People of the Lightning(56)

“I would like to undress you, Pondwader. Is that all right?”

“Oh … yes!” He thrust his arms into the air.

Musselwhite smiled. She untied his belt and dropped it to the floor, then gathered the hem of his robe and lifted it over his head. He pulled his arms from his sleeves, and swallowed hard. He had never stood naked before a woman, not … not like this, with duties to perform.

Musselwhite got under the blankets and held them open for him. “Let me hold you, Pondwader.”

He hurried to slide in beside her, laying on his back, and Musselwhite braced one elbow and leaned over him, her breasts pressed against his chest. A cascade of her hair fell around him. He could see starlight streaming through the wealth, glittering from the silver strands. He reached up and stroked it softly. It felt fine and silken, like shiny spiderwebs.

She touched his side and he jumped. “Did I startle you? I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t … expecting …” He slipped his arms around her back, and said, “I want you to touch me, Musselwhite. I’m just a little nervous.”

“My fingers are cold. I should have told you what I was doing. I am going to slide my hand down your side, Pondwader, like this, and across your stomach … .” As her hand moved slowly through the white hair below his navel, she kissed him on the lips and neck, sending a tingle up his spine. From somewhere deep inside him thunder rumbled as the baby Lightning Bird in his chest stretched, straining at the last bits of shell that bound it, knowing, like any other bird, that it had to break free of that shell or die. Flashes of brilliant light blinded Pondwader, and he gasped. Musselwhite took it for something else … .

“Now my hand is going to slide lower, Pondwader.”

A fiery glow suffused his body, stretching out to the tips of his fingers and toes, filling his chest cavity. like a flood of molten gold. Along with it came a strange wondrous joy, as if he’d drunk sunlight.

Despite his weariness, and the depths of his fear, his souls came alive.

Pondwader put a hand behind her neck and brought her face down to kiss her softly. He shivered, whispering, “Thank you for this, Musselwhite. Thank you for becoming my wife.”





Distraught weeping wakes me.

I lift my head, frightened, and turn to Musselwhite. She is lying on her back, her beautiful face sheathed in starlight, sound asleep. The blanket has fallen away, revealing her breasts. Her eyelids jump with dreams. But her voice … it is not hers … not her voice now. It sounds like a little girl’s.

I sit up and peer at her in confusion. Is she remembering her husband? Or lonely? Maybe suffering guilt for loving me when Diver’s body has not yet been found? Her cries make me feel empty inside. I—I don’t know what to do. Shall I wake her? I reach out … and my hand hovers over her shoulder. She is crying harder. Tears flood from the corners of her eyes. Sparkling dew drops stand upon the blanket, shimmering in the stargleam. I have never witnessed such wrenching tears. I suppose I thought a woman of her mettle, a great warrior, could not possibly possess such tears. But this is not a woman’s voice … it is a child’s. My souls twist. Did something terrible happen to her as a little girl? Is she there again, now?

“Musselwhite?” I call softly. When she does not answer, I place my hand on her forehead, and very lightly stroke her long hair. “Musselwhite,” I murmur, “everything is all right. You are here in Heartwood Village. No one is going to hurt you. I promise, I—I won’t let them. I am Pondwader, your husband,” and with those words a joyous pride fills me. “I am your husband. I love you so very much. Please come back to me? Everything is all right.”

I continue stroking her hair and finally she stops weeping and drifts into a deeper sleep. Her breathing slows. When she rolls to her side, facing me, I lie back down and pull the blanket up over her shoulders to shield her from the evening’s chill. A calm, serene expression has come to her face.

Pain darts through me.

I clench my teeth against it. It has been happening all night. I quietly slide away from Musselwhite, so she will not know of my discomfort, then I turn onto my back, and dig my fingers into the blanket beneath me. The tiny Lightning Bird glowing in my chest is stretching, rumbling its joy at cracking the thunderegg. As the bird extends its new wings, a fiery fragment of broken shell falls away and dissolves in a brilliant eruption of light.

I can’t breathe. My lungs hurt.

It is trying to bolt. I can feel the heat rising, then falling, and rising again. With each flare, more bits of shell tumble and blaze, and bizarre, eerie images flash before me. Two men on a beach … a doll … a tornado … The scenes are like mist in my fingers, slipping this way and that, never allowing me to get a good hold on them.