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People of the Lightning(191)

By:W. Michael Gear


Musselwhite braced her head against the pole to keep it steady. Every muscle in her body knotted.

Cottonmouth raised a hand and gripped the fabric over his heart, twisting it with anguished fingers. “I have been thanking the Shining People,” he said, “that I do not have to lead the ceremonies this morning. There’s a blind panic inside me. A terrifying fear that if I take my eyes from you, you will vanish again. And this time I will never be able to find you.”

She narrowed her eyes against the soft timbre in his voice. “What is it you want from me, Cottonmouth?”

“You.”

“ … What?”

“I want you.”

Old woman Starfish emerged from the shadows of the waking village and walked toward them. She had a bowl of food in one hand and a boiling basket, held by the thongs, in the other. Her toothless, sunken face resembled a winter-killed plum, but her beautiful ritual tunic sparkled, encrusted with polished seashells and seed beads. She took her time, placing her old feet with care. The boiling basket rocked back and forth with her movements.

Cottonmouth turned to greet her. “A joyous Celebration Day to you, Starfish.”

“And to you, Spirit Elder.”

Starfish knelt and set the bowl and basket on the ground before him. “I have brought you ritually blessed food and tea. Is there anything else you require?” Her toothless gums spread in a smile.

“No, thank you, Starfish. I will see you on the beach soon.”

“Yes, Elder.”

Starfish rose. “Today is the day, isn’t it, Elder? When the Lightning Birds will soar down to free us?”

“It is,” he answered solemnly. “Very soon, we will all be together in that shining new world beyond the stars. Prepare yourself.”

She beamed. “Yes, Elder. I will.” After bowing to Cottonmouth, she turned and walked away, her steps lighter, more buoyant.

People greeted her as she made her way across the village, asking her questions, then casting reverent glances back at his shelter. Mothers rushed to comb their childrens’ hair, and get them dressed. Warriors prepared atlatls and darts. Those who already stood carried small packs on their backs, as if for a journey.

Cottonmouth picked up the bowl and basket and walked to the firepit. Kneeling, he hooked the basket’s thongs on the tripod to suspend it over the warm coals, then sat down cross-legged, and placed the wooden bowl between them. It brimmed with roasted flounder and tree mushrooms.

“You must be thirsty,” Cottonmouth said as he dipped a gourd cup into the basket and handed it to Musselwhite.

She reached for it with her bound hands, and their fingers met around the cup. Cottonmouth flinched. For a long time he refused to let the cup go, seemingly drowning in her touch. Then, finally, he did, and his hand shook.

Musselwhite gulped the drink. Sea-grape tea, sweetened with bumblebee honey. The tartness made her mouth pucker, but the honeyed warmth soothed her raw nerves. She sipped her tea and watched him. He drank a full cup before he reached for a tree mushroom. As he ate it, he gestured to the sky. “Do you see that?”

Musselwhite looked. A pearlescent sheen filled the spaces between the thunderheads. High over her head, the sky glowed a deep blue and mated with the last Shining People, but as it arced downward to the eastern horizon, it faded to purple, and then to an extraordinary shade of lavender, like the rarest of marsh orchids. It lined the drifting clouds with pure amethyst. Just above the ocean, a thin band of pitch black extended for as far as the eye could see.

“See what?”

“The storm,” he said. “We haven’t much time. A few hands is all.”

“Time? For what?”

He tossed a piece of pine onto his fire and flames licked up around the bark. Little pockets of sap boiled out, sizzling and spitting. He moved the wooden bowl within her reach. “Eat. You will need your strength.”

“For what, Cottonmouth?”

“The end of the world, Musselwhite. When tonight comes, the Shining Eagles will be dead. And so will you and I, and everyone else.”

He sounded completely rational. Elated, in fact.

She forced strength into her hands and reached into the bowl, drawing back a large mushroom. He studied her every move, desperation in the black depths of his eyes. He might have been gazing upon an enemy, a warrior braced and ready to kill him … rather than the woman who had borne his son, the woman who had once loved him with all her heart and souls.

Firelight jumped and danced. The shadows grew slippery, pooling in the hollows of his cheeks, running down his smooth jaw.

“I must join the Celebration soon,” he said.

She did not respond, but finished her mushroom, and reached to tear off a large chunk of flounder. She stuffed the flaky white meat into her mouth. Yes, eat, Musselwhite. Center yourself. Think!