Pondwader sat back. “But why would she accept such an arrangement?”
“Because he asked her to. She loved him, Pondwader. Very much.”
Pondwader mulled that over. His gaze flickered over the shelter, lingering on the Power bundles hanging from the pole to Seedpod’s left. Strangely, for the first time in summers, Seedpod thought he could hear their voices. Soft. Worried. Like the mewing of newborn bobcat kittens.
Without taking his eyes from the Sea bundle, Pondwader asked, “Why did Cottonmouth fear that his relatives would use the marriage against him? Are they bad people?”
“No, no, Pondwader,” Seedpod replied. “Cottonmouth is the most terrified man alive. He fears everything and everyone. His relatives were no exceptions. The only person I think he has ever trusted was Musselwhite.”
In the depths of his souls, Seedpod could still see the look of utter adoration that had filled Cottonmouth’s eyes when he gazed at Musselwhite. Like a man gazing upon paradise, and not quite able to believe it.
“I didn’t think anything frightened Cottonmouth,” Pondwader said. He drew up his knees and cradled them in his long arms. “He has so much Power, he—”
“He does have Power, you are right about that. The Power he had over Musselwhite was ... unnerving.”
Wind gusted through the shelter, rustling in the thatched roof, and Pondwader clutched his hood closed at his throat. “What do you mean?”
Seedpod picked up his stick again and poked at the fire. A log broke and the crimson flash lit Pondwader’s rapt face. For an instant, his pink, translucent eyes seemed to be floating in a wavering pool of blood. “Cottonmouth used to ‘call’ her. I don’t know any other way of describing it. She knew when he wanted her, and no matter the time of night, she would rise from her bed and go to him.”
Pondwader stopped lifting his tea cup to his lips; it hovered beneath his chin. “What do you mean ‘call’ her? You mean like a witch’s summons?”
“I don’t know anything about witches, but Dogtooth told me it might have been something like that.” Seedpod quelled the shiver that prickled his spine. Witches … He had met only four in his life, and each had left him terrified for moons. Their souls could fly, and kill with a word, or the touch of an invisible hand. They used Power the way fine fabric artists used thread—to weave patterns. Often those patterns were not pretty to look at. Witches tended to have cruel streaks. Great Soul Dancers whispered that witches could suck souls out a living man’s body, and shoot them into the dead to bring them back to life. They …
“Go on,” Pondwader urged. “Please. Tell me everything you can.”
Seedpod sighed. He said, “It began the instant Cottonmouth laid eyes on Musselwhite. She was such a beauty. Even at her age a man could see it. But she was so young, not even a woman yet. My wife and I forbade Musselwhite to see him. Thunderstorm, Musselwhite’s mother, hated Cottonmouth. I never knew why, though he was an arrogant, odd youth—which was reason enough. He was ten-and-seven summers, and already much feared as a warrior. We forbade Musselwhite to see him, and …” Seedpod’s souls seemed to drift up out of his body, leaving him light as a feather. “And that’s when Cottonmouth began calling her.”
“What happened?”
Memories filled Seedpod. The fragrances of new leaves, and warm mist. Amid the images of tens of shelters, he could hear men snoring, and infants whimpering. Windy Cove Clan had been so much larger then, five times the size it was now. They had been camped on the big inland lake, fishing the shallow waters, and hunting water fowl.
“I remember one warm spring night,” Seedpod said. “I saw her rise soundlessly from her blankets and walk across the village. Her steps were … strange … too clumsy for her. She was always extremely graceful, even as a little girl. I followed, for I thought she might be sleepwalking and could harm herself. At the edge of the forest, I spoke to her, but she stared at me with glassy eyes. When she walked by me, I trailed her, walking far behind so I wouldn’t frighten her if she woke suddenly.”
Pondwader stretched out on his side, facing Seedpod, and placed his bare feet closer to the fire. Seedpod kept his voice low. Despite the cold, he could feel sweat on his face. He wet his lips and absently ran his fingers over the mat before him, like a blind man searching for something he’d lost. And perhaps he had. He had never been the same since that night. Had some bit of his souls slipped away?
“What happened then?” Pondwader pressed. Wind rippled his hood.