People of the Lightning(190)
“Called?” Diamondback asked in confusion. “By the Lightning Birds? What’s he babbling about?”
Kelp looked at Pondwader, silently asking if it would be all right to tell Diamondback … but Pondwader shook his head. Kelp nodded. She promised a long time ago not to tell anyone about the thunder and lightning that lived inside her brother, and had broken that promise once already. She would not do it again. Not unless Pondwader told her she could.
“He’s babbling about saving your mother, Diamondback,” Kelp answered, and rested her hand supportively on Pondwader’s shoulder. “You’re sure about this? It’s the only way?”
Pondwader looked at Kelp with his heart in his eyes, and whispered, “Yes.”
“Then tell us what the Lightning Birds want us to do, Pondwader.”
“Wait a moment!” Diamondback blurted. “I don’t think this is wise! We should—”
Kelp silenced him with a wave of her hand. “Go on, Pondwader. Tell us what to do.”
Forty-three
The howling wind woke Musselwhite, but she did not move. During the night, her seated body, bound to the shelter pole, had slumped sideways against the ropes, and the rain drumming on the thatched roof dripped methodically onto her right shoulder. Trickles ran coldly down her arm. Her long legs stretched in front of her, and windblown raindrops had beaded upon the flesh. Her feet throbbed and ached. The bindings around her ankles had been knotted with brutal strength.
Singing and laughter rose and fell with the gusting wind. Closer, flames crackled. Fragrant hickory smoke blew over her. Bags hanging from the rafters creaked and bumped each other. The damp floor mats groaned … .
Musselwhite clenched her bound fists, knowing that sound as if the years had peeled away like old clothing.
Cottonmouth paced slowly and deliberately in front of her. Her souls remembered: his steps like a man’s walking to his own execution—with no chance for salvation. Four paces east, turn, four paces west, turn, four paces east … In a lull between gusts, she heard his breathing.
Musselwhite opened her eyes.
At sight of him, gut-tingling terror mixed with remnants of old and powerful love. Her heart pumped.
A halo of silver-black hair encircled his magnificent face. It glittered in the light of the flames in the firepit. Hallowed Spirits, how well he had borne the summers! Lines etched his forehead and the corners of his eyes, but his nose and full lips still seemed carved from stone. His deeply tanned skin had the velvet tones of Deer’s winter coat. He wore a plain, everyday tunic, but his ritual garment hung from a peg on the southeastern pole. The rich, blue fabric billowed in the wind, setting the circlets of mica sewn around the collar, sleeves, and hem to winking. Traded from the north, mica reflected light as well as a water mirror. In the brightening gleam of dawn, they flashed like rose-amber tongues of flame.
His presence was like a Spirit plant, beckoning, calling to her, even after all that had passed between them. Part of her longed to reach out to him, while another part recoiled the way the hand did when it accidentally brushed the smooth coils of a poisonous snake.
She tore her gaze away to inspect the sky.
Thunderheads sailed over, leaving patches of stars showing in the wide gaps. Wavering filaments of rain swayed beneath them. The pink glow of sunrise was slowly bringing life to the red and yellow leaves in the forest. Their colors blended with the greenish gray of the hanging moss and the dark clumps of palmettos. The fresh scents of morning wafted on the breeze … . Five warriors, no six, stood guard around the shelter.
Cottonmouth stopped short. He did not turn, but gazed out at the crashing waves where gulls circled and dove, their squeals penetrating the roars of the surf and gale. Already, Snailtoes, the Spirit Elders, and a small gathering of Soul Dancers from around the region were making preparations for the Awakening Ritual of Sun Mother’s Winter Celebration Day. Musselwhite recognized most of them. They stood around a large fire on the beach, their faces sheathed with the wavering orange gleam, their bodies little more than black silhouettes against the luminous background of dawn.
“It’s curious,” Cottonmouth said. “I should be out on the beach with the other Spirit Elders, but I’ve been afraid to leave you.”
His voice echoed through the emptiness that lived in Musselwhite’s souls, swirling, coming back as soft and desperate as it had two-tens-and-six summers before. I’ve been afraid to leave you. You’ve been so frantic since Glade caught the fever that I feared you might harm yourself … .
She started trembling.
Slowly, as if with monumental effort, Cottonmouth turned to face her. The deep dark wells of his eyes glistened. “Do you know how much I loved you? What it did to me … to lose both you and Glade on the same day?”