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People of the Sea(148)

By:W. Michael Gear


Kestrel lowered her eyes to the mussels in his bowl. The boiling water had shrunk the brown skins and revealed the beautiful violet shells beneath. She sat still for a moment. Then she reached out and lifted Sunchaser’s right hand, unfolded his fingers and tenderly pressed his palm to her cheek. Her skin felt cool and soft. “You are so kind to me.”

“I wasn’t being kind, Kestrel. I was being honest.”

She kissed his palm and released it. Her young face slackened into grave lines. “Sunchaser, there wasn’t time last night, but… soon we must talk about the Land of the Dead. When you’re ready.”



The tone of her voice sent a chill through him. “I’m ready now. What did you want to talk about?”

Kestrel leaned sideways to retrieve her bowl of mussels, then shifted to sit beside him, the wooden bowl in her lap. She used both hands to pry open the first mussel and tug it from the shell. It was steaming hot. “When I came to find you, I heard voices, Sunchaser. I don’t know who they were or where they came from, but it’s important that I tell you what they said.”

“They were the Spirits in your painting, Kestrel. I heard them, too. They helped me to avoid the first trap along the trail.”

She looked up, startled. “Is that who they were?”

“That’s who they were. Did the Spirits of the painting tell you something they didn’t tell me?” “Well, I… I don’t know.” She bit into her mussel and chewed it slowly. “They said, “Kestrel, you’ll never find Sunchaser if you stay on the trails. They’re being witched. You have to fly above them. Tell Sunchaser.” I didn’t really understand, but when I leaped over the tangle of trails, I could tell the direction from which you called. I sighted on an orange spire on the horizon. That’s how I found you.”

Sunchaser felt as though she had just kicked him in the stomach. “Being witched? How? I mean, by whom? Who is the witch?” Kestrel shook her head. “The Spirits didn’t tell me. Perhaps they didn’t know. But—”

“They always know. They just won’t say … for their own reasons.” He waved a hand apologetically. “I’m sorry. Go on. What else did they say?”

“Nothing. Just that you’d better learn how to fly over the trails.”

His face slackened. “I’ve done that before. Once on the backs of the Thunderbeings. Another time with the help of Grandmother Condor.” He clenched a fist. “But they took me only because they thought I was dead.”

Kestrel stopped in mid-chew. “Dead?”



His eyes squinted at the memory. “The first time, I’d been Dreaming for so long that Good Plume had pronounced me dead. She couldn’t find my heartbeat, so she prepared my body for burial and called to the Thunderbeings to come for my soul. And they did. That’s how I reached Wolfdreamer’s Lodge of Light.”

“And that’s when he gave you the maze?”

Sunchaser nodded. “Yes. So I could find him again-without the Thunderbeings’ help.”

“Then why would the Spirits tell you that you had to fly?”

“They must mean that I can’t counter the witching, that the maze is useless now.” He sat back, stunned. “Ordinarily, witches are easy to identify, and all you have to do is threaten them to make them stop. I’ve never even had to battle one.” A chill, colder than ice floating in a winter river, settled on his heart—the same heart that had been so happy just a moment before. “Perhaps the time has come.”

Kestrel’s eyes seemed to darken, to expand in her small face. “This must be a Powerful witch, Sunchaser. I could see the tangle of trails. They coiled and knotted, and some even spun off and led nowhere.”

“But I can’t think of anyone who would want to …” His soul sped back to the day of the mammoths’ attack on Otter Clan Village—and a shrill, triumphant cry. “Catchstraw? No. No, it couldn’t be. He’s not that Powerful… or that malicious. Is he?”

“Who?”

“He’s a Dreamer. At least he claims to be. From the Otter Clan.”

“Sunchaser,” Kestrel’s voice had gone serious, “do not let my words anger you, but you don’t seem to realize the extent to which humans can enfold evil into their souls. You love everyone, and everything. Suspicion isn’t part of your nature. I’ve learned, firsthand, about hatred, and about how deep the human soul can sink. Think. Could Catchstraw be a witch?”

“He’s the only person who might want to stop me from entering the Land of the Dead. He has always resented me.”