had always played. Yester day he’d darted a little dog that had come too close to his new sweat lodge.
Oxbalm had listened to the seven-summers-old owner’s tears all night. Half of the village ran when they saw Catchstraw coming … the other half gazed at him worshipfully. His followers sensed the Power that swelled in him. But they couldn’t even guess at its malignant source.
So far, only Dizzy Seal, Sumac, Oxbalm and his two grandsons had witnessed the perverted mazes scattered in the forest. Oxbalm had been too frightened to tell anyone else. When it came to such lethal matters, he could trust few people.
Catchstraw ducked into his sweat lodge, carrying three hot rocks on a litter composed of two sticks. He stepped outside again and took in three more rocks. After four trips, steam puffed up around the lodge’s door flap. It glittered in the dusk, rising in thin, serpentine wisps until it vanished in the breeze that rustled the tops of the tallest pines.
Oxbalm hunched forward in relief, ran a hand through his’ damp hair and gazed around the circle. Everyone stared at him through questioning eyes. “Not yet,” he said. “We must wait until we have proof that he’s harmed someone. Without that, his obscene mazes are not enough.”
“But, Grandfather,” Horseweed murmured solemnly, “do you remember what Sunchaser said that day after the mammoths’ attack? He said he could no longer find his way through the maze. Isn’t that proof enough?”
Oxbalm shook his head. “Not unless Sunchaser stood here before us and told us that he couldn’t get through because he’d been witched.”
Dizzy Seal leaned forward and ran his tongue over the gaps in his teeth. Against the background of green oaks and pines, he looked as brown and brittle as an autumn leaf. He laced his fingers in front of him. “If someone is found guilty of witching, the sentence is death. I’ve never heard of any other punishment. Have you?”
Oxbalm shook his head, and Sumac said, “No.”
Balsam whispered, “Good riddance.”
“The problem,” Oxbalm reminded, “is that someone has to kill the witch. I saw Pineburl when I was a boy. Everyone knew she was a witch, but no one could find the courage to kill her. Witches are Powerful. You have to sneak up on them and kill them on the first blow. Because if you fail, they’ll get you. Witch you. You’ll die horribly.”
Balsam sat up suddenly and lifted his hand to shield his eyes against the last polished rays of opal sunlight that haloed the western horizon. His pug nose wrinkled. “Grandfather, Harrier is coming up the trail, and he has two strangers with him.”
Oxbalm swiveled to look over his shoulder. The newcomers were a full hand shorter than Harrier and wore a slightly different cut of hunting shirt, the kind that Oxbalm normally associated with the Marsh Peoples to the east. The shorter and older of the strangers looked to be in his mid-forties and had gray braids and heavy jowls. His flat nose seemed to sit right on top of his thin upper lip. Thick folds of skin hung loosely on his throat. He wore a grimy buckskin shirt and pants and carried a bulky pack over his shoulder. Despite the pack’s weight, he walked naturally, as if born to the burden. A Trader? The second stranger was taller than the first, and maybe ten summers younger than his companion. He’d knotted his hair into a black bun at the base of his skull. A thin band of red beads encircled his collar, but the rest of his elk hide clothing was plain. No fringes, no quill work Unease, even reluctance, marked the younger man’s walk and posture.
The older man’s eyes scanned the village with the care of a hunting saber-toothed cat. Not the sort of manner a Trader generally brought to a new village. No, this was something different—and too many things were already different as it was.
Trouble! the voice in Oxbalm’s head said.
Oxbalm stood. Harrier lifted a hand to him as they came up the trail, and Oxbalm nodded courteously in response, despite
feeling no joy at the sight of Harrier. The youth had been coldly polite for days, coming into camp every morning to ask what news Oxbalm had received. A hot tightness tickled the back of Oxbalm’s throat, as though his body fought to tell him something that he didn’t want to hear.
Sumac whispered, “It’s them, Oxbalm.”
“Who?”
“That crazy Trader and his brother. The men hunting the woman with the newborn baby.”
Dizzy Seal got to his feet, while Horseweed moved his atlatl to his side with such stealth that the movement appeared to have been accomplished through sleight of hand. Balsam had rocked to his knees, tensed as if to spring.
Oxbalm glanced down at Sumac. “What makes you think it’s them?”