“Yes, thank you, Aunt. Anything to stay out of mother’s way for another hand of time.”
Polished Shells sighed. “Well, then, the council shelter is the only safe place. Your mother wouldn’t think of entering it, because someone might suggest she do a little work. Come along, Kelp. I can use your help.”
Cottonmouth lay on his side in his shelter, his blanket covering his legs, watching the heavy fruit bags tied to the rafters sway and groan. The sweet fragrance of ripe persimmons filled the air. He would have to eat those soon, before they spoiled. All around him, Standing Hollow Horn Village shimmered in the bluish gleam of predawn. A few snores rattled. Gulls squealed. The constant surf pounding the beach seemed to echo across the land. His shelter sat in the middle of the village, surrounded by the homes of the other Spirit Elders. In case of attack, they would be the most secure.
He tipped his head back to gaze out to the ocean. The water shone a soft gray, like dove’s wings at dusk. Foam rode the waves, rushing up on shore, and leaving white ribbons curling across the sand when the water retreated.
Cottonmouth pulled his doll more tightly against his bare brown chest, trying to find in that small bony body some shred of the strong young man he had once been. He had spent many nights this way, staring sightlessly at the world outside while he fought desperately inside. He could find no safe place in his own body. Long ago all the secret, sacred spaces had been violated, and his souls had fled. Like frightened birds, for moons they had flown about, breathless, afraid to rest. No one had understood. People had whispered that he’d gone mad. Then, one lonely night, he had found the doll. It had been tucked in a basket in their shelter, covered with beautifully etched hairpins and necklaces. Things he had given her … He had dumped them all out, and picked up the doll. From that moment on his souls had lived in a glistening world of misty hills and firelit evenings, of eyes shining with moonlight, and loving hands offered and clasped. A world that no longer existed. Except in the doll.
When he took that doll out of the basket and held it against his heart, Cottonmouth could step into the body of a childhood self, young and brave, a self he had protected and nurtured for tens of summers. That young man’s souls had not died. They were strong and vibrant, and for a time, a short time, he felt safe.
But it never lasted.
That bright world would suddenly fade into nothingness and he would find himself gazing out upon this world, cold and empty and lonely.
And he would be afraid.
Cottonmouth tucked the doll under his arm, keeping it warm, and pulled his blanket up to cover his shoulders. He should put the doll back into its basket, he knew, but he couldn’t. Not yet. He needed to protect the doll, to be sure that no one could harm it. That was the way it had been for tens of summers. The doll could rely on him … but Cottonmouth had no one.
Thirteen
Polished Shells stood at the edge of the council shelter, wringing her hands. “The geese will never be done in time, I just know it. They were such huge birds. I don’t know why Mother rushed this marriage! If she’d given me just two days’ warning I could have prepared the feast carefully, but no! Pondwader had to be married mere hands of time after she’d finished the negotiations. This is crazy! Not only that, it’s going to rain!”
Far out to sea, misty gray veils swayed across the calm surface of the ocean, heading for shore. Storm Girl had pulled a dense blanket of clouds over the world, and the distant rumble of thunder competed with the surf. Already Kelp could feel occasional drops on her face, cool and refreshing.
She looked at her aunt. More than ten tens of people filled the plaza around the shelter. Polished Shells kept glancing worriedly at them. She had dressed in her best light-green tunic, and arranged her hair in a bun, then pinned it with a sharpened dog ulna. Behind her, a large fire blazed, crackling and spitting in the breeze. Several women attended the boiling baskets, which contained turtle and mussel soups, thickened with pulverized bone. Chunks of bottle gourd floated on the surface, smelling sweet, and a wealth of different mushrooms bobbed around the edges. Roasted golden shiners and tiny killifish lay piled in a wooden bowl at the edge of the fire, keeping warm. Atop the coals, in huge clam shells, dozens of palm berry cakes steamed. And all around sat baskets, brimming with persimmons, hickory nuts, prickly pear fruits, elderberries, and pine nuts. The geese lay buried deep in the coals, simmering in their own juices.
“I don’t know why you’re worried, Aunt,” Kelp said. “Even if the geese don’t get done in time, there’s plenty more to eat.”