Diver could not help but look up at the jagged scar that marred Cottonmouth’s left shoulder, running at an angle down his back. An old scar, healed into a pale shiny ridge of flesh.
“Cottonmouth,” Barnacle went on, “threw her to the ground and wrestled the club away from her. She screamed and kicked—but he held her tightly.” Barnacle dropped his gaze to the hands in his lap and pried the fingers apart. He winced and flexed them, as if they hurt, then placed them on his knees. “After that, I do not know what happened. I ran as fast as I could. I had nothing … no one … left to worry about, except me.”
Barnacle held Diver’s stony gaze, and Diver saw that his faded old eyes had tears in them.
When Diver said nothing, the old man rose to his feet and nodded respectfully to Cottonmouth before hobbling away across the village. People stopped him as he passed, speaking gently to him, asking him what had happened.
Diver said, “What did you hope to prove by that? Did you think his story would make me doubt my wife? A woman I have known for two tens and five summers?”
Cottonmouth continued staring at Sea Girl, but his mouth tightened.
Angry, Diver demanded, “How could he know the name of the woman who killed his children? Did you tell him it was Musselwhite? Is that why he thinks she did it?” Diver’s breast had begun to heave with indignation and it caused pains to shoot up from his back and shoulder wounds and stab at his stomach. Nausea tormented him. He bent forward and braced a hand on the floor, waiting for it to pass. When he could, he eased back down to the floor mat, and concentrated on breathing deeply and evenly. The tangy scents of wood smoke and boiling clams soothed him. The nausea finally faded.
Out beyond the shelter a bald eagle hunted Sea Girl’s shining surface, curving and soaring, then plunging like a lance into the water in search of fish. Her black wings flapped against the waves. Diver watched her antics, set against the background of red rising sun and endless blue ocean, and some small amount of serenity seeped inside him.
“Who really killed that old man’s children, Cottonmouth?” he asked. “You must know. Why don’t you tell Barnacle the truth? He deserves to hear it. How can you live among these people and pretend to be righteous and good when you are a liar?”
Cottonmouth turned slowly, his huge dark eyes wide, and let his folded arms fall limply to his sides. “Sun Mother alone knows what is good, Diver,” he answered softly. “I, of all people, would never claim goodness.”
Pondwader crouched naked before the ashes of last night’s fire, using a stick to separate out the hot coals, dragging them to the right side while he mounded the dead coals on the left. Morning sunlight slanted across the forest, shooting misty bands of gold through the trees over his head, and coaxing curls of fog from the wet forest floor. What a magnificent dawn. The pleasant fragrance of damp bark mixed with the smell of woodsmoke. Somewhere in the distance an alligator roared, and Brother Earth went silent, then a riot of birdsong erupted again. The cackling of a purple gallinule carried above the others. Pondwader smiled. He could picture the beautiful bird walking across the lily pads in a nearby pond, its head and tail jerking while it hunted insects.
He plucked a handful of twigs from the wood pile stacked inside the shelter, then put them down again. Despite his relatives’ great care, rain had soaked the sticks on top. He had to dig deeper to find dry twigs for kindling. When he had gathered enough, he placed them on the hot coals and blew gently. Yellow threads of flame licked up through the tinder, crackling and spitting. Pondwader gradually added more twigs, then larger pieces of wood.
His wife still slept and he … my wife, it felt so strange and wonderful to say those words. They made him want to shout his joy to the world, but he did not wish to wake her. She had tossed and turned most of the night. As had he.
… Even now he could see those strange images. They repeated, flashing across his souls each time the baby Lightning Bird beat its wings to dry them, or flopped its head about on the skinny stem of its neck. He wondered what they meant.
And how long do I have before that baby bird bursts through my chest and flashes across the sky?
He picked up the bowl closest to him and lifted the upside-down bowl covering it. Dark pieces of goose and large tree mushrooms nestled inside. Even cold, they smelled delicious. His stomach growled and squeaked. He recovered the bowl and set it close to the flames to warm, then methodically checked the other four bowls, finding persimmons, hulled hickory nuts, elderberries, and roasted catfish.
A sharp crack sounded in the forest and he glanced up to see a blur of white and brown—a white-tailed deer—grazing very nearby, where the tall trees let in enough light for long blades of grass to grow. The deer lifted its head cautiously, and he whispered, “It’s all right, my sister. I will not harm you. Eat your fill. You are safe here today.”