“No, it won’t!” One Hunt glared at her. “Your necklaces are made of common shells. My point came from old man Whistling Bird himself!”
Murmurs broke out in the group, the name passing from man to man. Awe tinged their voices.
Hanging Star leaned sideways and whispered, “Careful. Whistling Bird’s dart points are renowned for their Power. He is a very great Soul Dancer. One Hunt could demand far more than your three—”
“If Whistling Bird is so great, why have I never heard of him?”
Hanging Star made an airy gesture with his dirty hand. “Perhaps, despite the illustrious Dark Rain’s extensive travels, she has never been to the far northern forests … where Whistling Bird lives.”
She surveyed the gamblers again. They had yet to stop muttering about that measly bone point, which meant it really must have value. Yet, she would have precious little left if she wagered three necklaces and lost.
But I’m not going to lose! Am I, dice? No, you’ll help me, won’t you?
“Are you playing, whore?” One Hunt bellowed.
She picked up the pretty necklaces and casually threw them atop his dart point. Wagers exchanged hands around the circle. Even Hanging Star, she noticed, bet against her. When she gave him her most hateful look, he grinned and puckered his lips, as if to kiss her. Men rolled with laughter.
“Go ahead, beauty,” Hanging Star said. “Throw the dice, so I can collect my winnings.”
Dark Rain breathed her Spirit into the nuts one more time, then closed her eyes, shook them in her hands, and threw them out.
A roar went up. She jerked her eyes open, and saw two white dice staring up at her. “Two points!” she shrilled in delight.
One Hunt closed his eyes for a long moment, then he smiled and nodded. “Go on, Dark Rain. Throw. But know this, the souls of the dice have shifted. They are mine now. You will not score again, not against me. So …”
He reached into his pile and drew out a magnificently carved wooden bowl, which he set beside her necklaces. ‘If you wish to keep playing, it will cost you that ugly chert point.”
She picked it up, held it over the pile for a moment, then dropped it on top.
“Oh, brave woman!” Hanging Star said. “I wager an oak pestle against Dark Rain! Who will challenge me?”
She ignored the flurry of conversation. Holding the dice to her lips, she breathed more Spirit into them. As if smelling the foul stench rising from a dead animal, she could sense that something had changed. Anxiety gnawed her stomach. One Hunt really had affected the dice. Their souls had turned against her!
Calm down, she mouthed to herself. I can win their souls back again. Of course I can. I must!
Sensually, she ran her tongue around the rim of each hickory nut, all the while breathing her Spirit back into them, forcing One Hunt’s vile Spirit out.
“Come on, Dark Rain!” Hanging Star demanded. “We don’t wish to spend all night on your turn!”
Dark Rain shook the dice up. They felt warm in her hands. As she threw them out, raucous laughter rose.
One black. One white.
Shrieking in rage, she slammed her fists into the sand.
One Hunt chuckled, raked in his winnings, and collected the dice. He smiled at her lone dogbone hairpin. “That pathetic adornment is all you have left to gamble with?”
“No,” she responded, and straightened up so that her breasts pressed again the fabric of her tunic. Men “oohed” and laughed. “I will give you the same ecstasy that I have promised these other men. But it will cost you. I want—”
“I have no desire for your polluted body, woman. I want trade goods. If you have nothing left but that hairpin, you are out of the game.”
Hanging Star hoarsely whispered, “Oh, friend, you have no concept of how wondrous Dark Rain can be. She does things …” His voice faded as he saw Cottonmouth walk up to stand behind One Hunt.
The entire circle went deathly quiet. Eyes widened. Each man looked as if staring his doom in the face. Dark Rain examined Cottonmouth. She had not seen him in seven summers. Since that time, the hair at his temples had gone a solid silver that highlighted his black deeply set eyes and tanned skin. Though a few lines etched the flesh at the corners of his mouth, he looked like a man of three tens of summers, not a man nearly five tens of summers old. His tall, slender body and extremely handsome face brought a smile to her lips.
Cottonmouth gazed at Dark Rain as though entranced. His black breechclout had been freshly washed, and a strange toy hung from his belt. Dark Rain glanced at the doll. It seemed to be made of a turtle’s leg bone. Someone had dressed the toy in a frayed tunic, and glued on long strands of black hair with pine pitch. Very faintly, she could make out a painted face.