People of the Lightning(143)
A sudden smile graced his face. “Yes, my wife.”
He thrashed through the brush at her side to get in front of her, so he could hold palmettos and branches out of the way for her to pass.
“You don’t have to do that, Pondwader.”
“No, but it helps you, doesn’t it? It makes it easier for you?” He looked at her through wide, anxious eyes.
She smiled. “Yes, it does. Thank you. Just … will you try to be quiet while you help me?”
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry! I will.”
Thirty-one
With the hot weather, all the ruthless insects that dwelt beneath blades of grass or in rotting wood emerged. The mosquito, ant, spider, and biting fly nations had taken to the land and sky on war walks again. Dark Rain’s hands stayed in constant motion, slapping anything that buzzed, whined, or dared to crawl on her, but her red tunic felt as if it possessed a squirming life of its own.
She mashed a spider, then brushed ants from her blanket, and stretched out on her side before the fire, watching Beaverpaw finish his supper of froglegs, elderberries, and prickly pear fruits. They had walked hard today, and made camp late. Everyone needed rest. Bowfin sat beside Dark Rain, yawning and half asleep, but staring contemplatively into the flames. The flat planes of his young face reflected the firelight like a water-mirror. Hanging Star crouched on the other side of the fire, near Beaverpaw, making pemmican—a mixture of dried venison, plums, and fat.
“How far are we from Standing Hollow Horn Village, Hanging Star?” Beaverpaw asked.
Hanging Star shrugged. “If we can keep Dark Rain from entering every game we pass … maybe two … three days.”
Dark Rain smiled, but she was not amused. She had known Hanging Star for many summers, and he lacked even the basic qualities of manhood. He was a coward, a thief, and a liar—worse, his lovemaking method consisted of “jump, ride, and run.”
What a mistake that had been. She had never stopped regretting it—or the fact that she now found herself in his revolting company again. Beaverpaw would pay for that. The instant he had mentioned traveling with Hanging Star, she had objected, but Beaverpaw had invited the man along anyway, “to show them the fastest trails,” he’d said. Surely she would want to get to the big game as soon as possible? Dark Rain suspected Beaverpaw had other motives, but she had not learned them yet. Poor Beaverpaw, he missed his family. It showed in every sagging line of his tadpole face. That and the fact that he talked about his children all the time. “Little Manatee Flipper learned to make dart points at the age of three summers … .” and “If you think that’s impressive, my son Manatee Flipper hit a dove on the wing the first time he cast a dart. No, really, I swear it!”
She turned to glare at Bowfin. Another mistake, a huge one. The youth had proven the ultimate bore. No conversation, no entertainment, and he had even less stamina between the blankets than Hanging Star. It would take true genius to imagine a more worthless man. Dark Rain had come to despise Bowfin. If she could just figure a way of ridding herself …
“We are that close?” Beaverpaw asked. “I hadn’t realized.”
“Oh, it’s not far if you have a good guide,” Hanging Star answered.
A frown incised Beaverpaw’s forehead. Like all the other men around the fire, he wore only a breechclout. Sweat poured down his muscular chest and dripped from his fat face. He’d washed his black chin-length hair with yucca soap. It glistened in the flameglow. Dark Rain sighed, waved away a biting fly, and grimaced. The hairstyle did not suit Beaverpaw. She would have to tell him about that. It made his small eyes and tiny circle of a mouth seem dainty.
“And this battle with Musselwhite?” Beaverpaw asked. “When is it supposed to take place?”
“Who knows?” Hanging Star replied. “As soon as she arrives. Which should be about the time we do.”
Beaverpaw’s eyes took on a curious gleam. “What do you know of Cottonmouth’s Dreams, Hanging Star?” he asked. “You never speak about them. Do you fear he’ll—”
“Oh,” Hanging Star said and laughed in that yipping manner of his, “no, it isn’t that I fear Cottonmouth’s revenge. I just don’t know very much about his Dreams. I never cared to. They are truly bizarre.” As if he couldn’t resist, he winked at Dark Rain. “Eh, Dark Rain? As bizarre as the visions of a woman who’s been chewing moon-vine seeds all day.”
She lifted an elegant brow.
Beaverpaw finished his frog leg and tossed the bones into the fire, then reached for a handful of elderberries. But as he did so, he glanced at her and his brows lowered, obviously wondering if that explained her aloofness today. Blind fool. Though she had not eaten any seeds since noon, the exhilarating effects continued, and Hanging Star knew the signs.