People of the Lightning(122)
But she can’t.
I am alone. And she needs me.
My first steps are tentative. I jump a finger’s breadth off the ground. Nothing happens. I jump again. Finally, like a fool, I start leaping. High into the air. Leaping up, and coming down. Landing softly on the thick forest duff. Leaping up. Coming down. Leaping and leaping …
Sobs shake my chest.
Here I am, hopping like a madman while my wife dies before my eyes. Why am I so helpless? I have always relied on other people to protect me, to overlook my weaknesses. And look where my helplessness has gotten me.
Hot tears flood my face.
Leaping … leaping! Leaping!
To keep my balance, I focus my eyes on the blurry bed of red coals. They shift and waver in the breeze. Scenes form, from Heartwood and Windy Cove—my marriage, the battle—then they flicker away in the next gust of wind.
I have failed, not just at the things Grandmother Moonsnail wanted me to do, like hunting and fighting, but at things I wanted to do myself—like making Musselwhite love me, helping her to free Diver. I was willing to die to give this baby Lightning Bird life—and I haven’t even done that! Can’t I do anything right? Am I completely useless?
I stare down at the coals. An angry red glare seeps up as if fed by wind. Tendrils of light stretch long fingers out. They reach for me. I am leaping almost unconsciously now, spending most of my time in the air. The red tendrils swirl together, and a tiny tornado is born above the coals. Fascinated, I cannot take my eyes from it. The heat grows as the tornado spins upward, and it begins to scorch my face. I keep leaping!
In the eye of the tornado a white hot blaze forms. The red glare whirls around it, gaining speed. Fiery crimson filaments spiral out from the glare to feed the white core. It glows brighter and brighter.
“Come, Lightning Boy,” a soft voice says, but it is not Turtle Bone Doll. The voice is male. “Dance with me. Come and Dance away the darkness. You have only to reach out … just extend a hand to me, Lightning Boy.”
Like a waterspout made of liquid silver, the core suddenly shoots up, crackling past my face on its way to the starlit heavens. In terror, I jump back, shielding my face. Then, when understanding dawns, I scream … and leap. With both hands, I grab for its blinding tail … .
Pondwader’s own incoherent cry woke him. He sat bolt upright from where he had curled around the fire and panted into the darkness. The coals had burned down to white ashes. Not even a pale, red glow could be seen in the firepit. The sky had begun to blue with the coming of dawn. Sweat coursed down his face and chest.
From Musselwhite’s bedding a faint voice said, “Pondwader? You … cried out. Are you … all right?”
“Yes, I—I am, my wife.”
“Dream?”
He nodded. “Yes. Just a dream. But it seemed so real.”
He looked over, and saw her sitting up, braced on one elbow. She had managed to grip a dart in her hand, and held it aimed in his direction. Shaking, she eased back down to her bedding, lowered the dart and laid it across her stomach. Her eyes fell closed instantly, her head rolling to the side in sleep—or unconsciousness. Pain etched her face. She must have wakened, feared he was in trouble, and forced herself to rise to protect him. And Pondwader suspected that if he really had been in trouble, she’d have dragged herself to her feet somehow, and made certain he did not have to fight his attackers alone.
He rose and went to kneel at her side. Tenderly, he brushed hair from her face, and flinched as pain lanced him. Bright. Fiery. Uncomprehending, he turned his palms up to the starlight.
Blisters … my hands are covered with blisters!
Only after a long time of staring, did Pondwader lift his gaze to the brightening sky. The Shining People had gone. A purplish hue dyed the drifting clouds. Not a single Lightning Bird Danced up there.
When he dared to remember the feel of those blinding white-hot tailfeathers, a faint crackle flowed out of his heart with his blood, and pumped through his veins, filtering through every part of him until his whole body seemed to be thunder.
He did not know why, or how, but he knew what he had to do. He reached out and gently placed his hands on either side of Musselwhite’s injured head. It took no effort at all on his part, he just let the thunder flow through his hands into his wife.
Her dark eyes fluttered open. In a barely audible voice, she said, “Thank you. Feels … good.” Then her eyes fell closed again. She went limp.
After the thunder had crackled into silence, Pondwader slumped weakly back on the ground, wrapped his arms around his chest, and hugged himself. Was that what Turtle Bone Doll meant by learning to thunder?