People of the Lightning(145)

Hanging Star sneered his response. Gruffly, he tied a knot in the one end of the length of intestine and began scooping up the venison mush and loosely stuffing it inside. If stuffed too tight, the warm fat would not completely coat the meat mixture and evil spirits would grow, making the man who ate the pemmican very ill. Once he’d stuffed the intestine half full, he handed it to Beaverpaw. “Here, hold this for me while I pour, will you?”

“Yes, gladly.” Beaverpaw held the end open.

Hanging Star brought the bowl over and carefully poured the warm tallow down the opening. Not too much, though. Just enough to coat the meat-plum mix.

“Very good, my friend,” Hanging Star said as he set the bowl down. “Thank you.”

Beaverpaw handed the finished pemmican back and watched Hanging Star tie a knot into the top end. After that, he massaged the intestine, working the fat thoroughly through the meat mixture—making certain every morsel had been coated.

“You do not wish me to tell you about Soul Dancers, Hanging Star?” she taunted. “Jealous?”

“Dark Rain,” he responded, “there is nothing you know that I wish to know.” He finished working his pemmican and turned to drape it over the palmetto again. Then he pulled down another length, and stuffed it with the remaining mush. He handed it to Beaverpaw to hold again while he poured in the rendered fat.

Beaverpaw, trying to divert hostilities, asked, “Why do you think Cottonmouth has never seen the end of the battle? That’s very odd. Every Soul Dancer I’ve ever known—”

“Which is very few,” Dark Rain scoffed. “I have known many more than you have, Beaverpaw, and they are all fakes.”

Bowfin laughed and slapped his knee, but Beaverpaw did not even look her way. He exchanged a knowing glance with Hanging Star, and concentrated on keeping the intestine open. Rage smoldered in her chest. When the fat covered the meat, Hanging Star took it back and knotted the end.

Beaverpaw persisted. “If Cottonmouth really is a Soul Dancer, his Spirit Helper should have shown him the end of the battle. Why would his Spirit Helper keep that from him?”

Hanging Star draped the pemmican over the palmetto and rubbed his hands in the sand to clean them. “Perhaps his Spirit Helper wishes him to fail. If I were Cottonmouth’s Spirit Helper I would do everything in my power to see that he suffered for all the suffering he has forced others to endure.”

“Justice, eh?” Bowfin called. He crawled to sit beside Dark Rain. His young face had a hot glow as he slipped an arm around her shoulders, and began sensually caressing her skin.

Beaverpaw’s eyes tightened. She had not shared his blankets last night, and he knew why. She had been trying vainly to teach Bowfin how to arouse a woman. Beaverpaw had been forced to listen to their desperate coupling for half the night. Her neglect had almost driven him mad. She smiled across the fire at him. He’d been so enraged last night that he’d lurched to his feet, grabbed his blanket, and stamped away from camp. But he would be back tonight. She had no doubts. Yes, he’d come crawling to her, touching her gently, pleading for her favors. Dark Rain had not yet decided how she would respond. At least Beaverpaw could be counted upon to provide her with ecstasy, whereas Bowfin only succeeded in whetting her appetite before he went limp and started snoring in her hair.

“Of course it would be justice,” Hanging Star said. “Cottonmouth is a monster. You have no idea, my young friend. He has never attacked your village. Yet.”

Beaverpaw sat up. “Does he have plans to attack Heartwood?”

“He has plans to attack every village in striking range—whether or not he succeeds depends upon his battle with Musselwhite. If she dies, no coastal village will be safe.”

Beaverpaw looked at Hanging Star. “Has Cottonmouth spoken about how it happens? The battle at Standing Hollow Horn, I mean.”

Hanging Star stretched out on his side, used a finger to scoop the remains from his grinding stone, and tucked it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, as if relishing the flavor. “There is a tree, an old oak, covered with hanging moss, which stands on the northwest corner of the village. Cottonmouth says Musselwhite will launch her attack from there.”

Beaverpaw nodded, eager. “And then?”

Hanging Star flicked a hand, as if shooing away biting flies. “And then he captures her. He claims—”

“Not now!” Dark Rain hissed to Bowfin, who had started to grope her breasts.

“But why?” he asked in confusion. “You have never objected to my caresses before.”

“Well, I do tonight!” she said. Roughly, she shoved away from him, rose, and walked to stand near the fire, warming her hands.