He shook his head. But … what else? What else had happened?
Silver flashes of minnows darted through the water. Since the fight, he had eaten only what he could gather while moving, a few berries, some nuts. If he’d had the time, he could have woven a net from strips of palm fronds and netted these fish. But the snails inching along the dead logs would have to do. He plucked up several, corralled them with his left hand, then used his right hand to crush the shells, pull each snail out, and swallow it whole. His empty stomach cramped and squealed. He had slept little, allowing himself to doze for a few brief fingers of time before he rose and ran again. Trying to get home.
Old Man Fog thickened as darkness sheathed the forest, but Diver caught sight of some sort of berry, almost hidden in the leaves. Palm berries. He scratched the berries up and ate a handful. Pasty sweetness coated his tongue. Hallowed Spirits, what he would give for a single bite of Musselwhite’s palm berry cakes. He had watched her make them tens of tens of times, mashing the palm berries, picking out the seeds, then mixing the gooey substance with pine nuts and pine sap. She spooned the concoction into big clamshells and let them cook slowly at the edges of the fire until they bubbled and steamed.
For just a moment, he granted himself the luxury of closing his eyes. Musselwhite’s delicate oval face formed on the fabric of his souls. He smiled. Now that she was four tens and two summers old, silver strands mingled with her long black hair and lines grooved her forehead, but she had lost none of her beauty. Her full lips could still turn up in that ironic smile he loved so much, and her large black eyes still danced with mischief—though she let few people see those things. To most of the village she remained a hard-eyed leader: Musselwhite, the great warrior of the Windy Cove Clan, hero of the Pelican Isle Massacre. A woman to be revered, and feared.
With a trembling hand, Diver shoved his hood back and ran a hand through his wet hair. Exhaustion and pain so weighted him he could barely think, but his emotions soared and plunged like playing falcons.
Memories flashed … strange, mostly disconnected. He struggled to catch them, to piece them together. The night before the attack, he had been engaged in a violent argument with his son Blue Echo. Or … or had it been just moments before?
“We are all going to die! Do you hear me, Father?”
Blue Echo’s voice crept from the depths of Diver’s souls. A wavering image of his son’s face formed, angry, the mouth hard, eyes glazed.
“This scouting party was her idea, and she—”
“And what would you have your mother do?” Diver had asked as he threw another stick of wood onto the fire. Sparks danced upward into the night sky. Trees canopied their camp, leaning over them, listening intently. His oldest son, Diamondback, and his daughter, Morning Glory, sat across the fire, staring unblinking into their gourd cups of tea. One by one, the other members of the scouting party left, politely seeking their blankets. Diver waited until they were gone. “Should your mother order our village to flee every time rumors of raiders fly? Or should she be prudent and try to verify their truth? That, my son, is our purpose.”
Blue Echo’s lips pursed unpleasantly. “Three of my friends died on the last scouting trip, Father. Three!”
“Death is part of a warrior’s life. Your mother will assure that the murderers pay.”
“Oh, yes.” Blue Echo lurched to his feet. Against the shreds of mist, he seemed very tall for his ten-and-five summers, and on the verge of tears. He choked out, “And—and more of my friends will die this time. Maybe even my sister, brother, or my father. And why? Why, Father? Mother fights Cottonmouth at every turn! Why can’t we just set our autumn camp further south, out of Cottonmouth’s reach? It is her he’s after, not us!”
Diver had massaged the back of his aching neck. Cottonmouth and Musselwhite had been lovers, as the boy perhaps knew; but Diver would not discuss it. Only Musselwhite had the right to tell her sons about her past.
“I cannot believe my ears,” Diver said, and pinned Echo with his gaze. “My son asks why his clan cannot simply move their autumn camp. Just set it up elsewhere! Why not invite Cottonmouth into our camp and ask him to kick us about like mangy camp dogs? The humiliation would be the same.”
Their clan moved three times each cycle. From winter solstice to spring equinox they lived far to the south, harvesting the plants and animals along the big shallow lakes. Then they packed up and journeyed northward to the inland rivers where they fished, stole birds’ eggs, and collected tubers and roots. After Sun Mother’s Celebration Day, they moved to their final camp near the ocean. Everyone loved this last camp most, because they could fish the fresh water rivers, collect nuts and berries, and dive for scallops, clams, and spiny lobsters off the coast.