Catchstraw trotted out onto the sandy shore and headed north. He couldn’t let the villagers see him. The slightest glimpse of a dire wolf would rouse the entire community, and every able-bodied warrior would grab his atlatl to hunt him down.
Catchstraw leaped a wind-smoothed rock and ran into the trees, where he found a game trail. Lavender light scattered his path in irregular patches. Despite his exhaustion, he had begun to feel better, stronger. Part of it could be attributed to his continuing euphoria from the Spirit Plants. The sight of Sunchaser lying on that travois, bleeding and half-dead, had sent Catchstraw’s soul soaring.
Satisfaction filled him, bubbling within like a fermented berry drink. He would find a place to hide—perhaps even the obscure rock shelter where he had first scented Sunchaser and Kestrel—and he would Heal himself. The blood of Dire Wolf carried more Power than human blood did. In this muscular body, Catchstraw’s wounds would mend faster.
Then he would return to Otter Clan Village and take up his place as the rightful chief. He would be required to kill Oxbalm, but that would be a small task. The old man was as brittle as a dry stick. Once Catchstraw had become chief, he would intimidate the nearby villages into joining him, and together they would wage war on the Desert People, cutting off the trade routes and intercepting any rare goods that came through. The wealth and Power gained from that triumph would establish his prestige. As the generations passed, his name would be Sung, echoing clear to the Land of the Dead, where the ghosts would hear… and hear…
Catchstraw! Catchstraw! Catchstraw! Catchstraw! The legends of men and Gods would never forget! And perhaps, with his Power as a witch, he could live forever!
Catchstraw halted and pricked his ears. Was that Singing? Where could it be coming from? And such a deep, beautiful voice! He couldn’t understand any of the words—it was as though they were spoken in a foreign tongue—but the notes seemed to breathe from everywhere, from the surf, the wind, the chirping of the birds. The hair on his back stood straight up in a black ridge. A low growl involuntarily rumbled in his throat.
He lifted his long nose and sniffed, cataloging the rich scents of salt, fish and fir needles that saturated the air. Beneath the heavier fragrances, he identified the odors of fox and mammoth. His nostrils flared wider when he caught the faint musk of a big animal, a predator. The scent of blood drifted with the musk. It was from an old kill, so dry that he could barely detect it.
The Singing grew louder.
Fear raced through Catchstraw’s veins in a stinging wash. He held his breath to listen. He could sense his stalker’s approach, though he heard nothing but that magnificent Singing! Any earthly creature would have been snapping the twigs that lay in clumps along the trail, or frightening the small squirrels and chipmunks that chattered in the trees and brush. This predator moved through the woods like an ethereal wisp of mist. Nothing seemed startled by its passage. Nuthatches hopped up and down the fir trunks, hunting insects, while a cottontail sat placidly eating grass.
Irrationally, Catchstraw leaped forward and raced up the trail. He spooked a flock of ravens feeding on an ancient deer carcass, but he barely slowed. He vaulted over a fallen log and bounded off the trail through a tangle of underbrush. Thorns raked at his thick fur, while willow limbs slapped him in the face. He kept on running.
As he broke out into a crowded copse of newly leafed-out aspens, he noticed that the ravens soared through the trees at his sides, cawing to each other, following him. He saw the evil glints in their black eyes. Two of the birds had soared high into the sky. They were tiny black dots against the brilliant gold of the birthing day. The birds flapped and screeched as they circled his location.
What were they doing? Spying on him?
Catchstraw barked and snapped threateningly at the ravens when they sailed close enough, but they merely tipped their midnight wings and veered away, only to return.
Finding a game trail that skirted the very edge of the sea cliffs where the indigo shadows still lived, he stopped again
to listen. His panting breath fogged in the cold morning air. Frozen puffs hung before his eyes. The ravens swooped down on the rocks to watch him. They thocked knowingly to each other.
Catchstraw sniffed for scent again and bent an ear backward. The traitorous wind had shifted, sweeping his own distinct wolf odor down his back trail
To his amazement, the ravens lifted their heads, ruffled their wings and one by one, piped out a single note. But when woven together, their calls created a rhapsody so enchanting, so glorious, that it held Catchstraw entranced. Only when he realized that their notes repeated the melody of the faint Song that continued to ride the wind did panic grip him.