People of the Lightning(198)

Dark Rain whirled, searching for Hanging Star, and a roar of merriment drowned out the crashing surf. Tens of men in the crowd slapped each other on the backs and guffawed.

Pondwader bowed his head in shame.

Cottonmouth held up his hands for silence. His own unease was growing. As the clamor died away to a series of chuckles and curses, Cottonmouth said, “Dark Rain, you leave me no choice. Many of us here believe he is a Lightning Boy. Now, your son will have to prove it.”

Pondwader’s knees shook so badly Cottonmouth fought the urge to reach out and support him.

In a tremulous whisper, the boy said, “But I—I don’t think I can.”

“What?” Cottonmouth asked. “Speak louder. I want everyone to hear.”

Pondwader forced himself to shout. “I don’t think I can! Prove it … I mean.”

“Of course, you can. I’ve seen you do it … in my Dream.”

“H-how?”

In a clear ringing voice, Cottonmouth commanded, “Shoot down the Shining Eagles!”

People in the crowd, outsiders, screamed in shock. He saw several of them backing away, ready to run. Pondwader looked horrified. His desperate fingers knotted and twisted in the fabric of his clothing. “Please,” Pondwader murmured. “Please, don’t ask me to do that. I—I don’t even know how, Cottonmouth!”

“He doesn’t know how, Cottonmouth!” Dark Rain mocked. “Which is not surprising! My son has never known how to do anything! Stop this farce. Let me take my son home!”

“If he cannot shoot down the Shining Eagles, then he is not the Lightning Boy promised in my Dreams, and I will let him go. But he must prove it first. Pondwader—”

“If you truly wish him to prove it, Cottonmouth,” Musselwhite called, striding forward like a hunting lion, “give him an atlatl and darts! Give the boy weapons to shoot down the Eagles!”

Cottonmouth’s brows lowered. With you so close, Musselwhite? And when it will take only five running steps for you to grab them from the boy, and … Would you do it … ? Could you kill me?

“Littlehorn?” Cottonmouth said. “Come. Give the boy your atlatl and three darts. One for each of the remaining Eagles.”

Pondwader jerked around, breathing hard. “H-How do you know that?” he hissed. “That one of the Eagles already lies dead?”

A hollow sense of fulfillment swelled within Cottonmouth. “Dreams, Lightning Boy. Dreams … I wrestle with Power every day of my life—”

The boy bravely stepped closer, peering up at him with wide, intent eyes. “And … and with despair, and the waves of solitude that drown you. And you can’t let anyone see you flailing, or cry for help. You—you have a rage for pain. For many summers you’ve been clutching regret to your bosom like a precious child. And …” He shook very badly now. “And you would die to protect that agony. Wouldn’t you?”

Cottonmouth froze. His heart thudded dully against his ribs. The despair the boy had spoken of crept through him, damping his muscles, weakening his bones. “Did the Lightning Birds tell you that?”

Pondwader’s face shone. “No … I just knew it.”

Littlehorn trotted up with the weapons, and Cottonmouth held up a hand to stop him in his tracks.

“You asked if I would die to protect the agony,” Cottonmouth said. “Yes, I would, Pondwader. But what does that mean to you? Why did you ask?”

“Because I think you should want to l-live, not to die.”

“I don’t have anything to live for, Pondwader. Not here. Not anymore.”

“But you do!” the boy stubbornly insisted. He shook both fists at Cottonmouth. “You are a great Dreamer! You could be a great leader. My wife has told me! Make peace with the other villages, then—”

“I can’t. I can’t do that, Pondwader. Ten summers ago, perhaps, but not now.” All his dreams for this world had perished long, long ago. He waved Littlehorn forward. “Give the boy your weapons.”

Littlehorn thrust the atlatl and darts into Pondwader’s reluctant hands and backed away, resuming his place in the circle.

Pondwader fumbled with the darts, dropping one, tucking another beneath his left armpit while he tried to nock the third. His hands quaked so that the dart wouldn’t stay on the atlatl’s shell hook. Finally, he did it. He bit his lip.

“Are you ready, Lightning Boy?”

Pondwader shook his head. “No. No, I—I can’t do this, Cottonmouth. I can’t shoot down the Eagles! All my life I’ve—”

“Littlehorn?” Cottonmouth called. “Have your warriors aim their darts at Musselwhite. If the boy does not cast on my command, kill her.”