People of the Lightning(196)
Musselwhite’s expression softened. “You buried Glade against the Soul Dancers’ wishes?”
“Did you think that I would leave my son to … to the predators? No, Musselwhite. Not my little son. He deserved more from me than that. I loved Glade very much. As much as I … as I loved …”
Faintly, she said, “I know you did.”
Pondwader heard the tender echo in her voice, and watched as Musselwhite reached out with her bound hands to touch Cottonmouth’s clenched fist.
“Where did you bury Glade?”
“In that small pond behind the village.”
“Cottonmouth, forgive me. I should have been here with you that day. To help you.”
Cottonmouth looked down at her hands for a long moment, then reached out and touched her fingers gently. In a quick, almost violent movement, he rose to his feet, and went to pick up a small basket which sat at the foot of his bedding. He pulled out a deerbone awl … and Turtle Bone Doll! He tucked both into his belt.
Pondwader’s mouth gaped. She had been here, with Cottonmouth, all along! And she had never told him! She had said only that she knew Cottonmouth, not a word about living in his shelter!
Blessed Brother Sky! His thoughts darted about, collecting clues from here and there. Could she have been the source of Cottonmouth’s nightmares? Had they been reflections of Turtle Bone Doll’s feelings, trapped here, drowning, along with Cottonmouth, in the huge burden of guilt he carried over Glade’s death?
Turtle Bone Doll gave Pondwader a bland look, as though surprised, as always, at how long it took him to figure out the simplest of things.
Cottonmouth returned to Musselwhite. He signaled one of his guards. “Littlehorn, cut Musselwhite loose, then bring her and the boy to the beach. It’s time to find out if he truly is a Lightning Boy.”
Cottonmouth peered at Musselwhite for a long moment, love in his eyes, then he swiftly turned and strode away.
Guards immediately packed the shelter. One jerked Pondwader to his feet, while another cut Musselwhite’s bindings.
Littlehorn could not have been much older than Pondwader. He wet his lips, and his eyes narrowed fearfully when he looked at Musselwhite. “Walk. Both of you.”
A hand shoved Pondwader forward and he strode beside Musselwhite across the wind and rain-ravaged village. Her steps were strong, bold. Rain slashed down at an angle, hitting him squarely in the eyes. He turned his head sideways, and saw that Musselwhite’s face had gone pale, her eyes hollow, as if looking upon a tragedy too great to be borne.
People crowded around them, leaping to see them, calling questions.
“Are you a Lightning Boy?”
“Have you come to save us?”
One grizzled old man shouted, “Please! We beg you. Call the Lightning Birds so they can carry us away!”
A woman warrior added, “You’d better call them—or we’ll kill you for being a fake!”
Pondwader’s courage drained away like water in sand as the people lunged and shouted. Blessed Spirits, please? I’m not ready to die. Pondwader edged closer to Musselwhite.
When he looked up and saw Cottonmouth standing near the far northern shelter, the Lightning Bird inside him blazed. Pondwader tried to keep his legs from shaking. As he walked toward Cottonmouth, Storm Girl quieted, as if holding her breath, and the raging rain turned into a fine misty shower. That unearthly longing returned. Pondwader looked up at the clouds, and beheld flashes of such wondrous colored light, he could not believe his eyes. Crimsons and ambers, and blues too luminous to be real. They belonged to the skies, to leaps from clouds, and dives through unimaginable silence.
“Pondwader!” Musselwhite whispered, her voice urgent.
“Hmm? What? I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I’ve been talking to you for … never mind, listen. Do whatever Cottonmouth says. Don’t even hesitate. Do you understand? Give him no reason to hurt you.”
Pondwader nodded. “Yes, my wife.”
And he looked back up at the sparkling lights that darted through the clouds like children playing tag. Inside him, the longing swelled and swelled … .
Cottonmouth stood outside the council shelter. Musselwhite walked toward him like the lithe warrior-woman he remembered. Beautiful. Confident. Eyes flashing.
Ecstasy filled him at the sight, at the storm, at the shouted exaltation of the people. None of his Dreams had prepared him for the joyous rapture of this final moment … or the despair of still not knowing what had happened to Glade. He had truly believed she would be able to tell him.
“Littlehorn?” Cottonmouth called as he raised his arms. “I’ve told you how this must be. Keep people back.”