People of the Lightning(185)

She crawled forward, getting closer to the shelter, and blood rushed hotly through her veins. There, in the middle, lay Diver. How powerfully she longed to rush to him, to cut his bonds, and fight the whole world, if necessary, to set him free. In all the summers they had known each other, Diver had never shown her anything but kindness and love, and he had risked his life tens of times to keep her safe. Her souls wrenched. The longer she stared at the festering wounds that covered his body, the more a fiery rage rose. Rage that Cottonmouth would inflict his hatred for her upon the innocent. Rage that he would use Diver to force her to come to him when they had nothing left for each other.

Diver stirred, rolling to his back. He wore a beautiful tunic with a blue lightning bolt on the front. She examined him in detail, checking his feet, hands, and face. He—he looked basically all right. If he had no internal injuries, he might be able to run.

But how can I get to him? There are so many people near his shelter. Someone will surely see me.

She truly did need Beaverpaw’s help. Could she count on him? Was he even here? She had not seen him, but so many people crowded the village, constantly coming and going, Beaverpaw could be here and she would never spot him.

She dragged her gaze away from Diver, and crawled northward. The trees grew almost out to the edge of the water here. Pine cones and acorns littered the sand.

Camps scattered the forest beyond the village perimeter. The orange gleams of dozens of fires sent shadows climbing through the oaks, pines, and flowering dogwoods. With so many strangers around the village, it would be difficult for anyone, even a warrior who had seen her before, to spot her. Though Cottonmouth would certainly have informed his guards that they had better spot her. Every warrior in Standing Hollow Horn would be fearing for his life, examining and reexamining the faces of each woman her age who moved through the village.

With great care, she slid across the sand on her belly, getting as close to the beach as she could without exposing herself.

A massive thunderhead sailed in front of Sister Moon and the shore suddenly went pitch black. Musselwhite dropped her mask into the water and stuck her head above the water. Removing her breathing reed, she casually rose to her feet.

She tied the reed to her belt, and hummed pleasantly as she unpinned her bun and began unbraiding her long hair. She shook it loose so that it partially shielded her face, and headed for the trail she prayed still existed.

As she entered the wavering firelit shadows, she passed several makeshift “celebration” shelters, constructed just for celebration days and easy to erect and tear down. Thin saplings supported crude lightweight palm frond roofs. Women and children filled the shelters, and, here and there, a few men. The smells of roasting pelican, opossums, and squirrels made her mouth water.

One little boy sat up when he saw her, looked her over carefully, and yelled, “Why did you go swimming in your tunic? Is the water so cold?”

“Oh, it’s very cold,” she answered with a smile. “I think there’s a big storm out at sea cooling it down … . Is that turtle in your bowl good?”

The boy grinned, yelled, “Yes!” and tore off another piece of the succulent meat. He stuffed it in his mouth and waved to Musselwhite as she hastened away.

The trail curved around the village, passing about thirty hands from the shelters which formed the last semicircular perimeter ring. She passed three men walking in the opposite direction and nodded politely. They paid little attention to her, nodding back and proceeding on their way, as if anxious to find their suppers.

In this last ring, guards filled the spaces between the shelters, leaning against support poles, their anxious eyes moving from the happenings in the plaza to the fluttering forest shadows. The taut young faces told her their guts must be knotted up with fear.

As Musselwhite rounded the trail, a foul odor struck her. No shelters dotted the trees here, but several old clearings did, marking the places where shelters had stood only days ago. All of the celebration shelters had been removed. Why?

Painstakingly, she scanned the mottled shadows and interior of the village, but saw nothing unexpected. She continued around the trail, walking purposefully, her head down, as if she had somewhere important to go.

The stench grew stronger.

… Her steps faltered.

Beaverpaw stood against the ancient oak at the northwest corner of the village. Someone had driven a stake through his chest to pin his body to the trunk, and another protruded just beneath his chin, holding his head up so that passersby had to peer directly into his empty eye sockets. Scavenger birds had pecked them clean. The back of his skull did not exist. Vicious blows from a war club had crushed it to bloody pulp.