People of the Lightning(144)

When he saw her threatening look, Hanging Star’s mouth twisted into a contemptuous grin. He’d plaited his hair into two braids that framed his ugly square face. With a chuckle, he returned to his pemmican.

He had rinsed and cleaned several lengths of deer intestine, then hung them on the palmetto stems to his left. After that, he’d laid out a rectangular piece of limestone, spread long, thin pieces of jerked venison on top, and used a round river cobble to pound the meat to powder. He’d just begun adding the plums, pounding and grinding them into the meat, seeds and all. A gooey concoction resulted. She sniffed the aroma. It smelled delicious, rich with the smoked scent of deer, and pleasantly sour from the plums. Despite the fact that Dark Rain had just eaten, her mouth watered.

Beaverpaw made a light gesture. “Has Cottonmouth ever said how the battle begins? What time of day is it, or—”

“Oh, yes,” Hanging Star answered, not bothering to look up from his work. “He boasts about such details. He never tells us anything truly meaningful, but he’s very free with lots of little things. The battle is supposed to begin at dusk.”

Beaverpaw slapped a mosquito on his forehead. Several more whined around his ears, their transparent wings glinting in the firelight. “That’s when Musselwhite enters Standing Hollow Horn Village?”

“So he says. Musselwhite and the Lightning Boy.”

Hanging Star leaned forward to check the wooden bowl filled with deer fat which sat on the sandy ground in front of him. He had melted it earlier, and it had just begun to cool and congeal. Pemmican had to be made with a “sturdy” tallow, usually the fat from deer. If made from softer fats, like those of raccoon or bear, it would spoil. Or if the fat were too hot when added to the meat, it would go rancid. It had to be just the right texture and temperature. But pemmican made correctly would last for many summers.

Dark Rain shook long hair away from her face, and said, “So my son will be with her. Poor Musselwhite. She does not deserve such a handicap. She will, no doubt, die because of him.”

Pondwader had been a curse to her from the day he’d been born. He couldn’t hunt, couldn’t fight, couldn’t see well enough to weave or make stone tools. He scared the souls out of everyone who saw him. In fact, so far as Dark Rain knew, Pondwader couldn’t do anything. The only productive thing the boy had ever accomplished—and that by accident—was to pay off her gambling debts.

Beaverpaw had a hurt expression on his face. He shook his head. “Pondwader is a good, kind boy, Dark Rain. You never got to know him very well. He—”

“I did not care to, Beaverpaw,” she answered tersely. “Thank Sister Moon that my mother wanted him. When I first saw him after his birth, I seriously thought about leaving him in the forest for the big cats to find.”

At Beaverpaw’s horrified look, Hanging Star said, “Perhaps she’s been witched, eh? What do you think, Beaverpaw? Dark Rain’s human souls were drained away and replaced with the souls of a rattlesnake or crocodile. Don’t her bloodless souls remind you of those beasts?”

Dark Rain smiled broadly—and in it, she knew, Hanging Star would see the promise of her revenge.

Beaverpaw glanced at Bowfin, who endeavored not to hear a word anyone else said, then bowed his head. “And what of the end of the battle, Hanging Star?” Beaverpaw asked. “Does Musselwhite die? Or Pondwader?”

“Cottonmouth never says how the battle will end—except that the Lightning Birds will soar out of the clouds and carry him and his loyal followers to a glorious new world beyond the stars.” Hanging Star pounded another plum into his venison mush. The sharp clacking carried on the still night. “I don’t think Cottonmouth knows how the battle will end.”

“Then he’s no Soul Dancer. He’s a fraud. I have always suspected it,” Dark Rain said, and leaned back, bracing her hands behind her and extending her long, beautiful legs to the glimmers of firelight.

The men, naturally, could not help but stare. Just her posture aroused them. Her full breasts pressed at her tunic, while she had her legs positioned just right to give them glimpses of the glories beneath her skirt. Bowfin grinned like a fool, while Hanging Star studied her with a raised brow. Beaverpaw, through obvious effort, managed to look away.

Hanging Star reached for a length of clean intestine and, in a mocking voice, said, “Oh, yes, I’m sure Cottonmouth must be a fraud. The sublime Dark Rain, after all, knows a great deal about Soul Dancers.”

She leaned forward. “I could tell you things about their masculine prowess you would not believe—or be able to duplicate, I might add, Hanging Star.”