Horseweed whispered, “What’s he doing? Can you tell?”
Balsam looked up with wide eyes, and Horseweed saw that his brother was shaking with panic. “I… I think he’s witching, Horseweed! I swear that’s what he’s doing. Come on. We can get closer. Let me show you.”
Balsam got down and crawled through the tall grass with the calculated stealth of a hunter. Horseweed followed at his heels, but he kept glancing over at Catchstraw.
The ugly Dreamer had stood up, skinny and old against the background of starlit forest, but the gray in his hair glimmered with the brilliance of mica dust. He spread his arms and began Dancing. He spun and stamped his feet… like a Condor Dancer at the annual winter ceremonial. But then he sidestepped and spun in the opposite direction…. And his Song. It had no words. Or rather, the words were broken, confused, said in a curious accent, though recognizable. He was calling down the Power of the giant, bird, calling it into himself. Horseweed’s heart pounded. The sound filled him with an inexplicable terror.
They crawled behind a chaos of deadfall, and Balsam whispered, “Have you ever seen that Dance before?”
“No.”
“He’s been doing it, off and on, for the past hand of time. He draws on the rocks for a little while, then he rises and Dances. Did you hear the Song?” Balsam shuddered. “It’s as if he’s taken the sacred verses from the Condor Dance and deliberately corrupted them. That’s against the laws of our people!”
“He’s never cared anything about clan law.”
Balsam wet his lips anxiously. “He’s a bad man, Horseweed. Look at the rock by his feet. Can you see the black lines?”
Horseweed eased his head over the deadfall and looked. “Yes.”
Catchstraw lowered his arms, laughed softly and began erasing his drawing with the toe of his moccasin. He took his time, going over each line with the care of a loving artist. A condor shrieked somewhere close by, and Catchstraw froze, an awed expression on his face. He leaped off the rock and ran, disappearing down the slope of the hill.
Horseweed watched in horror as a huge condor flew up from the other side, its massive wings blotting the stars as it soared away.
Balsam gripped Horseweed’s arm and sank his fingernails into the warm flesh. “Let’s get out of here!”
Horseweed patted Balsam’s hand. “I have to see the drawing first.” “There’s probably nothing left of it. Horseweed … do you think … I mean, he was doing the Condor Dance!”
“Stay here, Balsam. I’ll be right back. Then we’ll return to the village.”
Horseweed rose slowly, scanning the meadow and forest as he did so, looking for danger. The condor had winged out of sight. Cautiously, he stepped around the deadfall and into the dew-soaked meadow. The scent of wildflowers mixed with the sweet tang of onion here. By the time he reached the flat stone, his pant legs stuck to his skin wetly. He braced a foot and climbed on top of the stone, then crouched, surveying the meadow again. The condor swooped up over the treetops in the distance. Its shadow skimmed the path that led up the hill to the village.
Nothing else moved.
Fearing that the giant bird might be able to see him, Horseweed stayed down. He duck-walked to the drawing and stretched out on his belly to examine it more closely. Field mice skittered around him, feeding upon the meal left in the grinding holes.
Balsam scurried up onto the rock, panting. “CatchstrawI mean that condor—is coming back! Hurry!”
Horseweed’s brows drew together. “Look at this.” With his finger, he followed the lines. Catchstraw had not finished erasing them. The charcoal had smeared, but the winding paths remained visible. “What do you think this is?”
Balsam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. In a tense whisper, he answered, “It looks like a maze, doesn’t it? I mean, that’s what I thought when I first saw him drawing it. That it looked like a maze.”
“Why would he—”
“Don’t you remember?” Balsam asked urgently. “The day of the mammoths’ attack. Sunchaser said that he couldn’t get through the maze anymore.”
“You mean… you think this is Sunchaser’s maze?”
“What other maze is there?”
“Well, none that I know of, but—”
Balsam’s eyes scanned the dark skies. “He’s witching, Horseweed! He’s witching Sunchaser!”
Horseweed cocked his head warily. “Careful. That’s a serious charge. It could get Catchstraw killed.”
Balsam got down on his stomach beside Horseweed and breathed, “We have to tell Grandfather. He’ll know what to do.”