People of the Lightning(130)

She closed her eyes. “Hatred,” she replied softly.

“Hatred? Hatred of what, Musselwhite?”

She made a movement that he thought might be a shrug, and Pondwader frowned. He drew up his legs, wrapped his arms around them, and propped his chin atop his knees. “Why would anyone let hatred—”

“Because he has nothing else left.”

A frown incised his forehead, thinking of what Turtle Bone Doll had said about agony. When the agony is all you have left, Pondwader, you dare not give it up. Because then you will have nothing at all.

Pondwader picked up Musselwhite’s hand, and tenderly held it to his cool cheek. “Are you all right?”

“So far,” she said, and smiled. “My stomach seems to have settled. But I make no … guarantees. You might wish to—to be ready to move quickly. Just in case I need that space where you’re sitting.”

His worry dissolved into amusement. He beamed down at her and kissed her fingers. “I’m very fast when I have to be, don’t worry.”

“Despite my nausea and headache … I really do feel better today, Pondwader. Much better. And that’s a good sign.” She sighed. “You must have used some Spirit Power on me last night that I don’t remember.”

The breeze carried a stench of burning to Pondwader’s nose.

He put her hand down and leapt to his feet, shouted, “I forgot our fish! They’re probably burning!” and ran across the camp with his long robe flying about his legs.

He grabbed the sticks and pulled them away from the fire, then used a small branch to slide the fish off into their wooden bowls. They looked terrible. He glanced back at Musselwhite. Had she sensed the Power flowing out of him and into her? Would she ask about it … ? What would he tell her? She had not spoken with him about the things he had told her that night on the beach. And he feared it might be because she had decided she didn’t believe him. That, or the very idea that her dead son had been reborn inside him terrified her into silence.

Rising, he carefully started back, endeavoring not to trip over his hem.

Her eyes narrowed as he knelt, carefully set one bowl at her side, then sank back, crossed his legs, and balanced his bowl on his left knee.

“They didn’t burn,” Pondwader said, “but I hope they’re not as dry as ancient bones. The skins seared.”

Musselwhite looked down at the curlicues of brown skin and replied, “Only on one side, Pondwader.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Here,” he said, reaching for one of her fish. “Let me strip out the bones. It will make it easier for you.”

He touched the skin to peel it back, and charred flakes covered his hand. He wiped them on his knee and glanced at her, hoping she hadn’t noticed. When he did manage to get a good hold, the dry meat clung to the skin as he stripped it back. “Oh, Musselwhite,” he said ominously. “This doesn’t look good. It is as dry as a bone.”

“Try the other side.”

He gently pulled out the bone and tossed it into the forest, then prodded the meat. “You’re right, this looks better. At least, it’s edible. I think.”

As Sun Mother climbed higher into the sky, the tops of the trees shimmered with golden sunshine. The autumn-touched leaves on the grapevines shone a dazzling yellow, framed by loops of brown vine. He could hear frogs croaking in the swamp, and the occasional splash of a diving turtle. Flutters of wings and birdsong filled the fragrant morning.

Pondwader lifted her bowl and held it near her face. “How do you wish to eat, Musselwhite? May I help you?”

“Just set the bowl at my side, Pondwader. I’ll manage.” He did, and she said, “Thank you.”

Reaching across with her shaking left hand, she pulled out a piece of fish and ate it. When she swallowed, her stomach squealed, and she winced, as if experiencing cramps. After several moments, she commented, “Well, that was quite a battle, but I think I won.”

Pondwader, starving, gobbled his fish, eating them as fast as he could clean them of bones. Around a mouthful, he said, “Good. Please eat some more. It will help you to heal.”

She ate, but cautiously. She had barely finished half of her first fish when Pondwader set his empty bowl aside, propped his elbows on his knees, and settled in to watch her with wide, glowing eyes. A gentle breeze blew across the swamp, penetrating the trees, and flicking his long white hair about his shoulders.

“Why don’t you talk for a while, Pondwader?” she said as she picked at her fish.

“About what?”

“Anything. What was it you wished to tell me earlier?”

Uncertainly, he said, “Let me get you another cup of tea first. You might—”