People of the Weeping Eye(18)
She rocked her jaw back and forth, made a face, smacked her tongue, and spit dryly to one side. “Delightful. Wonderful taste. Like cooking goosefoot bread on a greased stone.” Her gaze returned to his. “Worthless bastard of a crawfish hunter. You’re a pus dripper for sure.”
He cocked his head as the canoe rocked in time with her attempts to find a more comfortable position. His vessel was made of bald cypress from the southern swamps. The hull was wider than the girl’s shoulders, so she’d sunk down between the gunwales.
“When did the Spirits come to you?” He took another cut with his paddle, just enough to follow the current’s line as it bore them toward a cottonwood-screened bend.
Her eyes slipped sideways. “I’ve never seen Spirits. Not even that one over there. I can’t see Deer Man out there standing on the water. It’s impossible.” She frowned, perplexed. “Why doesn’t he sink? He has hooves for feet.”
“Deer Man?” Old White knew the Spirit. He’d seen him drawn in shell art, depicted on hides and cave walls. “Is he the only one, or are there more?’
“They don’t exist,” she whispered. “Not like my husband. Golden … shining. Wings of feathered fire. Diamond scales, gleaming quartz on his back and thighs. Shhhh! Shhhh! The rattle shook. Thunderous in its silence. He smiled at me. Like this.” She grinned widely, exposing her strong white teeth in a caricature. “His eyes, oh sunshine, what worlds they were. Fire and snow, turning and twisting like rope from his very gaze. It wound around me. Tied me up. Like this rope.” She bent her wrists so that her fingers could claw impotently at the rope.
“He was old? Young?”
“Young.” Her head bobbed in a frantic nod. “Very young.” The saucy grin returned. “Spiked me with his rod, I tell you. Shot his warm seed like liquid fire into my sheath. When I looked down, I could see it. You know, inside. It glowed like copper in the sunlight, spreading through my hips, warming my bones.”
Old White tilted his head as he studied the girl. “His face, was it human with a nose and mouth, or birdlike with a beak?”
“Human.” She nodded assertively. “Most definitely human. Did I tell you that he smiled? Like this.” She repeated the wide rictus that displayed her teeth.
“So you said.” He took another stroke with the paddle. “What did he tell you?”
The grin faded. “That I would follow the backward birds. Like those.” She jerked her chin upward. Old White followed the direction of her gaze, seeing a high-flying line of ducks winging south for the winter.
“Ah, yes, south.” Old White nodded sagaciously. “And what will you find there?”
She turned serious eyes on his. “Ashes. That’s what’s usually left after a fire burns itself out. Nothing but ashes … gray … cold … and fluffy.” She puffed out her cheeks, blowing hard, as though at a long-abandoned fire pit.
Old White swallowed hard, nodding. “The world is full of ashes, isn’t it?”
“And rot, too,” she added. “Lots of rot. It’s because we’re food for Mother Earth, you know. Without the dead to eat, she’d starve to death, grow ever thinner and thinner and thinner, and finally the serpents and water panthers and turtles and worms would wiggle around inside her like maggots inside an old acorn. The ground would be all hollow. You could pound your foot on it and it would boom like a great drum.”
“Did you really witch that chief?”
“He wanted nothing to do with me. There wasn’t even a shadow of lust in his souls … had no desire to slide his shaft into my sheath, I tell you. Blackness Danced ever so brightly on his heart. Thought me way too smart and clever to let him drive his spear into my loins. But I’m ugly, and I know it. Be sure you’ll catch me wiggling on some man’s shaft just because he fancies me too quick!” She rocked her head from side to side. “Power shifts, good and evil. I told him he’d enjoy his meal. May he digest in peace.”
Old White tilted his head back, sniffing through his nostrils, taking in the scent of the river, of the fall-yellowed willows and leaf mats beyond the shore. “You really disliked him, didn’t you?”
“Loved the man, actually,” she snorted. “I hope you decide to slip yourself into me. I’d look forward to that.”
“Have you had trouble with that?”
“I’m too ugly. Too skinny. Men never stare at my chest or hips. Not when I’m clean. No appeal here.”
He arched an eyebrow. Beneath the smudges, baggy clothing, and layers of rope, she seemed to have a delightfully proportioned body. Were her hair washed and combed to a shine, and her face sponged of the filth that encrusted it, he had no doubt that any man worth his spit would glance more than once in her direction. Even the way her very round hips were wiggling against the ropes had an effect. If she could stir him, old as he was, think what she’d do to a young man still full of his juices.