People of the Lightning(151)

“About what?”

“Things of which you know nothing.”

“But I thought you wanted to kill her? To punish her for murdering your son? For betraying you to your enemies?”

Cottonmouth bowed his head.

In the long silence that followed, Diver heard raucous laughter rising from his guards, and the sharp smacking of a warclub striking a palm. The muscles of Cottonmouth’s jaw tightened. Finally, he answered, “I must ask her about things that happened two-tens-and-six summers ago. After Pelican Isle.”

“But she was gone by then. How would she know?”

He looked up and held Diver’s gaze. “She may not. But I must ask just the same. You see, Diver, I came home the next day to bury my son. But all the Soul Dancers, including crazy old Dogtooth, told me there was no reason to.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” Cottonmouth asked so low Diver could barely hear him. “That’s good.”

“Why would they tell you something so terrible? Soul Dancers know better than anyone—”

“They had their reasons.” Cottonmouth’s full lips pressed into a bloodless line. “Though, I admit, I defied them and buried my son anyway. By myself. After what the Soul Dancers said, people were frightened. No one wanted to touch him.” In a small voice, he continued, “I had to bury my son.”

“But why …”

Cottonmouth walked away, out onto the beach. He hung very close to the raging breakers, as if the roar might drown out the rest of the world. Spray coated his hair and nearly naked body, and Diver saw him shivering. But he did not come back to the warmth of the village. He continued south, until Diver lost sight of him.

Very cautiously, Diver reached beneath his knee and slipped out the stiletto. Small, the length of Glasswort’s foot, it had been honed to a lethal point. He could not risk using it until he truly had a chance to escape, but where could he hide it in the meantime? He looked around. If he moved, it would draw the attention of the guards.

Two floor mats abutted each other six hands in front of him. He had to chance it. Diver stretched out on his side, as if to sleep, pulled up one edge of the mat, and drove the stiletto point into the sand, then let the mat down again.

By the time Woodduck strode around the shelter and stood over him, Diver had closed his eyes. He didn’t need to fake exhaustion.

Woodduck stood for a short while, his feet kneading the sand, then he left.

Thank you, Sun Mother. Thank you Forest Spirits and homeless ghosts … .

Before he could finish the litany, Diver had fallen into a deep sleep.

… He dreamed of a little boy lying dead in his father’s arms, and no one there to help the man bury his son.





Thirty-three

“What’s wrong, Moonsnail? Are you worrying about Pondwader and Kelp?” Seedpod asked.

Morning campfires trailed gray streamers of smoke over the forests surrounding Manatee Lagoon. Sun Mother had been up for four hands of time, but her. gleam through the high clouds was a pale reflection of itself, pallid, washed out, glinting dully from the vast blue ocean. A few towering thunderheads drifted toward the shore. Burning hickory and oak scented the air.

Moonsnail nodded as she carefully poked her walking stick into the sand. “Yes, I’d like to wring both their necks. I just pray I have the chance.”

The freshly built council shelter stood near the trees on the southern side of the village site, separated from the other shelters by a small copse of palms. Moonsnail could see that Dogtooth and Floating Stick had already seated themselves in the soothing shade cast by the thatched roof. Floating Stick’s arms waved over his head.

“Do you think they’re getting along any better today?” Seedpod asked. He walked slowly at her side, waiting for her to prop her walking stick. He had his hands clasped behind his back, his white hair blowing in the hot breeze. His gaunt face looked particularly leathery today.

“Well, it would be a miracle if they are,” she answered. “Considering that they’ve never gotten along.”

Seedpod chuckled. “And I thought it was just the heat.”

Late autumn rarely saw this kind of hot weather, and it seemed to shorten tempers. All around them, people grumbled as they worked, chopping saplings for shelter poles, gathering berries and prickly pear fruits, erecting shelters, and thatching roofs. No one looked happy.

Moonsnail sighed. From the moment Heartwood Clan arrived last night, nothing had gone well. Arguments had broken out between the clans, disputes over choice shelter locations, warriors testing each other, children screeching like little animals as they chased around the village, pulling hair and wrestling, vicious dog fights. The worst news, of course, had come from Seedpod, when he’d informed Moonsnail that neither Kelp nor Pondwader were here. Both had run off to commit suicide in Standing Hollow Horn Village.