People of the Lightning(140)
“For a girl.”
Diamondback sighed, then got to his feet, lifted his tunic, and began urinating onto the dry leaves. “I haven’t forgotten, my friend.”
Dace rose to his feet. “Nor will you. I plan on reminding you. Often.”
Sister Moon peered down at Cottonmouth through a milky film of clouds. Her gleam floundered through his shelter, groping at him tentatively, then jerking back as if afraid. He sat on his bedding, a piece of sandstone before him, the awl in his hand. The barest of breezes rocked the fabric bags hanging from the rafters. They creaked softly.
As he bent forward to continue sharpening the awl, his long, silvered black hair fell over his bare chest. Expertly, he pulled the broken tip back and forth across the piece of sandstone. The rhythmic zizzing sound felt like cool balm on a fevered wound.
Glade’s turtle bone doll sat propped in the midst of his rumpled blankets, watching. Her faded eyes shone unusually bright in the moonlight. But, then, she had been there at the end, tucked into the collar of Glade’s tunic. She would understand this only too well.
Very softly, Cottonmouth asked, “Why has it never occurred to me before? Hmm? Do you think it’s because the thought still frightens me?”
A tremor like an earthquake worked its way up his spine. Cottonmouth held his breath a moment, willing it away.
… Then he went back to sharpening the awl, honing it to a fine deadly point.
Thirty
What? Why, that’s rubbish, child! Cottonmouth would have never tried to skewer the Turtle Bone Doll with the Awl! Blessed Spirits, just the thought unsettles me. Who told you that?
… Well, I must say that makes me want to break things. I didn’t even realize that Star-that-Never-Moves knew these stories.
Ha! Yes, that’s a good observation, child. Obviously, she doesn’t.
Well, anyway, the very idea is ridiculous. Why would Cottonmouth have wasted the Awl’s Power on such a … Hmm?
She told you that!
Great Worm. Yes, of course, Turtle Bone Doll was alive, but why would Cottonmouth have wanted the Doll’s souls inside him? That’s not merely ridiculous, it’s moronic.
No, no, dear. Listen to me. Cottonmouth was much too smart to use the sacred Awl’s Power for such foolishness. He had far more important plans.
Yes, indeed, terrifying plans …
Sun Mother’s Winter Celebration Day was almost upon them, and everyone at Standing Hollow Horn Village was occupied with preparations. There would be a great feast, Dancing from dawn until dusk, and ritual games where tremendous wagers would be bet … .
The day had dawned hot and sweltering, much to Pondwader’s dismay. His worry about Musselwhite had grown to panicked proportions. Perspiration dripped down her cheeks as she walked along the deer trail behind him, her beautiful face pale and drawn. He kept turning to check on her. The pain in her head forced her to go slowly. Today, things like upturned shells and twigs crunched beneath her carefully placed sandals. Pondwader suspected that ordinarily she would have cursed herself for producing such noise, but this morning she could only keep her gaze focused on the ground and pray she could make it to the next tree, where she would brace her shoulder and catch her breath. Dressed in a lightweight tunic, belted at the waist with a yucca cord, she looked miserable. A headband, knotted on the left side, kept her long hair out of her eyes, and held her sundew-salve poultice in place.
Around them, oaks and hickory and hackberry trees had sunk their roots in the dark mat of soil. Branches thrust up into the clear blue sky, as if reaching for Sun Mother’s blessing. Palmettos sprouted everywhere. Pondwader winced when the serrated leaves of one plant tugged at Musselwhite’s tunic, threatening to topple her. She tried to push them out of the way, but just didn’t have the strength. She turned sideways and edged by.
No wind penetrated the forest. Even the birds seemed daunted by the smothering heat. They sat glumly on the branches—songless.
“I’d give anything,” Musselwhite said softly, “for a cool breeze to ease the burning in my head.”
“I know. Autumn weather is so fickle. One day freezing, the next roasting.” Pondwader led the way around a curve in the trail, his long robe dragging across the duff, and entered a well of forest shadows. “It’s better up here, Musselwhite. A little cooler.”
An old oak stood on the bend of the trail. When Musselwhite reached it, she sank against the thick trunk and breathed in the fragrance of warm bark. Pondwader ached for her. His long white hair clung wetly to his skull, and formed little curls on his forehead. He shook them away. His own sweat-drenched robe felt like a cape of stone. And if the heat sapped his strength, she must be suffering greatly.