Soft words. They floated about Pondwader’s dreams like sunlight, rising and falling, chasing away the images of Heartwood Village … .
Pale blue light bathed his face. He rolled to his side and groggily opened his eyes. Already the Shining People had vanished from the eastern horizon, leaving an unmarred gleaming blue halo over the ocean. Sea Girl’s voice carried on the cool morning breeze, a soothing whisper, as if she, too, had just awakened. Pondwader’s gaze followed the dark blue arc of Brother Sky’s belly, then dropped to the trees where he could hear birds chirping. He stretched his long legs and groaned himself awake.
On the beach, pelicans strutted, no doubt watching gulls wheel in the sky above them, though Pondwader saw only blue. Windy Cove Village lay still and quiet. No breakfast fires burned yet.
Pondwader sat up. He could still see three blurry humps of blankets in Musselwhite’s shelter. Good. She needed her rest. Pondwader would wake her at dawn. By then he would have filled gourds with fresh water, finished loading their packs for the journey, and have breakfast cooking. They could eat and leave at sunup—as she had planned. He had not figured out how to convince her to allow him to go yet, but he would. Because he had to. Surely this morning, after a good night’s rest, she would be more reasonable.
A faint morning breeze tousled his white hair as he stood and folded his blanket, then returned it to the pile where Seedpod had found it last night. Darkness cloaked the forest. Pondwader saw no sign of either Black Urchin or Seedpod. When would they be coming in? Dawn? Pondwader would make enough breakfast to feed five, just in case.
He combed out his hair with his fingers and went about gathering cooking tools. Two gut bags hung on tripods by the cold fire pit. One of them, he knew, held hanging moss tea from last night. The other was empty. Next to the bags sat a large gourd filled with water. Covered wooden bowls made a semicircle around the gourd. Pondwader knelt and removed the top bowl of each to survey the contents: smoked frogs’ legs, prickly pear fruits, black nightshade berries, small bottle gourds. They must have finished off the wedding feast at supper last night.
Pondwader looked around. Along the southern side of the shelter a big wooden bowl held chert blades and scrapers, an oak pestle and stirring paddle. Beside it nestled two squat baskets. He went and knelt beside the bowl, selecting the tools he would need: a blade and the stirring paddle. Then he returned to the fire pit. With the long chert blade, Pondwader cut up five bottle gourds, quartered several prickly pear fruits, and dropped all of them into the boiling basket, along with the entire bowl of frogs’ legs. Then he lifted the large gourd of water and poured in enough to cover the contents. It should cook down nicely. The prickly pear fruits would add a delightful tang to the smoky flavor of the frogs’ legs, while the gourds would give the stew sweetness. For good measure, he added water to the hanging moss tea bag. It might be weak, but it would be warm.
As he knelt by the fire and began digging through the ashes with a stick, separating out the hot coals, the village awoke. A baby started whimpering, and a mother hushed the child by singing a soft lullaby. An old woman sat up nearby and threw off her blankets. He could see her, silhouetted darkly against the dawn, her gray hair blowing. A man said something and a woman answered.
From the wood pile, Pondwader pulled small sticks and placed them atop the hot coals, then blew gently. When yellow tongues of flame licked up around the tinder, he added larger sticks. The chunks of dead coral circling the firepit still held warmth from last night, but not enough to boil his stew. Pondwader shoved several into the flames to heat up. He took three warm chunks and dropped them into the hanging moss tea bag. They sizzled as they sank, sending up tendrils of steam. He continued adding larger pieces of wood to the fire until he had a good blaze going. Then he moved the stew basket over the flames. The water in the boiling basket kept it from catching fire, but the bottom always charred, which meant such baskets generally had a short life.
Pondwader backed away. In another two or three fingers of time, the stew would be ready to eat, and he could hardly wait. He was starving this morning. But first things first … .
He rose and walked out into the forest.
Ducking beneath a curtain of grape vines, he skirted a dense growth of palmettos and stopped with one foot in midair. A copperhead lay coiled in the hollowed-out trunk of the fallen oak tree at his feet. The alternating dark and light brown bands blended almost perfectly with the weathered patterns of the wood. Pondwader slowly backed away, then turned, lifted his long robe, and let his night water spill out onto the ground. The entire time, he looked over his shoulder, watching the snake. The copperhead never moved … but something else did, amid the pines to Pondwader’s right. He let his robe fall and squinted. A smear of tan about the size of a man came toward him. Pondwader crouched, ready to run.