“Of course he does,” Seedpod replied matter-of-factly. “He’s a Lightning Boy. All he has to do is sit beside me when a Trader arrives, and we’ll get lower prices. Every Trader with a brain will be intimidated by Pondwader’s presence. But don’t tell Moonsnail. She hasn’t been using Pondwader at all, and she’s driving a hard enough bargain as it is.” Then he added, “So, you liked the boy?”
Musselwhite sighed, “Yes. I did. Though I fear that being around me will kill his souls.”
“You didn’t kill Diver’s.”
Musselwhite gave Seedpod a tremulous smile. “Diver was a strong man. This boy is … a boy. When he looked at me his eyes held such longing. It made me sad, Father. No matter how many promises I make to myself not to hurt him, in the end, I will, and it will happen without the slightest effort on my part. His souls are too gentle, too frail, to withstand the rage and desperation that live in my heart. Yes, I’ll hurt him. Repeatedly. In tens of small ways. A sharp glance. A harsh word. Like blood pumping from a sliced vein, that tender look in his eyes will gradually drain away until he does not care for me at all.” She paused. “Even after our short acquaintance, I find that I do not like thinking of that time. I only hope that he will not come to hate me.”
Seedpod squeezed Musselwhite’s arm, and looked out toward the ocean. Sea Girl was teasing Brother Earth, sending big frothy waves toward shore, then pulling them quickly away. As Musselwhite and Seedpod neared the surf, a veil of sparkling water droplets glittered in the starlight, and fell cool upon their faces.
“Well,” Seedpod said, “perhaps that means you can mold him to your liking. That’s not all bad. Think of the possibilities.”
He threw Musselwhite a sly glance, and Musselwhite smiled. “Tell me more about the negotiations, Father. I need you to distract me from all the dire thoughts I’ve been having.”
Seedpod kicked at a sponge which rolled away down the beach, bouncing off a variety of large shells. “Oh, there’s not much more to tell. Moonsnail is very eager to be related to you, though the old witch won’t admit it.”
Diver lay sleeping, dreaming of the warm, sunny days of his youth when he and Musselwhite had spent lazy days walking hand in hand through the forests, the scent of wildflowers all around them. Leaf shadows dappled Musselwhite’s beautiful face as they passed blossoming berry briars and pushed huge garlands of hanging moss out of the way. She swung his hand and gave him a chiding look.
“That would not be wise,” she said. “Not even as a joke. Brush may well kill you by accident.”
“How could he? I’ll be coming up from the south, striking his village from the densely forested side. We’ll be under cover the entire time. He will never—”
She squeezed his hand. “That is the problem, Diver. Brush is no fool. Despite what you’ve heard, I’m sure he has warriors stationed in the forest all the time. The forest is his only weakness. He knows it.”
“You give him credit for more brilliance than he deserves—and me less!”
She laughed, and the sound reminded him of shell bells tinkling in the wind. He cherished it, carving it into his memory to hear again and again when the stench of death and horror of war grew too much for him to bear. At the edges of his dream, scenes flitted, like moth wings flashing in the light of a flame … Morning Glory dead. Men shrieking, darts flying … Blue Echo … Where is Musselwhite? Is she here? My wife! Have you seen my wife? Where …
Faintly, he heard feet on sand. The palm mat beneath him shook. Diver fought against it, not wanting to wake. Voices crashed in.
“Get him up! Now.”
Diver rolled to his back just as men’s hands reached down for him, gripping his arms and dragging him to his feet. Four warriors encircled him, including the short man, Mulberry. Behind them, Cottonmouth stood. He wore a pale yellow tunic, and had twisted his long, graying black hair into a bun at the back of his head. The silver at his temples shone in the early morning light. His glazed expression sent a chill through Diver.
Diver blinked the sleep away and shifted his feet to get his balance. “What do you want?”
Cottonmouth silently walked forward. In his right hand, he carried something, and as he got closer, Diver saw that it was a child’s doll, a turtle-bone doll with a frayed tan tunic and long black hair glued on with pine pitch. A face had once been painted on the toy, but it had faded long ago. Now, only pastel splotches remained. Cottonmouth’s men glanced fearfully at the doll, and Mulberry clamped his jaw tight and glared at them, as if to signal them to keep quiet.