

“For … for treating me like you used to.”

He frowned and began working at the laces on his pack. “I’m just sorry it took me so long, Kelp. I should have apologized long ago. I have missed you. And Pondwader.”

Kelp unknotted her blanket, shook it out, and wrapped up in it. As she curled on her side before the fire, she saw Dace lay his atlatl and darts on the sand. He untied his blanket from his pack, and rolled up in it, facing her. His handsome features wavered in the orange glow of the coals.

“Kelp?” he said.

“Hmm?”

“What did you mean about being desperate?”

She pulled her blanket up around her throat. “I’m worried about Pondwader,” she answered. “If Musselwhite was at Windy Cove when it was attacked, Pondwader must have been, too.”

Dace’s voice came out soft. “I’ve been worried about him, too.”





Twenty-six

Afternoon sunlight slanted through the trees in streaks of pure gold, glaring in Pondwader’s eyes as he struggled to follow Musselwhite across the dew-slippery fallen tree trunk that bridged the shallow stream. Birds chirped in the overhanging hickory branches, hopping about to watch them as they passed. His pack kept shifting, which forced Pondwader to scramble to keep from splashing into the water. Musselwhite, however, moved like a stalking cat, her steps sure and silent. She carried her atlatl and darts crossways before her, using them to help her balance. Every time she lowered her foot to the trunk, her gaze cut across the encircling trees, searching.

Pondwader’s foot slipped, and he gasped.

Musselwhite whirled, observed his flailing arms, and pinned him with a lethal glare.

Once Pondwader had regained his footing, he whispered, “Sorry.”

Her eyes narrowed. For some time, she frowned at the mottled green and gray forest shadows, as if something had disturbed her, but she could not discern what. Finally, she turned around and continued down the trunk at a faster pace. When she reached the end, she quietly stepped off to the swampy ground, and brusquely waved Pondwader toward her.

He slipped and skidded his way until he could jump down beside Musselwhite, breathing hard. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

Only a blur of shadows met his probing gaze. But he did sense something, like a predator, sneaking about, observing them. He opened his mouth to mention this to Musselwhite, but she stilled him with an upraised hand.

Barely audible, she said, “Stay here. Hide in that hole made when the tree uprooted itself. Do not make a sound.” More harshly, she demanded, “Do you understand? Not one sound.”

“Yes, I—I understand.”

The hood of his long robe flapped against his back as he trotted around the end and leaped into the scooped-out hollow. When the ancient oak toppled, it had ripped a cavity large enough to hold Pondwader’s entire body. He snuggled down, just his eyes showing over the horizon of black dirt, and watched Musselwhite creeping through a tangled weave of hanging moss and grapevines. The yellow leaves on the vines stood out against the darker background of moss and branches.

Pondwader lost sight of Musselwhite and he settled back into his damp hole. She had led them around like the lead doe in a herd of frightened deer, doubling back on their tracks, changing direction frequently, stretching out on their stomachs to watch their backtrail from a different perspective. When he had asked her about this behavior, she had explained that often you could not see a pursuer from a standing position, because trackers deliberately worked to hide their upper bodies, but when you got down on your belly, you could see their feet moving.