“Thank you,” she said.
He began to back away from her. “Don’t mention it.”
She stared into his eyes. “I never will.” Then she added, “Unless I happen to meet that woman.”
“What woman?” He turned and walked toward the longhouse parking lot, then got into a car. She watched the car moving up the road until the two taillights diminished into a single, glowing spot of orange-red light no bigger than a firefly. She listened to the pounding of the drums and the shuffling of many feet on the wood floor inside.
This was the first night of Green Corn. This morning babies born since Midwinter had been given names, and adults who were taking on new names had announced them. Tomorrow there would be the chanting of personal thanks for good fortune and accomplishments, the appearance of the Society of Faces to cure the sick, and more food and dancing. And on the final day, there would be the casting of the peach pits, one side white and the other burnt black. The pits would be thrown down and read, over and over, until the black side or the white side triumphed, in imitation of the eternal battle between the Creator and his identical twin brother, the Destroyer.
