People of the Lightning(149)

“Do you really think I’m a swindler?” Diver asked.

She shifted to look at him, and her eyes gleamed softly. Strange. Those eyes drew him powerfully. When he gazed into them, he felt as if gale force winds buffeted his souls. He could sense despair just beneath the surface, barely hidden in those deep dark wells, and something inside him longed to soothe that hurt. How easy it would be to love this beautiful woman … .

“It sounds like you’re a swindler.”

“Is that the reason you invited me to share your fire? So you could insult me?”

Musselwhite finished smoothing her dart, and removed it from the wooden blocks. Picking up a piece of fabric, she wiped off the clinging sand. “No,” she finally answered. “To feed you. You were staring at my deer ribs as if you might steal them if I didn’t invite you to eat.”

“You were right. I might have.” He grinned. “I don’t know why I’m so hungry, but I …” Footsteps on sand. Voices from far far away …

“I think I like you,” she said.

“Because I look like a swindler?” The bantering had made the world come alive. The sky looked incredibly blue. Birdsong lilted, so loud it almost hurt his ears.

She smiled, lay down her dart, and reached out to touch his hand. The warmth of her skin, the tenderness of her touch made him turn up his palm and clasp her fingers tightly. For a long moment, he let himself drown in the feel of her flesh against his.

Without thinking, he kissed her and she …

“Wake him up,” a harsh voice ordered.

Diver started, his eyes jerking open as hard hands pulled him to a sitting position. His festered thorn wounds felt as if they were on fire. His whole body burned. Panting, he blinked; trying to figure out where he was. Scenes and feelings from the dream would not let him go. But Musselwhite had vanished; she no longer sat beside him. Wrenching despair brought tears to his eyes. If he’d had the strength, he would have wept.

“Leave us,” Cottonmouth said.

The warriors retreated to their former guard positions, and, strangely, Cottonmouth walked several paces away, folded his arms over his bare chest, and fixed his gaze upon the crashing waves. Though he wore only a breechclout, a beautiful periwinkle shell necklace draped his neck. The silver hair at his temples glittered in the flutters of firelight coming from around the village.

Diver hunched forward, his bound hands in his lap. A sob had lodged in his throat. He peered sightlessly at the coarse weave of the floor mat. He longed for Musselwhite so desperately that he felt certain he would die if he could not see her soon. See her, touch her, hear her loving voice …

“Diver?” a woman called.

His head snapped up. He watched breathlessly as she entered the shelter and knelt before him. Kindness and worry filled her eyes when she gazed upon his hideous wounds. Infection oozed from the punctures and drained down his chest and arms. She carried a folded piece of fabric in her hands, which she set aside, and softly touched Diver’s face.

“Diver? Do you remember me? I’m—”

“Glasswort,” he whispered in astonishment. She had the same round pretty face, with delicately arched eyebrows and a thin beak of a nose. She’d cut her hair short, in mourning. “Is it really you?”

“Yes.” She embraced Diver, heedless of his foul body. “It’s me. I’ve been trying to get permission to see you for days.”

“Glasswort,” he repeated, trying to convince himself. She and her son, Coral, had been captured in Cottonmouth’s raid last summer. “Blessed Sun Mother, it’s so good to see you. We had feared you might be dead.”

She pushed back and touched the festering thorns still buried in his forehead. “No, no, I’m fine.”

“And Coral? Thorny Boy cried for a full moon after his best friend was—”

“My son is dead, Diver,” she said softly. But tears did not fill her eyes. Hatred did. Fiery. Passionate. She checked to see how far away Cottonmouth stood—a good two-tens of hands. Still, she kept her voice low, barely audible. “The Standing Hollow Horn warriors pushed us so hard getting here that many of the old people and children could not keep up. When they fell behind, the warriors killed them. Then they drove the rest of us just that much harder to make up the lost time.”

With his bound hands, Diver reached out to grip her wrist. “I’m glad you made it, Glasswort. People will be so happy to hear …” She motioned for him to keep talking, and Diver said, “that you are alive and well”—she reached into her sandal and pulled a small stiletto out—“Do you have a family here?”—then tucked it beneath his right knee—“A husband or children?”