People of the Lightning(167)
“No,” Dogtooth sighed, interrupting everyone. The old man shook his head, then nodded, as if he’d changed his mind about something. “I’m certain that Pondwader and Musselwhite are safe. They must be … or we are all doomed.”
Both Seedpod and Moonsnail started. They turned to face him, and Thorny Boy peered up inquisitively.
“What do you mean by that?” Moonsnail asked.
Dogtooth shouldered between them, and walked past. He answered, “I’m just frightened. Power can be so fickle sometimes.”
Thirty-seven
Diamondback paced around the campsite, trying to work out the story. The gray gleam of dusk made the task more difficult. He shoved palmetto foliage aside to peer beneath the broad sheltering fronds, searching for more footprints. The widely spaced, toe-first prints must have been Pondwader’s, and the shuffling, stumbling tracks certainly belonged to his mother. He had followed her many times on war walks, and had memorized the size and distinct patterns she wove into her sandal bottoms.
His brows lowered. To himself, he whispered, “Those two dead men we found hurt you, didn’t they, Mother? They hurt you badly.”
From the moment they had arrived at the campsite in late afternoon, his gut had been crawling. Now, he knew why. The blood had been his mother’s.
Turning, he frowned back at the fallen log that traversed the expanse of water. Cranes hunted the shallows, watched by a huge alligator that lay camouflaged in the reeds. They’d seen the bodies peering up at them from beneath the calm surface as they crossed the log. Someone, probably Pondwader, had dragged the dead men into the pool, turned them onto their left sides, and made certain they faced north, toward the Village of Wounded Souls. An array of weapons and stone tools glinted beside them. Yes, it must have been Pondwader who buried them. No one else would have treated his enemies so gently.
Wind breathed through the soughing branches, filling the air with the scents of the marsh and brittle mustiness of autumn. Diamondback inhaled deeply. Most of the oaks bore pale curtains of hanging moss that touched the ground. He’d found long strands of gray and black hair tangled with the moss two tens of paces from where Pondwader had been hiding—in the hole made when the toppling tree’s roots had ripped from the earth. Pondwader’s tracks, his handprints, and bits of thread torn from his long robe marked that irregular depression.
Diamondback returned to the place where his mother had lain. He knelt. The imprint of her tall body still remained visible. From the location of the old blood that clung to the forest duff, it looked as if she had suffered a head wound. He could not be certain of the severity. Scalp wounds bled profusely, even when minor. But it would have taken a hard blow to force her to lie down, even for a short time, while on a journey to rescue his father.
“If she’d been capable of putting one foot in front of the other, she would have kept walking.” His fingers moved tenderly over the depression, and his stomach muscles clenched. “You couldn’t even stand up, could you, Mother?”
Diamondback straightened. Kelp and Dace had spread out, searching for more signs while he finished scrutinizing the camp. Worry gnawed at him. Darkness fell quickly in these dense inland forests, and with the cloud cover, it would not be long until pitch blackness enveloped them.
The air cooled, and a shiver climbed his spine. He walked to the old fire pit where he had dropped his pack, opened it, and pulled out his tunic. He slipped it over his head. A strange quiet descended with the twilight. The trills and chirps of the birds gave way to the calls of the night predators … owls hooted, bats squeaked. The faint roar of a distant alligator wafted on the wind, and the alligator in the marsh a few paces away roared back. Diamondback turned to watch the big animal crawl up onto shore and hide in the tall grasses. Its eyes glowed red. Scattered through the reeds nearby, the yellow eyes of bullfrogs and large water spiders reflected the pale dusky gleam. Tens of frogs began croaking. Diamondback smiled.
He crouched before the old fire pit and pulled twigs from the wood pile stacked to his right. A big wood pile. Pondwader had collected a good supply, and had been unable to use it. Because his mother had risen and demanded they leave? Probably. Diamondback drew his knife, fireboard, and drill, from his pack and began shaving slivers of wood into the pit. When he had a small mound of shavings, he arranged the kindling over it, and started spinning his drill into his fireboard. Sparks crackled in the pit just as darkness closed in around him. He bent down to blow gently on the tiny tongues of flame, and firelight leapt and wavered, gilding the ghostly charcoal landscape with luminescent orange. He added more wood, but kept the blaze small. Just enough to warm them and their food.