Cottonmouth laid her on a soft pile of old leaves and slid under on his stomach. Powerful scents of wet bark and packrat dung stung his nose. He emerged on the opposite side and turned.
When he reached through the tangle to grasp her wrist, her fingers had stiffened, raking his arms like curled talons. He tugged. She moved, then stopped abruptly. He jerked harder and heard the sound of ripping fabric as her short tunic tore free from a snag. She came through on her stomach, her face in the dirt. The sight pained him. Blood trickled darkly from her back wound.
Cottonmouth sat down beside her and brushed the dirt from her smooth cheeks and forehead, but drew back his hand when he noticed that one of her eyes had opened. He did not want to look into those eyes again, though tens of times, in a dozen battles, he had lived only for that sight.
He gently spread her hair over her face, then picked her up and carried her on down the trail. When he reached the pond, he lowered her to the green grass, placing her in the same spot her mother had lain two tens and six summers before. Musselwhite had been laughing when they’d loved each other.
Since that day the world had changed. The forest had grown up around their secret places. Deadfall had accumulated, filling the spaces between the trees.
No lovers came here now.
It saddened Cottonmouth, for he could recall very clearly bright days when he and Musselwhite had walked here and felt Brother Earth’s age like a warm cape upon their shoulders. This forest had held a stillness so great they could sense the wingbeats of the Spirit birds who flew around them. They had spent days listening to the trees sing. Each had its own distinct voice, and when they sang together, a harmony of extraordinary majesty filled the world.
Cottonmouth’s sandals sank into the damp soil as he went in search of sticks to stake Morning Glory’s body down. If she had been a member of his clan, he would have wrapped her in the finest blankets, showered her with rare shells and precious stone tools—but she was not, and he hadn’t much time. Already his warriors would be growing restless, worrying about his odd behavior, ready to go home to their wives’ beds.
Cottonmouth sifted through a pile of deadfall until he had selected nine sticks with sharp points. He tucked them into his belt, and went back to Morning Glory’s side.
“I will Sing you to the afterworld,” he murmured and began the Death Song in a low voice, just loud enough that the three strands of her braided soul could hear.
I have come with living waters,
To give these healing ways of the Wolves,
these healing ways of the living water Wolves.
Look northward now,
down the pathway of living waters to the
Wolves in the Village of Wounded Souls.
Hear them call you?
They are calling you,
calling, calling.
Gripping her by the ankles, he walked into the pond. Cold water swirled around his knees. Her face sank below the dark surface, but her limp arms floated in a wealth of sinuous black hair. Through that half-open eye she watched him.
He rolled Morning Glory onto her left side, then turned her so that she faced north. “Look northward. Do you see the tunnel that leads to the Village of Wounded Souls? All ponds are openings to that distant afterworld, you know. You have a long way to swim, but there will be Spirit Helpers to guide you. Wait for Alligator, he’ll show you the way.”
With great care, he tucked her knees against her chest and drove one of his stakes through her sandal laces to keep her feet in place. The rest of the stakes he drove through the bloody fabric of her tunic, securing her to the bottom of the pond so she would not float free and lose sight of the tunnel. Black hair writhed in slow motion over Morning Glory’s face, covering her open eye, but her perfect body lay calm and still beneath the glimmering veil of moonlit water.
She lay so quiet, like a woman dead for tens of tens of summers, rather than a single hand of time.
Cottonmouth waded out of the pond and piled logs around the edges of the grassy strip, blocking the gaps in the deadfall, making certain no animals could enter and drag her from her grave. Sister Moon’s luminous face hung high above him. The Shining People had retreated to the far edges of her radiance, patiently waiting for her to sink into the Village of Wounded Souls so their own splendor could burst forth again.
Tomorrow Cottonmouth would order several warriors to return to the battle site and track down and capture each enemy who had escaped.
Two or three days from now, Musselwhite would start to panic, wondering what had happened to her husband and children, fearing the worst. It would not take long for her to mount a search party. She would do it over vehement protests from the Spirit Elders, who would warn her that if she left, the village would be almost defenseless.