Pondwader creased the hem of his robe with his fingernails.
Hanging Star commented, “I had no idea that a human face could get that color. But then, it’s not fully human, is it? How did you come to be, boy? Tell me the story again.”
Pondwader seemed to be debating whether or not to answer.
Dark Rain said, “Tell him, Pondwader. It’s not an act. He really is an ignoramus.”
Wearily, Pondwader began, “Lighting Boys are created when a bolt of lightning penetrates a woman’s womb and—”
“Well, I wouldn’t doubt that,” Hanging Star said. “In fact, a bolt of lightning might be the only thing that would surprise your mother. I’d wager she lay out in every lightning storm with her legs spread, hoping—”
“Are you jealous, Hanging Star? Pay him no attention, Pondwader. A blade of grass would make him jealous. Now tell me—”
“Not jealous, Dark Rain,” Hanging Star replied with a sly smile. “Bored. Utterly and completely. And that’s the last thing you’d want to be, isn’t it?”
She longed to slap that smile off his ugly face. Later, she promised herself. She would find a way of avenging that comment. She turned to her son. “How is your marriage, Pondwader? Are you happy?”
The boy seemed short of breath. He could barely force enough out to make words. “Yes, Mother.”
“And Musselwhite? How was she injured?”
Pondwader prodded at an oak twig on the ground at his side. “We were attacked.”
“And she was struck in the head?”
Pondwader nodded.
“But why isn’t she wrapped in a blanket sleeping? She should be—”
“Because, my beauty,” Hanging Star answered for Pondwader. “She is Musselwhite. It would take more than a glancing blow to the head to keep her down, especially when she knows that her husband Diver is still alive and in Cottonmouth’s hands. Speaking of which,” he said and eyed Pondwader a little fearfully, “the only reason Cottonmouth seeks to trap Musselwhite is because of you, Lightning Boy. I wonder why that is?”
“Me?”
“Oh, yes. Cottonmouth wants you very badly.”
Dark Rain stiffened at the name. “I never liked Cottonmouth.”
“He didn’t like you, either, precious.” Hanging Star’s eyes glinted. “I recall the time you tried to grope him at Sun Mother’s Winter Celebration and he—”
Pondwader stumbled to his feet. “My wife needs me … .”
Hanging Star laughed, watching Pondwader blunder into an oak tree, trip over a palmetto, and run for Musselwhite with his robe flying about his legs. When he knelt at her side, Musselwhite tenderly put an arm around him. Pondwader sat as close to her as he could without getting into her lap.
Disdainfully, Dark Rain said, “He never was the man he ought to have been.”
“That must be the only reason you didn’t drag your own son into your blankets.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. My mother would have slit my throat.”
Hanging Star rubbed his jaw. “I’m amazed she didn’t anyway.”
Beaverpaw examined Pondwader. The youth looked ill. He held to Musselwhite’s hand as if it were a tree trunk in a hurricane. Beaverpaw felt sorry for him, wondering what Dark Rain must have said to sicken her own son.
“Go on,” Musselwhite urged.
Beaverpaw nodded. Despite her injury, Musselwhite radiated a strength that bolstered even Beaverpaw. He leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Hanging Star says that Cottonmouth has Dreamed your arrival in the village. He knows you are coming. And the rest is just as bad.”
“Tell me.”
Beaverpaw laced his fingers and rubbed his palms together. “In his Dream, you had no war party; just you and the Lightning Boy would be coming to rescue Diver. He has set up a trap to capture you.”
Her jaw tightened. “What sort of trap?”
Beaverpaw wet his lips, and glanced at Dark Rain and Hanging Star, just to make certain they hadn’t moved. Then his eyes met Musselwhite’s again. “You are supposed to enter the village at dusk. There is an old oak, covered with hanging moss, at the northwest corner of the village—”
“Yes. I know that tree.”
“Cottonmouth has Dreamed that you and Pondwader launch your attack from there. He will have warriors stationed and waiting to capture you when you do.”
Musselwhite’s nostrils flared, but Beaverpaw could not tell whether in anger or frustration. She drew back the arm she’d had around Pondwader and laced her hands in her lap. “Then I assure you, I won’t do that.” She glared at her whitening knuckles. “Has Hanging Star said where Diver is being held? Tens of years ago, he would have been in the council shelter near the water … but now, I don’t know.”