People of the Lightning(98)

Pondwader propped his gourd cup on his knee.

He took a long drink, letting the flavor soothe him. “They asked me to tell you something even more curious,” he answered.

She gave him a sharp glance. “What?”

He hesitated, turning his warm cup in his hands, watching the green liquid shimmer in the firelight. After the things Seedpod and Dogtooth had told him about Musselwhite, he felt great fear. If she had dared to leap upon a renowned Soul Dancer and try to choke him to death … well, Pondwader’s chances didn’t look so good.

“First,” he said softly. “They asked me to tell you that Glade would protect you from Cottonmouth. So you see, it isn’t actually me who has to be with you, just … just my body. That …” he said, sighing, “ … is why I must go with you, my wife.”

She frowned at Pondwader’s chest, as if longing to slice it open and see if her dead son truly lived in there. “How could Glade protect me?”

“The ghosts didn’t explain. I wish they had. I didn’t understand half of what they said to me. They also told me … how did they put it?” He tried to recall the exact words. “They said, ‘Tell Musselwhite that when Glade’s soul hatches, and he sprouts wings of light, Cottonmouth will never be able to hunt her again. Glade won’t let him.’” Pondwader peered at her. “Does that make sense to you?”

Musselwhite stared at him unblinking. She looked thin and haunted, her beautiful face worn down to its elegant bones. In her eyes, he saw old pain, and hatred grown keen, honed over time to a fine deadly edge. Beside her, three darts thrust up from the sand like spears, their chert points glinting. As if for security, she pulled them up, then laid them across her lap.

“Yes,” she answered softly. “I do understand.”

“What did they mean? Please tell me. Perhaps if I understand one part I can make sense of the rest.”

She shifted uneasily, and he could see her shoulder blades under the thin fabric of her tunic. Had she lost so much weight recently? From mourning her loved ones? Or from the constant, gnawing fear?

She waved a hand, and irritated, said, “It is difficult to explain, Pondwader. I would have to start at the beginning and I’m not sure you could grasp the—”

“I know I am very young,” he admitted, embarrassed. “But please try to explain it, Musselwhite. I must know. This is very important.” The Lightning Bird had begun rumbling again, its voice low, distant, but rolling toward him, growing louder. “What did they mean about Cottonmouth not being able to hunt you?”

“Cottonmouth …” she said, and halted, as though just uttering his name gave her pain. A swallow went down her throat. Then words poured out in a fast flood, as if she wanted this over with. “He has a curious ability to win the hearts of those he wants, and after he has made them love him, their loyalty is unquestioning, almost fanatical. I wasn’t the first girl he had … hunted.”

Pondwader searched her bitter face. “There had been others before you?”

“At least one. Her name was Reef. Just before he told me he wanted me, he cast her aside. But she kept coming back, pleading with him, crawling on her hands and knees, begging him to take her back. It was …” She lowered her eyes and peered into her tea. “ … difficult to watch.”

“What happened to her?”

Musselwhite shrugged. “I heard that she committed suicide. I never knew whether it was true or not, but probably it was.”

In the golden gleam of the fire, he saw the curve of her mouth tighten.

Pondwader blinked thoughtfully and looked away. Swarms of glittering mosquitoes and gnats had been buzzing around him since dusk. He waved away one that landed on his big toe and tucked his bare feet securely beneath his long robe. Musselwhite had been smart enough to coat her exposed flesh with insect grease. She smelled like pine smudge. Pleasant. Pondwader took another sip of his tea, and wondered about Reef, and this strange Power of Cottonmouth’s to make people love him. Witchery. It must be.

“Is he mad?” Pondwader asked, and prayed for a straight answer.

“Everyone says so. But I never saw it.”

“Not ever?”

“No. I saw him insane from grief. Worried sick. Desperate. But not mad. He was always fickle, volatile, like a man clinging to a log in a rough ocean, soaring up one instant and plunging down the next. And, believe me, when he was on the bottom of that trough, no one wanted to be close to him. He could kill without a second thought. I used to try to soothe him then. To make him laugh.” Tenderness flickered in her eyes for a brief moment, then it was gone, locked behind that shield again. She clutched her cup hard.