She walked straight ahead, her sandals dimpling the wet sand. Raindrops perched precariously on the pine needles. As wind swayed the boughs, the drops twinkled and glittered, pattering softly on the forest duff.
The trail that led northwest toward the pond where they got their fresh water took off just ahead. Kelp headed for it. Puddles stood in the path, shining so brightly that the dark branches reflected perfectly. Kelp studied them as she skirted the puddles, but she purposely avoided getting close enough to see her own soul. She didn’t want to. It might appear as shattered as it felt, and she doubted she could handle the strain. Sighing, Kelp stepped off the path and ducked low to clear an oak branch … and heard laughter.
Through the weave of brush, she saw Beaverpaw standing over her mother, smiling. Dark Rain lay naked on the ground with another warrior half on and half off her. Kelp couldn’t see his face because his back was to her, but she suspected it might be young Bowfin. He was Beaverpaw’s best warrior.
“See?” Beaverpaw whispered. “What did I tell you? Isn’t she magnificent?”
Her mother laughed and Beaverpaw knelt and bit her bare breast, then said, “Hurry up, Bowfin. I’m ready again.”
Kelp hurriedly backed away, squarely into a palmetto. The fronds thrashed together.
Dark Rain gasped, “Beaverpaw! Go find out who that is!”
Kelp got up and ran with all her heart, swerving around puddles, leaping deadfall.
Beaverpaw chased her for a short distance, then gave up, laughed and yelled, “Go on! Get out of here!” Kelp hid behind a dense tangle of grape vines and watched him turn back, calling, “It’s all right, Dark Rain. It was just a kid. I chased him off. Is Bowfin done yet? It’s getting late! I have to get home to my wife soon!”
Fourteen
Sun Mother floated just above the horizon, streaming light into the shelter where Diver lay flat on his back, his fingers laced over his stomach. The fabric bags and baskets swinging from the rafters gleamed as though coated with liquid amber. The pathetic little man named Barnacle knelt at Diver’s side, his skeletal face a mass of sagging wrinkles, his bald head splotched with age. He wore a faded blue tunic. Behind him, Cottonmouth stood with his arms folded, his shoulder braced against the pole. He had dressed in a black breechclout. No jewelry adorned his tall, slender body, and his graying black hair blew freely about his shoulders. He had his dark eyes fixed on Sea Girl, who shone a crystalline blue today. Three tens of hands away four guards sat playing dice with painted palm seeds. Their laughter struck Diver like bits of nightmare. After eight days of hearing it, he had each man’s voice memorized. Even when they were halfway across the huge village, he could identify them.
Barnacle rocked back and forth, twisting his hands in his lap. “The Spirit Elder has asked that I speak with you. I do not wish to, the memories still bring me much pain, but because he asks, I will.” He wet his thin lips. “This happened—”
“I do not wish to hear your story.”
Barnacle glanced at Cottonmouth, but Cottonmouth did not turn. He did not even blink. It was as if he did not hear the conversation at all.
Barnacle swallowed nervously and continued, “This happened two-tens-and-eight summers ago, during the Moon of New Antlers. At the time, my family and I lived far inland, on the shores of a shallow lake. I had a wife …” his old voice shook, and it took him a moment to collect himself. “And three little children, two, five, and six summers old. They were beautiful babies. We were all out searching for tender spring tubers, laughing, working with our digging-sticks. I heard the warriors coming first. I yelled to my wife—”
“Go away!” Diver shouted. He sat up and roared in the old man’s face, “I don’t care what happened to your family!”
The guards swiveled to peer at him with gleaming eyes, and a pack of barking dogs raced toward the shelter. All over the village, people stood up from their daily tasks and looked in his direction. A hum of conversation broke out.
Barnacle sat back on his heels and turned to Cottonmouth again. Cottonmouth did not move for a long time, then he nodded his head once, the gesture so small a man might have missed it had he not been staring straight at Cottonmouth.
Desperately, Barnacle met Diver’s hard eyes and gave him a pleading look, begging him to listen. He silently mouthed the word, please. Would the old man suffer for it later if Diver refused? Diver did not understand this village. Clearly, Cottonmouth terrified these people, but they also revered him as if he were one of the Shining People.
Barnacle wiped sweat from his bald head and let out a breath. “After I yelled to her, my wife, her name was Rose Stem, got to her feet and ran for the children, but Cottonmouth’s warriors struck so quickly she couldn’t reach them in time. The woman warrior, Musselwhite, struck Rose Stem in the head with her warclub, then ran toward my children. The babies shrieked in terror and scattered, trying to hide behind fallen logs, or in berry brambles. Musselwhite found each one. She …” Barnacle squeezed his laced fingers so tightly the knuckles went white. “Musselwhite dragged each of my children out and used her stiletto to puncture … their hearts. She whooped a triumphant war cry and … and began stripping my youngest daughter, two summers old … stripping off her bracelets, ripping the necklace from her little throat. Cottonmouth ran toward her when she leaned over my second child, a son of five, and gripped Musselwhite’s hand, refusing to let her rob my boy. They fought.” The old man used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his hollow cheek. “I have never seen two people on the same side fight so ferociously. She struck Cottonmouth on the shoulder with her chert-studded warclub, and I saw blood spurt … .”