“Yes. The boy is coming, just as you Dreamed, Spirit Elder.”
Cottonmouth’s shoulder whispered against the pole as he shoved away. “But no one else?”
“No. Musselwhite brings only the Lightning Boy.”
Cottonmouth’s face seemed frozen, his gaze so cold it made Woodduck long to run. Woodduck concentrated on breathing slowly, lest he appear as alarmed as he felt. Every time Cottonmouth carried the doll, he did something truly terrible. Woodduck hated to contemplate what it might be this time. Sun Mother’s Winter Celebration loomed only two days away. A really crazy act could …
Very quietly, Cottonmouth said, “I think I shall go and say hello to my old friend, Dark Rain.” He started out of the shelter, then stopped. Over his shoulder, he said, “Gather a small group of warriors. Have them ready.”
“For what, Elder?”
Cottonmouth returned his gaze to Dark Rain, and his eyes narrowed. “For whatever is necessary,” he answered.
Woodduck grimaced as Cottonmouth walked out across the plaza. People glanced at the doll tied to his belt, halted in mid-stride, and backed up, clearing a path for him. Cottonmouth did not seem to notice.
Thirty-nine
“You greedy whore! Throw the dice!” One Hunt, a long-nosed young man, shouted at Dark Rain.
She ignored him, held the hickory-nut dice up to her mouth, and breathed her Spirit into them, concentrating, praying the souls of the dice would feel their kinship with her and help her on her next throw. The six men in the circle around her leered, and yelled crude taunts, but she closed her mind to them, focusing on the dice, the dice.
She had won the last three throws. A dogbone hairpin, three shell necklaces, and one poorly made gray chert dart point lay before her. If she could just touch the dice’s souls again, they would continue to help her. Like a lover, she whispered to the dice, telling them she knew she could count on them, promising she would care for them, smoke them, and rub them with hickory oil, if only they would let her win. Let me win, let me win … .
People milled around the village. They’d been arriving in droves all night, pitching their camps on the outskirts of the village, then coming to the plaza, looking for entertainment. She suspected the village had doubled its size since this morning. The rich smells of roasting venison, rabbits, geese, and boiling clams encircled her, along with the tart fragrances of pine-needle tea and prickly pear fruits. Dark Rain loved the sights and scents of ceremonial gatherings. Men and women wore a variety of gleaming shell necklaces, and tunics dyed in dazzling geometric designs. Brilliant reds, deep blues, greens, and yellows flashed as people walked by.
“Dark Rain, for the sake of Brother Sky, throw the dice!” Hanging Star shouted. His repulsive, square face shone with insect grease. Pools of it had formed in his pock marks, and accentuated the size of his bulbous nose. He had been eating roasted duck and wiping his hands on his breechclout, which now bore a grimy coating of fat.
… Oh, how she detested him.
The six men in her group pounded their fists into the white sand, urging her to hurry. Three other groups of gamblers sat around the bonfire, engaged in their own games. When anyone shouted, men and women would crane their necks to see what had caused the disturbance. Three tens of people frowned in Dark Rain’s direction at this very instant.
“Dark Rain!” Hanging Star shoved her sideways. “Play!”
“All right!” she shouted back. “If you will shut up, I’ll throw!”
Men’s faces went serious. Black painted one side of the die, and white the other. A player scored when the same color came up on both dice. Black scored one point. White scored two points. If each nut showed different colors, the player lost his or her turn. Her current opponent, One Hunt, had earned a total of six points on his last turn. He’d had four lucky throws. His gleaming eyes appraised her now, filled with fear and loathing.
Dark Rain smiled. “What do you bet, One Hunt? Eh? How much do you wish to lose?”
One Hunt’s lip curled disdainfully. His long black hair blew around his young face. He had to be around ten-and-eight summers, and as arrogant as a mating bear. His breechclout bore a beautiful red geometric design. Before the night ended, Dark Rain planned to win even that from him. The haughty youth deserved to go home naked and destitute.
One Hunt surveyed his booty, and selected a beautifully crafted deerbone dart point. He tossed it into the center of the circle. “That will cost you all three of your shell necklaces, Dark Rain.”
“All three!” she blurted. “For one miserable bone point? I’ll wager two necklaces. That will match—”