People of the Lightning(184)

“But you said that if you didn’t come back—”

“That was just a precaution. I will be back for you.”

Musselwhite could see the color rise suddenly into Pondwader’s cheeks. He stuttered, “Y-you won’t. You’ll be killed and I’ll be to blame! And I’ll never forgive—”

“Pondwader,” she said softly. “What is the Lightning Bird telling you? Is it trying to warn you?”

He blinked suddenly. “No,” he answered with a frown. “No, the Bird is completely silent tonight.”

Musselwhite smiled. “If I were heading into a trap, don’t you think my son’s soul would be trying to warn me? Just as he has in the past?”

Pondwader appeared to be thinking hard. He nodded.

She patted his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon. I promise you. And, Pondwader? Keep down. Don’t stand up or flail about. Your white hair and face draw attention as it is. Use your facemask if you want to get close to shore. Try not to make yourself an easy target for those warriors.”

“But … ! But what if your scouting takes too long? What if Beaverpaw creates his diversion and we aren’t there to take advantage of it? What will—”

“Beaverpaw will be fine, and we will have to find a way of sneaking in without his help. This discussion is over.” She set her jaw; Pondwader lowered his gaze and splashed the water with his fist.

“I love you,” he said desperately. “Be careful.”

“I will. I’ll see you soon.”

She crawled away, moving quickly at first, then slowed down as she neared the spit of sand where the waves grew more intense, leaping and splashing. A powerful undercurrent tugged at her. Without her heavy coral belt, she’d have had no chance of remaining hidden. The waves would have toppled her and sent her scrambling onto the beach. Laughter drifted from the warriors. She smelled roasting fish, but didn’t see a fire.

Reaching down, she untied one of the hollow reeds from her belt, tucked it into the corner of her mouth, and arranged the cord so that it lay just beneath her nose. Then she knotted it at the back of her head. To test the device, she put her face in the water and breathed. About four hands long, the reed stuck well above the surface.

She stretched her legs out behind her, letting the belt weight the lower half of her body down, and ducked her head beneath the water. She found that not only could she breathe, the waves didn’t drag at her so much, and she could see fairly well.

Cautiously, she pulled herself forward. As she rounded the tip of the sandy spit, she lifted her eyes above the water and could see the guards clearly. They sat roasting fish over a bed of coals. The crimson gleam wavered. She continued on, following the curving shoreline around until the village came into view.

Tens of shelters crowded the shore, and people packed the spaces in between. She had heard stories of how huge the village had grown, but this … ! There had to be two times ten tens of people gathered here!

She untied her mask and placed the turtle shell over her face. Through the small eyeholes, she saw many men and women she recognized. Several of the Spirit Elders sat on blankets in the plaza, throwing bones. Alder looked exactly as she had two-tens-and-six summers ago, her short silver hair braided, her bulbous nose red. She had to be, oh, seven-tens-and-five summers now. Basketmaker, who sat next to Alder, elbowed her in the side and smiled. He looked much older. His hair had been pure black when Musselwhite had seen him last. Now it hung around his gaunt face like scraggly weeds sheathed in ice, and his nose seemed to have grown more hooked.

Nostalgia swelled her chest, bittersweet and potent. Alder had supervised Glade’s birthing. Musselwhite recalled how sweet and tender the old woman’s voice had sounded as she’d Sung over the newborn baby. And Basketmaker had warned her time and again about how “unpredictable” Cottonmouth could be. Yet she’d heard that Basketmaker had become one of Cottonmouth’s greatest supporters.

For moons after she’d left Standing Hollow Horn, she’d missed the Elders, missed the warmth in their eyes and the soft reedy old voices.

Pulling herself onward, she passed a series of beach fires. Young couples sat together before them, smiling, talking, touching each other gently. And after that, she came to the section of shore where racers competed. Two men sprinted toward her, sand flying beneath their bare feet. Spectators crowded around the termination line drawn in the sand and cheered when the runners crossed it. She saw wagers exchanging hands, bets being paid off.

Then …

She saw the council shelter. It stood alone on the northern boundary, backed by trees. Four guards crouched nearby, darts lying at their sides as they indulged themselves with a game of dice. A wooden bowl filled with boiled clams sat in the middle of their circle. While one player rolled dice, the others pried open clams, ate them, and tossed the shells into a growing pile beside the bowl.