Cautiously, he slitted one eye. She crouched on the opposite side of the fire, staring at him, her eyes dark and brooding. Against the night, her face might have been carved from stone. Her long braid hung over her shoulder and, in the windblown weave of flame and shadow, gleamed like silver-streaked weasel fur.
“Musselwhite!” he said and sat up in his blanket. “I—”
“I should kill you for following me.”
He lowered his eyes and pushed his blanket down around his waist. Her voice brooked no disagreement. “I had to find you. I—”
“You’ve found me. Now go home.”
He met her harsh gaze. Something akin to hatred creased her face. Did she despise him so much? “I can’t, Musselwhite. The ghosts at the Sacred Pond told me I must be with you when you face Cottonmouth.”
“I have no intention of facing him,” she answered. “My goal is to get in, rescue Diver, and get out alive. That is all. Someday I will face him, but not this time. This time I—”
“You may not wish to,” he interrupted in a strained voice, “but that is the way it will happen.” He pulled his hood up to block the night wind. The Shining People glittered wildly above them. “Please, my wife. There are many things I must tell you. We have been together for such a short time that I haven’t had the chance until now. Before you try to force me to go home, let me speak with you. Please?”
She ground her teeth for a moment, then added more wood to the fire. “No.” She stood up.
“But, you do not understand! I must protect you. That’s why—”
“Protect me? You are not a warrior. You are not even a man. You are a boy, and a puny one at that. I have nothing more to say to you. I will keep watch over you for the rest of the night, and at dawn you will go home.”
Pondwader bowed his head in pain. He had never seen her like this, so distant, and filled with venom. In a trembling voice, he said, “Th—the Sacred Pond … I went there because … because Dogtooth told me the ghosts wished to speak with me.” He glanced up to see if his words about ghosts made her uneasy. She glared at him. “The water washed away my souls, Musselwhite. For three days I lay near death. Then a new soul was reborn in my body.”
A glint of horror lit her eyes. Her face slackened. “What soul? A dead man’s?”
Pondwader swallowed. His throat was dry. “It’s the soul of a baby Lightning Bird, Musselwhite.”
“A Lightning Bird?”
“Yes.” He put a hand over his heart. “It glows all the time. Blue-white. And … Musselwhite? My soul has a name. The ghosts told me. I don’t wish you to be afraid, though. Promise me you will stay calm. I didn’t understand why the baby Bird’s name was important until a—a short time ago. And that’s only if it’s the same … person. I don’t know because I—”
“I promise I’ll be calm,” she said, slightly exasperated. Then she exhaled, and seemed to be deliberately working to defuse her anger. “I didn’t know Lightning Birds had names,” she said in a normal voice.
Pondwader smiled broadly. “Yes, well, I didn’t either. But this one does.” He held her gaze. “Its name is Glade, Musselwhite.”
She did not move.
“Don’t be frightened, please. The ghosts wanted me to tell you that Glade has come back to help you. In the same way you helped him.”
For a long while, she just stared at him, then she sank to the ground, as if her legs would no longer hold her, and squeezed her eyes closed.
“Musselwhite!” Pondwader threw off his blanket and went to her. Touching her hair gently, he said, “Let me make some tea. Then we’ll talk. You mustn’t be worried. Everything is all right.”
Beyond camp, the breakers had grown violent, crashing upon the dark shore in shining white smears, roaring like hungry lions. Pondwader returned his gaze to Musselwhite. She sat with her back to the chill wind, and peered down into her gourd cup of pine needle tea. The firelit shadows played over her beautiful, troubled face, and cast a flickering weave of gray and orange across the pines behind her. He’d hung his boiling basket on a tripod constructed of three branches tied together at the top with a cord. Then he’d moved it over the heat of the flames to warm while he’d gathered pine needles. The tea tasted of pine sap, sweet and tangy.
“What else, Pondwader?” Musselwhite asked as she lifted her eyes. “What else did the ghosts tell you?”
The lines around her eyes deepened. Wispy silver-streaked locks had escaped her braid and fluttered about her face. Only now, in the light of the flames, could he see the starburst of fresh blood that stained the hem of her tan tunic. Had she engaged enemy warriors? Nearby? And he hadn’t heard a thing?