People of the Lightning(42)

“The thunder is somebody’s voice? But thunder is the voice of the Lightning Birds, how could you … ?” She grimaces, then her eyes flare. “Pondwader, do you mean there’s a Lightning Bird living inside you?” She almost shouts the last and quickly whirls around to make certain no one overheard. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she says, “Is that what you’re saying? Does it talk to you?”

“No. I just hear it roaring.”

I swirl my tea in my cup, scattering my soul to the waves, and look away.

I didn’t really lie. Sometimes that’s all I do hear. Roars and rumbles. Often its voice is silent. But then there are other times … times when that voice calls out so loudly that it drowns my own relatives’ voices. I marvel at this. Just this morning, a shudder began in the middle of my chest. I don’t know what it is, but I have felt it, off and on, all day. Each time points of light have shot through me like tiny bolts of lightning. They hurt, but they are beautiful to watch.

Even though they frighten me.

I fear that soon all those little flashes of lightning may pull together to form one blinding bolt that splits the world asunder, and if that happens? What will become of me?

Will I exist at all?

Kelp says, “Tell me more about the Lightning Bird. What color is it?”

I lift a shoulder uncomfortably. “Could we talk of something else? This … it scares me.”

“I can see why.”

“Could we talk about Musselwhite?”

Kelp seems hesitant, obviously longing to discuss the Bird, but she asks, “What was she like? You talked for quite a while.”

I lower my head so that my chin rests on my chest. The shudder is beginning again, building, threatening to tear me apart. The flashes of light … they’re flying around inside me. I tug my blanket up to cover my chest, hoping Kelp will think I’m just cold. “I I-love her, Kelp. She—”

“What do you mean you love her? You just met her! Oh, are you cold, Pondwader? Let me get you another blanket.” She runs to grab one.

I smile. “I love her, Kelp. I think I have always loved her. From the first moment I saw her, I—”

“All it takes is a quail leg, eh, big brother?” Kelp says irreverently and shakes her head as though disgusted. She spreads the new blanket over me. I smile more broadly. “Speaking of which. I had better start supper, or Grandmother will come back here and wring my neck. Keep talking while I work.”

Kelp straightens and begins gathering up the necessary tools to make supper. A large wooden bowl of freshly picked mushrooms sits near the fire, our grandmother’s favorite. Beside it are smaller bowls of hickory nutmeats and prickly pear fruits. Kelp uses a pestle to mash the fruits and nuts together, then begins forming them into patties to be fried into sweet cakes.

I watch her. There is a baby Lightning Bird thundering inside me. Soft and deep. Like a distant storm being born. I am terrified and ecstatic, as if something magnificent is about to happen.

And I don’t know when, or where … or why.





Ten

Musselwhite sat bolt upright in her blankets in the council shelter, startling Seedpod from a sound sleep. He sat up, his pulse racing, and stared at his daughter. Sweat coursed down her beautiful face and darkened her thin, finely woven sleeping tunic. She was shaking. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

She shook her head. Over the dark village, the Shining People twinkled. A cool salt-scented breeze ambled about, batting at the coils of cordage hanging on the shelter poles, and tugging on the blankets of sleeping people. Musselwhite reached for her atlatl and darts which lay on the floor at her side. Once she had them firmly in her grasp, she said, “I heard Diver. Calling to me.”

Seedpod tenderly put a hand on her back. “It’s all right. Calm yourself. Such things come from terrible grief.”

“In my dream …” Musselwhite’s voice broke. She took a deep breath. “Cottonmouth … Diver said Cottonmouth kept talking about a Lightning Boy.”

“What about a Lightning Boy? You mean Pondwader?”

Musselwhite shook her head. “I—I don’t know. But my fears, Father, they’re so dark and throbbing. I’m too terrified, I can’t think straight. What’s the matter with me?”

Seedpod pulled his blanket up around his shoulders and smiled gently into his daughter’s starlit face. Black hair tangled about her cheeks. “The matter?” he said softly. “I think I can answer that question—having lost so many loved ones myself. You are searching everywhere for a safe place to hide, a place where you can lick your wounds and stand face-to-face with your losses, to really look at them. But—”