People of the Lightning(22)

Cottonmouth lowered his hand to his side. “I do not believe she would risk the lives of her warriors … just her own, and the Lightning Boy’s.” He nodded. “She’ll be coming for you, Diver. I know her. She loves you. And she knows what I am capable of doing to you. Knows what I will do to you—once you are strong enough.”

Cottonmouth turned to his warriors, and both men leaped to their feet, awaiting instructions. “Cut him down. Feed him. Call old woman Starfish. Inform her that I want Diver’s wounds cared for. No matter what it takes, he must live. Do you understand?”

Mulberry said, “Yes, Spirit Elder. We will see to it.”

Cottonmouth walked to the edge of the shelter and stopped. He appeared to be thinking. “Mulberry?”

“Yes?” the youth responded anxiously; his whole body had gone rigid at the sound of his name. “Is there something else?”

Firelight glittered from the silver strands in Cottonmouth’s hair. “Send a messenger to Windy Cove Clan. Musselwhite may think her husband is dead. Tell her he is not.”





Lightning flashes.

Blue veins cut across the black belly of Brother Sky. Shattering purple cracks follow, splitting the night. Every Lightning Bird in the world must have ridden the shoulders of Storm Girl to get here. They fly around me wildly, their brilliant tailfeathers slashing at the backs of my eyeballs.

I am afraid.

The rest of Heartwood Village sleeps. After supper, Kelp and my grandmother moved their blankets close to the firepit for warmth. They are dark humps until the erratic flights of the Lightning Birds burn flickering trails across their faces. They do not wake. They do not even stir.

I lie on my sleeping mat shivering, clutching at my blankets. The tremors stretch all the way out to my toes and the tips of my fingers. I can’t stop. Grandmother thinks I suffer from a fever. She has been feeding me broth. Washing my face and arms with a cool, wet cloth. But this is no fever. I know the truth.

The ghosts told me this would happen. They said that when the Sacred Pond cleanses away the braided souls, it unravels. The strands twist out through the mouth and slither into the air, abandoning the body. Then the flesh starts to shake apart, because there’s nothing left to hold it together. Like rocks tumbling over a cliff in a landslide, legs, arms, stomach … they all plummet down, weightless in thin air, getting farther and farther away, until the distances swallow them.

That is how I feel. My heart still beats, my eyes still see. But that is all I am now. Heart and eyes. The rest of me is gone. Just a flash of lightning ago, my breathing stopped. My lungs tumbled out of my chest and fell, and fell,

I know it will not be long now. But I am …

The thundereggs hidden inside Storm Girl’s soft, billowing body hatch, and a wall of water slams the ground. Lightning Birds slide out and burst into flight, striking so near, their flashes blind me. My eyelids have vanished, I cannot turn away. An eerie, luminescent web of purple spins over Heartwood Village. Thunder shakes the souls out of the world.

My eyes begin to clear, and something else takes shape. It leaps lightly across the bags that hang from the rafters, like a feather kept afloat on puffs of breath. But it is not a feather. No, I see it more clearly now. The hem of her faded tunic twirls as she Dances and spins. She is so whimsical, so unearthly, so beautiful … .

“What are you?”

“My name is Turtle Bone Doll.”

I squint. “I can’t see you very well. Can you come down closer?”

Turtle Bone Doll cartwheels across the rafters, then swoops down like a bird to hover just above my eyes. Still Dancing. Keeping time to music I cannot hear. Swaying. Bobbing.

She is a doll. Made from a turtle’s leg bone, like a child’s toy. Her face was once painted brightly, but over many summers, the colors have faded, so that I can barely see her brown eyes and red mouth. A few strands of black hair cling to her head, glued with pine pitch. The rest must have fallen out long ago. A master weaver created her tunic; the threads are fine and tight—but tens of tens of hands have left the fabric tattered. Threads stick out everywhere.

“You look more like a porcupine than a doll,” I say.

“And you look more like a pair of pink eyes than a boy,” she replies. “Was that your heart that just flew by?”

Panic grips me when I realize I no longer hear my heartbeat. Then I feel it, falling … falling … . It doesn’t make a sound as it vanishes down those gaping jaws of darkness. “I wish you had thought to catch it,” I say. “I could have used my heart.”

“What for? Your body is almost gone. When did you lose your souls?”