Diver gritted his teeth while Starfish worked on his wounds, and fought back the urge to cry out. He lay on his belly on a soft yellow and blue blanket, his hands tied behind his back, his feet bound to the northeastern shelter pole. Wind swept the shelter, making it shudder and groan. Hatred animated the crone’s touch. She hurt him whenever and however she could. That morning she had called four men to hold him down, then she had yanked the dart from his back, salved the gaping hole, and wrapped it in fine fabric, moving the roll of bandages brusquely around his back and pulling it under his stomach. Then she had roughly but thoroughly cleaned and salved the wound in his shoulder. That had been a hand of time ago and Diver still had not stopped shaking from shock.
He forced himself to gaze at the waves dashing the shore, throwing spume ten hands high. It helped take his mind off her cruelty. Starfish sat cross-legged beside him, gray wisps of hair blowing about her toothless sunken face. She dipped a cloth in a gourd of warm water and washed the club wound on Diver’s head. The scent of leatherleaf soap encircled him. He winced when the rag deliberately rasped off a piece of his skin.
“Packrat Above!” he blurted in pain. “Can’t you be a little more gentle?”
“I could. If I wished to.” Her reedy voice betrayed no more emotion than a dead frog’s. She dipped her rag again and scrubbed his wound even harder.
Diver clamped his jaw and squeezed his eyes closed. It felt as if she had poured boiling water into the bruised flesh! She seemed to enjoy his anguish. A vague smile curled her withered lips. He was concentrating so hard on his pain that he barely heard the soft steps on the sand.
“Starfish,” Cottonmouth’s haunting voice said. “Cut his hands loose. You have done enough for today. I wish to speak with Diver alone.”
Diver peered at Cottonmouth. The man wore a rich golden-hued tunic. His long, graying black hair hung in a braid down his back. The style accentuated the silver in his temples, and made his dark eyes seem even larger, like gleaming black moons in the tanned oval of his face.
“Yes, Spirit Elder,” Starfish replied and sawed through Diver’s bonds with her hafted chert knife. His aching hands fell to his sides. It took great effort to flex his fingers. Starfish rose on wobbly legs. “Shall I return to finish my work later?”
“How is he?” Cottonmouth asked. Concern laced his words. “The wounds look clean.”
“He is well enough,” Starfish replied gruffly. “He’ll live … I think.”
“Make certain he does.” Cottonmouth’s soft tone left no room for failure.
Starfish blanched. She jerked a nod. “Yes, I will.”
“Go now. Return later to check on your patient.”
The old woman threw Diver a hateful look, picked up her gourd of water, knife, and rag, and hobbled away through the center of the village, swatting at the dogs who loped playfully at her heels. The wind carried the scents of roasting fish, and Diver could see a group of women standing around a low fire, talking, laughing. Starfish headed toward them.
Cottonmouth scrutinized Diver’s naked body. “I heard that you ate a good breakfast. Are you feeling stronger?” Diver laughed, and squinted at the pounding surf. Water jetted upward, drops glittering against the sky’s thin, gray clouds before they dropped to earth again. How could Cottonmouth always sound so sincere? Did he practice that tone at night when no one could overhear? Pelicans huddled together on the beach, their beaks tucked against their breasts.
“I brought you something, Diver.”
Diver pulled his gaze back as Cottonmouth reached down and untied something from his belt. The man touched it reverently, then handed it to Diver. It was a deerbone awl, the tip broken. Diver took it and turned it over in his hand … . His breath caught. On the opposite side the owner’s personal identification mark had been etched into the bone, three chevrons, and a large X: Musselwhite’s mark. If he concentrated, he could feel her there. Part of her still lived in the awl. She must have breathed Spirit into it when she’d made it. Diver’s fingers closed around the tool and he clutched it to his chest.
“I thought it might ease your pain,” Cottonmouth said.
“Why would you care?”
The small flamingo-tongue shells on Cottonmouth’s belt jingled as he sat on the white sand and laced his fingers around one drawn-up knee. A long silver lock had come undone from his braid and whipped about his face. “Pain disturbs me. It always has.”
Diver smoothed his thumb over Musselwhite’s mark, cherishing the tool that she too had touched.
“Diver,” Cottonmouth said. “I came to speak with you about … about a Dream I had. It was very strange.”