“About the Four Shining Eagles?”
“Yes, that’s the one. That baby Bird—”
“How could I forget it?” Pondwader inquired sharply. “I was half afraid my own clan might murder me in my sleep!”
“Well, I must admit, I thought about it myself,” Dogtooth replied. “The Eagles are so old and frail, flying on only one wing. They’re pathetic sights, desperately tired, fighting to stay in the air. Their day is almost done, Pondwader. If—”
“Dogtooth …” Pondwader breathed, knowing what came next—the fears, the accusations … . All his life he’d heard them. “I promise you I will not kill the Eagles. I—I wouldn’t even know how! And I do not wish the world to end! I have just married the most wonderful woman in the world. I want our life together to last—”
“Let me finish.” Dogtooth held up a hand. It cast an eerie, swaying shadow over the trees, like a warrior Dancing with a warclub. “If the Lightning Birds had not soared down and blasted some sense into me, I’m sure I would have killed you. But they did blast me. That’s why I called you to the Sacred Pond—so that you might be reborn in the Lightning. And that’s why that blindingly beautiful baby Bird inside you came to see me. To tell me about your progress.”
Pondwader shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t understand.”
“You will. And soon. That chick is growing very quickly. It will not be long before she slices through your ribs and goes hunting. Then everything will be clear to you.”
The blue-white glow inside Pondwader expanded, trickling out to warm his fingers and toes. “Hunting?”
“Yes. Hunting. Power is about to ask many things of you, Pondwader. It’s all right to be afraid. Just do what you must.”
Pondwader tentatively lifted his hand and placed his fingers over his heart; the skin beneath his robe felt unnaturally hot; as if fevered. He could feel two heartbeats, one slamming against his ribs, the other like a faint faraway rumble. “I promise I will try to do whatever Power asks of me, Dogtooth,” he said, and added more softly, “whatever this baby Lightning Bird asks of me.”
Pondwader wet his lips, and braced himself to ask Dogtooth the question that kept him awake at nights—the question that had been tormenting him for days. The old man seemed to sense it, his brows pulled together in anticipation.
“Dogtooth,” he said. “You are a great Soul Dancer. Please, tell me. I can face the truth—if I just know what it is … . When the baby Bird soars free, will I die?”
Dogtooth grinned suddenly. “You have died once already. Did it hurt?”
“Well …” His hand went to the place on his side where the dart had punctured. “Only a little.”
“So what are you afraid of?”
Pondwader inhaled a shaky breath. “That means ‘yes,’ doesn’t it?”
Dogtooth gasped. A big wolf spider dropped on its dragline from one of the oak branches, and dangled before his old eyes. Dogtooth squinted at the insect. As the strand of web twisted around, firelight glinted from the spider’s bulbous brownish-yellow body, and threw its shadow like a huge amorphous monster on the trees near Seedpod.
“Hmm?” Dogtooth asked softly. He cocked an ear toward the spider. “But why should I tell him when he already knows the important part … ? Bah! The details will just get him in more trouble. And, as you well know, he’s in quite enough as it is. When he’s standing face-to-face with Cottonmouth, he’ll know what to do. I’m sure of it.”
“Cottonmouth?” Pondwader mouthed the name, then more loudly, demanded, “What are you talking about? Is that where Musselwhite and I will be going on our journey? Tell me!”
As though the discussion had ended, the spider began climbing up its invisible strand. Dogtooth watched, his gray head leaning further and further back, until the insect disappeared into the swaying shadows overhead, then Dogtooth sighed, and said, “Spiders are so pushy.” He shook his head, and rolled up in his blanket. “Good night, young Lightning Boy.”
“Dogtooth! How can you expect me to—to do anything if you won’t tell me what sort of trouble I’m facing?”
Dogtooth yawned. “You already know you’re going to die. Isn’t that enough?”
The breath in Pondwader’s lungs stilled. Until this very moment, he hadn’t believed it. He sat quietly. When the wind blew the flames, the wolf spider’s shadow danced over the firelit trees again, twisting and bouncing, swinging like a pebble on a string. Deep inside him, a voice kept whispering, But I’m afraid of dying. I’m barely ten and five summers! I want to live!