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Summary
Summary
People of the Lightning takes us into ancient Florida, to a village of fisher folk who must face their deepest fear: Pondwander, the White Lightning Boy, the first of his kind to be born in tens of tens of summers. His white hair, pink eyes, and pale skin make him fearsome enough, but prophecy foretells that a Lightning Boy is destined to make Sister Moon bury her face in the clouds and weep falling stars--and unleash the winds of destruction.
Fearing their ultimate demise, the folk manage to trade him off in marriage to Musselwhite, a woman warrior who knows nothing of the prophecy. But when Pondwander is kidnapped, she must face an ages-old enemy who has always been determined to destroy her. But what is truly in store now that this Lightning Boy is hearing voices in the wind, telling him of his role in the coming horror?
New York Times and USA Today's bestselling authors W. Michael and Kathleen O'Neal Gear bring North America's Forgotten Past to vivid life in this epic, romantic historical novel.
Author Notes
Kathleen O'Neal Gear was born on October 29, 1954 in Tulare, California. She received a B.A. from California State University in Bakersfield and a M.A. from California State University in Chico. She conducted Ph.D. studies at the University of California in Los Angeles and did post-graduate studies at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in Israel. In the 1980's, she worked as the Wyoming state historian, and later as the archaeologist for Wyoming, Kansas and Nebraska. She received the federal government's Special Achievement Award twice for outstanding management of our nation's cultural heritage.
She married W. Michael Gear in 1982, and they have collaborated on a series of books for young adults. The theme of these books is ancient civilizations, and the titles include People of the Wolf, People of the Fire, People of the Sea, and People of the Lakes. They own Wind River Archaeologist Consultants, which is a private research firm. She has also written several books by herself including the Women of the West series.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
In the Gears' latest epic about pre-Columbian North Americans (after People of the Lakes), a wealth of rich historical detail once again bolsters a pulsing narrative set in a turbulent time. Here, the Gears vivify the Windover people, who-as explained in a foreword-lived in Florida about 8000 years ago and, curiously, were ``not closely related to any other Native American population.'' Cottonmouth, the cruel leader of the Standing Hollow Horn clan, and his warriors kill the children of Musselwhite, and capture her husband, Diver. Musselwhite is the soul and great warrior of the Windy Cove clan-as well as the mother and murderer of Cottonmouth's young son. Despite his hatred for Musselwhite, Cottonmouth desperately hopes that she will try to rescue Diver-not only so that he can kill her but because he believes that with her will come a ``Lightning Boy'' (created when a lightning bolt penetrates a woman's womb) who will help him during a forthcoming cleansing of the world. The Lightning Boy turns out to be the 15-year-old Pondwader, an albino who is married off to the grieving Musselwhite (who believes Diver dead) as payment for his mother's gambling debt. But when Musselwhite learns that Diver is alive, she sets out on a dangerous rescue mission that reaches a dramatic climax. Though perhaps a bit less interesting than the authors' previous works, this tale about love and the struggle to survive will not disappoint their fans. (Nov.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
This epic historical romance is a fascinating, well-told tale of ancient superstition and culture, set in Florida approximately 8,000 years ago, amid a hauntingly eerie, mystical, and primeval landscape. The story begins in a village besieged by enemy tribes, where Musselwhite, a revered woman warrior and leader, must face her archenemy Cottonmouth after he has captured her beloved husband and murdered her son and is now determined to destroy her and the village. Through a series of events, Musselwhite meets and agrees to marry another husband, 15-year-old Pondwader, an albino, who because of his eyes, hair, and skin is both hated and feared as a "lightning boy," and together they face the dreaded enemy Cottonmouth. The Gears' thorough research and their experience as professional archaeologists lend credibility to their novel and contribute to its absorbing portrait of ancient life. --Kathleen Hughes
Kirkus Review
Once again, the Gears combine archeological findings with a tale of action and mystic hoohah (People of the Sea, 1993, etc.)and here, unfortunately, billows of talk. This time, the people are those whose remains and artifacts were discovered in Florida--people who lived about 8,000 years ago and were raiders, with darts the weapons of choice, who staked their dead in pond bottoms. Gentle Pondwader, a revered teenaged albino (dubbed the Lightning Boy), has a heavy burden. The seer Dogtooth has told him that inside his chest is a hatching Lightning Bird that will grow up and out. Obviously Pondwader has quite a future. But watching, and plotting to capture Pondwader, is cruel Cottonmouth--of the prime raiding tribe--who believes that the boy has the power to kill the Four Shining Eagles that will bring destruction on the world. Meanwhile, Cottonmouth also burns with desire for the woman he loved, the great warrior woman Musselwhite of another clan--the clan, he believes, that killed their little son Glade. Cottonmouth's warriors capture Diver, the woman's husband (thought dead at first), and use him as a magnet to attract Musselwhite, now married to Pondwader. Plans are made, alliances between clans sealed, and the stealthy creep to rescue Diver begins. Along the way, Pondwader does brave warrior things and has some first-class visions featuring the Lightning Bird and a doll once belonging to Glade. The characters are a talky bunch given to zingers like ``Great Muskrat Above'' and ``seagull dung!,'' or to sermonettes like this one from Cottonmouth to Diver: ``To be is to be related . . . Separateness is an allusion we create to justify our wrongdoings.'' Beyond such highfalutin expostulations, there's some nasty work with darts and sexual doings with Black Rain, Pondwader's naughty mother. Mythic fantasy, some action, and tiresome chat: not the Gears' best.
Excerpts
Excerpts
One Cottonmouth could not take his eyes from the young woman warrior who lay on her stomach before him. Feathers of long hair haloed her beautiful face, looking startlingly black against the white sand. Her short tunic, the color of dry grass, had been woven from the finest palm thread, and painted with the green images of bobcat, whale, and dolphin. In the past half a hand of time, so much blood had run from her wound that it had pooled, red and glistening, at her side. As his men moved among the dead, the amber gleam of their torches reflected in that pool like flashes of lightning. Cottonmouth forced a shallow breath into his lungs. Every wet scent of the night smelled incredibly clear to him, as if it had soaked into his flesh and been carried through his veins like a powerful Spirit plant. The sweetness of the coastal pines mixed with the salty fragrances of fish and sea, and the earthiness of the rain storm that had washed the world just before the battle. After his dart had pierced her back just below the shoulder blades, she had fallen, then weakly pushed up and tried to crawl away. When she could go no further, she had stiffened her trembling arms and legs, keeping herself upright so that she might turn and defiantly stare him in the eyes. The shock of seeing that face had been like a hard fist in his stomach. Blessed Sun Mother, how many times had he gazed into those eyes in his dreams? How many times had he tenderly touched that face? Clenching his hands to nerve himself, he walked forward and knelt beside the young woman. Huge, amorphous shadows swayed through the trees as a few of his warriors lifted their torches momentarily to watch him, curious. He had lost only two men in the battle. The remaining ten-and-eight moved through the camp, laughing and joking, kicking over the bodies, ripping Power bundles from around throats, plundering the dead for trinkets to take home to their wives and children. Against the wavering background of firelit palms, oaks, and pines, they seemed somehow unreal...more like scavenging ghosts floating over the sand than living men. Cottonmouth broke off the dart shaft and flung it away. His heart had started to pound. He slipped his arms beneath the girl's knees and shoulders, and clutched her slender body against his bare chest. Blood leaked from her wound, running warmly down his muscular belly and legs, soaking his breechclout. His long, graying black hair fell over her face as he lifted her and rose to his feet. Disapproving murmurs came from his warriors. The customs of their clan, the Standing Hollow Horn Clan, demanded that enemies killed in battle be left for scavengers. If their relatives did not find the dead within two days, their souls would justly be condemned to wander the earth forever. Mulberry, a small skinny youth, stepped forward and lifted his torch so that it glared in Cottonmouth's eyes, forcing him to squint. The boy had coiled his black hair into a bun and fixed it with a manatee-bone pin. Blood spattered his legs. "Spirit Elder," he said sternly. "We must leave the dead." He cast a worried look over his shoulder. "The men expect it." Cottonmouth stared at his warriors. They shifted uncomfortably. Anger creased Mulberry's young face, hardening his jaw. Boldly, he stepped closer. "Elder, our men do not wish this filth to enter the afterworld and live among our relatives!" Terse whispers passed back and forth. "Have you searched the dead for Diver?" Cottonmouth asked. The very softness of his voice held threat. "Or did you allow him to escape?" Mulberry tried to scowl, but his resolve quickly faltered and he wet his thin lips. "I...n-no. Not yet." "He is about my age, four-tens-and-five or five tens of summers. I will return soon. When I do, I will wish to know where he is. You had better have an answer for me." Cottonmouth walked away slowly, drowning in the sensation of her body pressed against his, the silken feel of her long black hair tumbling down his side. When he had first seen her, he'd stumbled and almost fallen. Only after moments of agony had he realized she must be Morning Glory, daughter of Musselwhite, and not Musselwhite herself--but she looked so much like her mother with those high cheekbones, that turned-up nose, and those fierce brown eyes, that he had been stunned and unable to take his gaze from her. Cool wind blew across his face. Sister Moon shone so brightly tonight that every blade of grass threw a shadow. As he rounded the northern edge of a clearing, he could make out the gangly shape of a blue heron standing on one foot in the meadow, and a short distance further, a snowy egret. On the western side of the clearing an ancient oak had fallen long ago, blocking the path. Great crooked branches held the heavy trunk off the ground. He would have to crawl through on his knees, then drag Morning Glory behind him. Cottonmouth laid her on a soft pile of old leaves and slid under on his stomach. Powerful scents of wet bark and packrat dung stung his nose. He emerged on the opposite side and turned. When he reached through the tangle to grasp her wrist, her fingers had stiffened, raking his arms like curled talons. He tugged. She moved, then stopped abruptly. He jerked harder and heard the sound of ripping fabric as her short tunic tore free from a snag. She came through on her stomach, her face in the dirt. The sight pained him. Blood trickled darkly from her back wound. Cottonmouth sat down beside her and brushed the dirt from her smooth cheeks and forehead, but drew back his hand when he noticed that one of her eyes had opened. He did not want to look into those eyes again, though tens of times, in a dozen battles, he had lived only for that sight. He gently spread her hair over-her face, then picked her up and carried her on down the trail. When he reached the pond, he lowered her to the green grass, placing her in the same spot her mother had lain two tens and six summers before. Musselwhite had been laughing when they'd loved each other. Since that day the world had changed. The forest had grown up around their secret places. Deadfall had accumulated, filling the spaces between the trees. No lovers came here now. It saddened Cottonmouth, for he could recall very clearly bright days when he and Musselwhite had walked here and felt Brother Earth's age like a warm cape upon their shoulders. This forest had held a stillness so great they could sense the wingbeats of the Spirit birds who flew around them. They had spent days listening to the trees sing. Each had its own distinct voice, and when they sang together, a harmony of extraordinary majesty filled the world. Cottonmouth's sandals sank into the damp soil as he went in search of sticks to stake Morning Glory's body down. If she had been a member of his clan, he would have wrapped her in the finest blankets, showered her with rare shells and precious stone tools--but she was not, and he hadn't much time. Already his warriors would be growing restless, worrying about his odd behavior, ready to go home to their wives' beds. Cottonmouth sifted through a pile of deadfall until he had selected nine sticks with sharp points. He tucked them into his belt, and went back to Morning Glory's side. "I will Sing you to the afterworld," he murmured and began the Death Song in a low voice, just loud enough that the three strands of her braided soul could hear. I have come with living waters , To give these healing ways of the Wolves , these healing ways of the living water Wolves . Look northward now , down the pathway of living waters to the Wolves in the Village of Wounded Souls . Hear them call you ? They are calling you , calling, calling . Gripping her by the ankles, he walked into the pond. Cold water swirled around his knees. Her face sank below the dark surface, but her limp arms floated in a wealth of sinuous black hair. Through that half-open eye she watched him. He rolled Morning Glory onto her left side, then turned her so that she faced north. "Look northward. Do you see the tunnel that leads to the Village of Wounded Souls? All ponds are openings to that distant afterworld, you know. You have a long way to swim, but there will be Spirit Helpers to guide you. Wait for Alligator, he'll show you the way." With great care, he tucked her knees against her chest and drove one of his stakes through her sandal laces to keep her feet in place. The rest of the stakes he drove through the bloody fabric of her tunic, securing her to the bottom of the pond so she would not float free and lose sight of the tunnel. Black hair writhed in slow motion over Morning Glory's face, covering her open eye, but her perfect body lay calm and still beneath the glimmering veil of moonlit water. She lay so quiet, like a woman dead for tens of tens of summers, rather than a single hand of time. Cottonmouth waded out of the pond and piled logs around the edges of the grassy strip, blocking the gaps in the deadfall, making certain no animals could enter and drag her from her grave. Sister Moon's luminous face hung high above him. The Shining People had retreated to the far edges of her radiance, patiently waiting for her to sink into the Village of Wounded Souls so their own splendor could burst forth again. Tomorrow Cottonmouth would order several warriors to return to the battle site and track down and capture each enemy who had escaped. Two or three days from now, Musselwhite would start to panic, wondering what had happened to her husband and children, fearing the worst. It would not take long for her to mount a search party. She would do it over vehement protests from the Spirit Elders, who would warn her that if she left, the village would be almost defenseless. But she would leave anyway. Musselwhite would boldly face the rage of Sun Mother herself to keep her relatives from falling into Cottonmouth's hands. For two-tens-and-six summers his bitterness had been festering, eating him alive. She would rightly fear what tactics he might use to repay that old debt of honor. He looked up to watch the bats flitting through the darkness, their wings flashing in the moonlight, and wondered what he would do when she came. The ache in his chest grew overpowering. He dropped his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. He knew only that he would be waiting for her. Copyright (c) 1995 by Kathleen O'Neal Gear and W. Michael Gear Excerpted from People of the Lightning by Kathleen O'Neal Gear, W. Michael Gear All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.