People of the Lightning(203)

Diver slipped his arm around her shoulders. “These are not children, Musselwhite. These are warriors. They don’t need either of us … not anymore.”





Diver stood on the bank of the small pond behind Standing Hollow Horn Village. The trees around them looked bedraggled, stripped of leaves, branches broken to expose the wounded white wood inside the bark. Tatters of hanging moss swung in the capricious breeze. Leaves, branches, and other litter covered the ground, while palmetto fronds hung in the vines where they’d caught.

The sky itself had a tired look, the clouds scattered and wispy in the morning sun. Birdsong lilted in the trees, as if the birds, of all Creation’s life, remained undistressed by the storm.

“Can I help?” Diver asked Musselwhite, searching her face in an attempt to read her souls. He struggled with himself, fighting his hatred for Cottonmouth, and all the pain he’d inflicted, and his new curiosity about Musselwhite’s response to the terrible man’s death. She looked very sad.

“No,” she told him.

Musselwhite gripped the blanket she had wrapped Cottonmouth in and pulled his slender body into the water. She picked up the sharpened stakes and tucked them under an arm before wading out. Mist curled from the calm green surface, spiraling up around her. Her beautiful voice lilted, Singing the Death Song.

Diver crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. Musselwhite touched Cottonmouth very gently. How could she? Memories of hot coals and thorns filled Diver’s souls. The dead looked at him with hollow eyes: Morning Glory, so young and beautiful; Blue Echo, full of life and ambition, bleeding in the grass … and so many others, all gone because of this man’s obsession.

Diver turned away, choking back his building rage. He had to find some way of binding up the ragged tears in his soul, to weave them together like the fibers of a basket into something that would hold the rest of his life together.

Fog shrouded the coastline this morning, thick and sparkling. Tufts clung to the treetops, and roamed the deer trails.

It’s over. Power has taken its own retribution. So, let it go, Diver. There is only now … and tomorrow. He shivered, and the rage dwindled, replaced by hope.

He filled his lungs with the fresh air, drawing in the damp scents of land and plants.

Yes, retribution. When they had walked into Standing Hollow Horn and seen the devastation, he had been stunned. People moved about like beaten dogs, heads hanging as they hunted for possessions to pack up, or labored to make new travoises. There were no shelters.

The story had come in bits and pieces, told by people with listless eyes. The waterspout they had last seen heading northward up the shore had twisted around and destroyed the village that night.

Villagers had whispered that it was Cottonmouth’s ghost, taking revenge upon them for their lack of faith. Others believed the site tainted by witchcraft and accursed. People only wanted to get away as quickly as possible. So great was their hurry, and so powerful their fear, the bodies of loved ones were left lying where the tornado had tossed them.

Musselwhite had found Cottonmouth’s body up the beach several hands from where he had died, lying on his back, his wide eyes fixed on the shimmering fog. A serene expression had come over his face.

Diver turned back to the pond as Musselwhite’s voice rose in volume, the Song of the dead mixing with those of the birds.



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 …





Diver winced at the ache in Musselwhite’s voice.

Musselwhite had pulled Cottonmouth to the center of the pond, her path traced by ripples in the still water. Long graying hair floated around Cottonmouth’s handsome face as his head sank below the water. Musselwhite turned him onto his left side, facing north, tucked his knees against his chest, and drove the first burial stake through the blanket to pin him to the bottom of the pond. With practiced skill, she moved around Cottonmouth, driving the stakes to form an oval frame, so he wouldn’t lose sight of the tunnel that led to the afterlife.

“May you find peace,” Musselwhite murmured. “Glade will meet you on the trail that leads to the Ice Mountains. And I …” As though the pain had grown unbearable, her head bowed. She put a hand on Cottonmouth’s shoulder. Very quietly, she finished, “I loved you very much, Cottonmouth.”

Silver rings bobbed on the pond’s surface as she waded from the water to stand before Diver. She seemed to stare right through him, her face a mask. Water ran down her long legs. From the slump in her shoulders, and the set of her mouth, he knew she felt weary beyond exhaustion.