People of the Lightning(152)

“I shouldn’t talk about Floating Stick and Dogtooth. I’m in just as bad a mood,” Moonsnail said. “But it isn’t the heat. It’s my stomach.”

“I know how you feel. I’ve been worried sick about Diamondback. His leg has not even fully healed, and he’s off on another war walk. I only hope …” A gust of wind moved across the shore, throwing sand in people’s eyes, and bringing forth strings of curses, before thrashing through the trees. Seedpod turned his face away until it passed, then he continued. “I only hope Diamondback can help Kelp and Dace to survive. He insisted on going because he feared they would be lost without him.”

Moonsnail gripped the polished head of her walking stick more tightly. “I’m certain he was right. I thank Sun Mother for Diamondback’s courage.”

“He’s a fine young warrior,” Seedpod said, his voice tinged with sad pride. “Diamondback is very good with trails. Once he’s run a path, he knows everything about it, where it connects with other trails, where the best camps are, and how each branch winds through the forest. I’m sure he will lead Kelp and Dace safely to Musselwhite and Pondwader. But after that … well, who can say.”

“I wish they were all here where we could guard and protect them. But Diamondback was right, Kelp and Dace would have gone on alone—no matter what anyone said. I’m deeply grateful to you, Seedpod, for allowing Diamondback to accompany them.”

Seedpod smiled. “My son left me no choice, Moonsnail. Clearly, his presence was vital.”

Moonsnail lifted her walking stick and poked it into the sand again, thinking. Cottonmouth’s expertise with torture was widely known, and greatly feared. The thought that he might capture one of her precious grandchildren and … She dared not think about it. If she let the frightened rage get out of control, she would surely dispatch a war party to burn Standing Hollow Horn Village to the ground. That oozing wound needed cauterizing, and badly. But not yet. She couldn’t risk it for quite some time.

A wry twist pulled at Seedpod’s mouth. “From the look on your face,” he said, “you’re contemplating murder.”

“Unfortunately, my good sense tells me it would be a grave error. We need our warriors here. After the attack on Windy Cove, we must all be vigilant.”

Seedpod’s white brows drew down. Sweat ran from the deep furrows in his forehead to the hollows of his cheeks. “Yes, we must.”

“I wish we knew more about Cottonmouth. It would help us to defend ourselves. Did you know him well?”

“No,” Seedpod shook his head. “I’ve seen him maybe five or six times, usually for just a few hands of time, once for several days.”

Moonsnail wondered about that, since everyone knew that Musselwhite and Cottonmouth had shared a shelter for several summers. Had Seedpod despised his daughter’s lover so much?

Silent fears tormented her again. It took force of will to shove the pictures from her mind … . Kelp and Pondwader strung up … warriors surrounding them …

She asked, “Is Cottonmouth as cruel as people say? As his attacks make him seem?”

Seedpod massaged the sore muscles in his right arm. “I do not know, Moonsnail. When I saw him, he was never cruel. Quite the opposite, in fact. Though he was always an insecure young man, scared to death of what other people thought of him.”

“I would say, then, that he has changed. He doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks now.”

Seedpod softly answered, “Perhaps.”

As they neared the council shelter, Floating Stick turned and waved them onward. “Thank Sun Mother!” he yelled. “I feared you would never get here. I was on the verge of slicing that big artery that runs down the inside of my leg.”

Moonsnail called, “Why, what’s wrong?”

“You’ll see.”

“That sounds like a threat,” she replied.

“Would you think it a threat if I told you Sun Mother was going to vanish tonight?” Floating Stick asked as he lounged on his side on the floor mats.

Moonsnail lifted a brow, wondering what Dogtooth had done. The Soul Dancer appeared to have fallen asleep with a half-finished fishing net clutched in his hands. He lay flat on his back, the net over his stomach, eyes closed. Both old men wore breechclouts, and sweat glistened on their skinny bodies.

Moonsnail hobbled to sit on a pile of mats near Floating Stick, while Seedpod sat down cross-legged near Dogtooth. She carefully shifted to take the strain from her hip. The joint ached with a fiery intensity today. Setting her walking stick aside, she surveyed the shelter. Stark. Little more than four poles and a roof. People had just begun unpacking travoises and packs. Not a single basket or bag adorned the shelter. Moonsnail let out a breath. She should be happy someone had thrown down floor mats—probably Polished Shells. Her daughter would have wanted Moonsnail to be as comfortable as possible during the village’s construction. Gratitude filled her heart. At least she still had Polished Shells.