Mulberry glanced at the other horrified guards and cried, “You should have killed her!”
Cottonmouth stared hollowly into Diver’s eyes a moment longer, and Diver saw insanity flicker there, then Cottonmouth got up, leaving Diver panting from pain and exertion. Cottonmouth stood quietly, his head cocked, as if listening to voices no one else could hear. Then a small smile twisted his lips. “Musselwhite is not home yet,” he said softly. “Perhaps I should have a ‘gift’ waiting for her when she arrives.”
“A … a gift?” Mulberry asked, and took a confused step forward. He propped the butt of his long dart on the ground. The yellow goldfinch feathers which fletched the shaft gleamed in the red sunset.
“Yes. At dawn I want a war party headed south for Windy Cove Village. Thirty warriors should be enough. Take no captives this time. Do you understand? I wish no one to—”
“No!” Diver shouted. “No, Cottonmouth! For the sake of Sun Mother, do not do this! Please!” he pleaded. “They are innocent people. They have never hurt you!”
Cottonmouth looked down, his face a blank mask. “Did I not tell you, Diver, that it is the nature of human beings to inflict pain? Innocence or guilt makes no difference.” He turned back to Mulberry, awaiting the young warrior’s answer.
Mulberry’s thin lips pressed together. “Yes, Elder. I understand.”
Cottonmouth walked slowly through the darkening village, holding the awl lightly in his right hand and listening to the soft footsteps of the children who trotted around him on their ways to their own shelters. His shoulders ached from the struggle with Diver. He rotated them and winced. Flute music, high and sweet, lilted over the village. Few people dared look at him when he passed. Most huddled together over supper, speaking in low tones, firelight flickering from their worried faces. The sweet, tangy scent of turtles cooking in their juices filled the air. Cottonmouth could see them, upside down, their shells resting on the hot coals at the edges of fires. A strange eerie stillness had possessed the village. Could his people sense it, too? That somber sensation that the end of the world was at hand?
… Just a few days. That’s all. Then I will be released from this—we will be released.
Sun Mother herself had promised to send Cottonmouth a Lightning Boy who would shoot down the Four Shining Eagles and unleash the wrath of Hurricane Breather. But … why hadn’t she told him that the Boy would be married to the only woman he had ever loved?
He entered his shelter and sank down onto his bedding along the northern side. Cool wind penetrated the shelter, meandering around his cold firepit, stirring up the ashes and sending them flitting through the air. He turned the awl in his hand, studying every indentation in the bone, running his finger over her mark. It had gained a polished sheen that reflected the firelight coming from the other shelters. He ought to light his own fire. The evening’s chill deepened by the moment. But he just pulled his yellow and blue blanket up and swung it over his shoulders.
Oh, how Cottonmouth had missed Musselwhite after she’d gone. Despite all the terrible things she’d done to him … he had missed her. She had an ironic way of analyzing things that put troubles in their proper place, and often left him rolling with laughter. His laughter had pleased her, probably because he did it so rarely, and so she had made an art of the ability. And he had loved her for it.
She had done the same thing with their son. Cottonmouth would never forget the day he’d walked into their shelter and found Musselwhite hiding behind a stack of baskets, throwing strange objects over the top at their ten-and-eight-moons-old son. A pile of curiosities lay around Glade, tiny shells, feathers, spring flowers. When an acorn landed at Glade’s little feet, he shrieked with surprised delight and reached down to pick it up, then a big sponge bounced off his back and his eyes went wide. The acorn forgotten, Glade stamped his feet and giggled uproariously, waiting for the next item to come flying over the baskets. Instead, Musselwhite had leaped up, grabbed the boy in her arms, and began kissing him all over the face and neck. Glade had laughed until tears streamed down his beautiful round face.
And so had Cottonmouth.
When she had put the boy down for a nap before supper, she had laid the turtle-bone doll beside him, and Glade had immediately picked it up and clutched it to his chest with a soft satisfied sigh. Glade had slept with that doll every night of his life … .
Even now the joy of the time they had spent together kept Cottonmouth company in his loneliness. He had memorized every tender touch, every shared secret, and when he retired alone at night, he would take those memories out and look at them again—and remember how wonderful those summers had been.