People of the Lightning(193)
“I want you with me when the time comes,” he said softly. “When the Lightning Birds crackle out of the sky—”
“Why … ? After the terrible things we have done to each other?”
He ran his fingers over the rich blue fabric of his ritual tunic. “I need you, Musselwhite. I always have. You are my souls. Without you I am just a hollow shell.”
“I won’t go with you.”
He took the beautiful tunic from the peg. “Oh, you’ll be there. I’ll see to that.”
He slipped the tunic over his head, and smoothed it down over his narrow hips. “When I return, you will answer all of my questions. It will be easier if you tell me of your own free will rather than—”
“I will answer nothing, Cottonmouth.”
His gaze slid up to the brightening sky and drifting thunderheads, then scanned the shore. Ten tens of people stood on the shore, their bodies creating a choppy black blanket against the gleaming ocean. Their soft murmuring competed with the rhythmic roar of waves.
“That is your choice, Musselwhite.” Cottonmouth tied a rabbit-fur cord around his slender waist and walked back to stand over her. Tall, latently dangerous. He smiled. “Though I am not certain how much more torture your beloved Diver can bear. He’s weak as it is. But I assure you”—he reached down, roughly grasped her head with both hands, and his smile widened—“I will enjoy killing him before your eyes, as you did my son before mine.”
Her stomach cramped. She twisted from his grip and bent forward, leaning against her ropes, fighting the grief … the memories.
Quiet as death, Cottonmouth left. She heard his steps retreating across the sand.
Tears welled in her eyes. She hung her head, seeing with frightening clarity that she had not changed much. Not in two-tens-and-six summers. Musselwhite, the great warrior, still kept a frightened little girl locked inside her, a girl who now stared her terror at the woman warrior. The girl wanted to run, the warrior to fight. Musselwhite had no way of knowing which would prove stronger in the end.
On the shore, men and women formed a single line parallel to the surf. They raised their atlatls as a golden gleam rose above the black clouds and enameled the horizon. Standing erect and proud, they cast their darts high into the sky accompanied by shrill war whoops. Murdering the Darkness. People lifted their voices, cheering, praying to Sun Mother, assuring her they had killed the malevolent Darkness which had forced her to seek shelter in the Village of Wounded Souls earlier and earlier each day since summer solstice.
The Songs hushed.
People stood quiet, and still. It took so much longer than usual for the Sun Mother to return that the crowd grew anxious, fidgeting and murmuring darkly in fear.
When a molten sliver of Sun Mother’s face finally crested the black wall of clouds, cries of joy laced the wind. People leaped and spun. Dance circles formed up, and the beach became a writhing din of kicking legs, waving arms, and loud Singing.
Musselwhite looked away.
Through the tangled weave of guards, she spied Diver, on his knees in the council shelter, his back to Sun Mother. An aura of gold enveloped him, and though he had turned toward Musselwhite, the blinding sunrise threw his face into shadow. She could not make out his expression.
Not that she had to. She could feel his love, like a warm current, flying across the plaza and into her heart. Sending her his strength—just in case she needed it.
“Hold on, Diver,” she whispered. “I’m not finished yet.”
She could almost hear his voice, teasing and warm, whispering in her souls, “I never thought you were. I’m right here with you. We just need our chance. Together, we can whip the world. You know we can.”
Her throat constricted. “Yes,” she mouthed the words, “I do. If we can find a crack to squeeze through.”
A sudden breathless roar erupted from the people on the shore, and Musselwhite saw Diver whirl to stare. She tugged her gaze away, and saw the Dance circles break up as people shoved and shouted at each other. Women grabbed children and ran for their shelters, while men gripped their atlatls more tightly. Near Cottonmouth, the clan Elders fell to their knees.
Someone yelled, “He’s come! He’s come at last! The End is upon us!”
Cottonmouth whirled, his tall slender body coated with an amber gleam of sunlight.
The guards standing around Musselwhite gasped and their mouths fell open, seeing something that she could not from the floor of the shelter.
Littlehorn craned his neck. “Hallowed Spirits … it’s happening. Just as Cottonmouth said it would!”
Then Musselwhite saw Pondwader. Like a ghost swimming out of a vision, he strode up the misty, wind-swept beach, white hair streaming, arms spread wide. Clouds seemed to follow him, rushing in toward shore, gathering over his head. His long robe flapped around his legs. And his eyes … those pink orbs reflected the morning with fiery intensity.