People of the Lightning(176)
Cottonmouth slowly walked around the circle and knelt on her left side. He smelled fragrant, as if he’d bathed in a pool filled with water lilies. In a deep voice, he murmured, “Are you winning?”
“No, I’m losing, and this—” she gestured offensively at One Hunt, “this skinny boy refuses to allow me to play.”
Cottonmouth’s gaze lifted to One Hunt. Orange firelight fluttered over his expressionless face, reflecting like molten flame in his eyes. “Play, One Hunt,” he softly commanded. “I will cover Dark Rain’s bet.”
“You?” Dark Rain blurted. “You will?”
Cottonmouth’s penetrating gaze remained on One Hunt, but his head dipped once in affirmation.
One Hunt wet his lips. He glanced around the circle, as if silently seeking guidance from the other men. No one so much as blinked. Dark Rain knew why. Cottonmouth never participated in games of chance. He might compete in a race or at dart casting, activities which relied upon his own skills, but nothing so unpredictable as outright gambling.
“Very well, Spirit Elder,” One Hunt replied with a stern nod, “what do you wish to wager?”
Cottonmouth replied, “I wager ten-and-five red chert dart points against all of your goods.” He pointed to One Hunt’s pile of winnings.
“Ten-and-five chert dart points!” Hanging Star yelled in shock. “You could buy One Hunt’s wife for that! And without even—”
One Hunt backhanded Hanging Star so hard it sent the man sprawling across the sand. Dark Rain laughed. Blood poured from Hanging Star’s cut lip, but he smiled, a vengeful smile. As he sat up and wiped his mouth, Hanging Star said, “I will settle with you, later, young warrior.”
“If you have the courage,” One Hunt said in a low, threatening voice, then turned to peer at Cottonmouth. “Were your words in earnest, Elder? You wish to wager so much? On this woman’s behalf?”
“I do.”
One Hunt shook his head disbelievingly. “Very well. What rules will we play by?”
“One throw. If you score, you win. If you don’t, you lose.”
Dark Rain sat up straighter. She gave Cottonmouth a surprised look, but he no longer gazed at her. His eyes were riveted on One Hunt. Dark Rain’s veins throbbed as she watched One Hunt squirm. She adored high-stakes games, and rarely had a chance to play them. Usually her poverty relegated her to watching from afar while more skillful players wagered everything they owned on the fall of a handful of bones or sticks.
One Hunt took a deep breath. “I accept your challenge, Elder.”
Cottonmouth gestured to the dice. “Good. Your turn.”
The circle leaned inward. Every man held his breath as he watched One Hunt shake up the dice. Hanging Star’s eyes seemed ready to pop from his skull. The sounds of the village, which Dark Rain had barely noticed before, became suddenly deafening. Dogs barked. Surf splashed. Fires roared and crackled in the gusting wind. Men whooped and women laughed.
Cottonmouth gazed unblinking at One Hunt. Sweat broke out across the youth’s cheeks. He bowed his head and began Singing a soft prayer to Sun Mother. Then his young face tensed.
One black. One white.
Silence.
Everyone turned to stare at Cottonmouth. Fear glistened in their eyes: surely he had witched the dice. One Hunt closed his eyes, shoved his pile over in front of Dark Rain, and got to his feet. “Good night,” he said, and left.
Dark Rain turned all the way around to watch his skinny form trot for the closest trail which would take him out of the village. He vanished into the wavering firelit shadows of the forest.
“It seems you won,” Cottonmouth said to Dark Rain.
She looked at him askance, wondering what his help would cost her. She gave Cottonmouth her most alluring smile. “Yes,” she said. “How shall I repay you for your help?”
Cottonmouth toyed with the beautiful deerbone dart point in the middle of the pile, smoothing it reverently with his fingers. “Play dice with me.”
“That’s all?”
Cottonmouth’s gaze seemed to impale her. “That will be adequate.”
She dared not refuse. Besides, she had a lot of goods to wager with. No matter what happened the game would be glorious.
“I didn’t think you liked gambling,” she said.
“Like has never had anything to do with it. No one wants to gamble with me.” He looked around the circle, meeting each man’s gaze. “I suspect people fear my Spirit Helpers.”
The four men on Cottonmouth’s left swallowed convulsively, and rose so quickly, they tripped over each other’s feet. Hostile murmurs broke out, laced with curses. Then the men bowed respectfully to Cottonmouth—and excused themselves.