And Condors Danced

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  When Nellie came down the path, Aunt M. was out in the garden bothering Woo Ying while he planted the spring flowers, and she only waved to Nellie and told her to go on in. And as soon as Nellie had hugged and kissed Carly, she led her into the parlor and sat down beside her on the love seat.

  “Carly,” she said, reaching out to hold Carly’s hands, “we’re all worried about you. Aunt M., Woo Ying, myself, Father—everyone is very concerned.”

  “About me? Why?” Carly said.

  “Because you’re just not our Carly anymore.” Nellie’s blue eyes were smiling, but it was easy to see the worried pain behind the smile. Nellie had had enough pain. Carly wasn’t going to add to it by telling her the awful, unbearable truth.

  “I am,” she said, trying to return Nellie’s smile. “I’m fine, really I am.”

  Nellie shook her head. “I know how hard these last few months have been for you. For all of us. But you’re so young and you’ve always had so much—so much—life and joy and—Hartwick spirit, as Aunt M. calls it. And now it’s all dimmed and pale. What is it?”

  “No,” Carly said stubbornly. “It’s nothing.”

  And then Nellie got mad. “Carly Hartwick! If you’re just feeling sorry for yourself—making up games about your great tragedies—when we’ve all, the whole family has been through so much—I’m going to—I’m just going to…” She reached out and took Carly by the shoulders and shook her, and Carly opened her mouth and wailed and let the secret be shaken out in a great howling rush.

  “I didn’t cry,” she wailed. “I didn’t cry when Mama died.”

  Nellie’s anger was gone in a second. “Oh, baby. Of course you did. We cried and cried together. In my room. Remember?”

  “No. No. That was later. And that was for you. I was crying for you because I saw how you felt. But I didn’t cry before, when they first told me about Mama.”

  Nellie put her arms around Carly and rocked her the way she’d done that day in her room. “People don’t always cry when someone dear to them dies. Sometimes there is grief too great for tears. Or sometimes they can only cry much later. Sometimes people feel too much to cry.”

  Carly shook her head. “No. Not too much. I felt something—sad—sad for Mama—and for you—and Father, and for myself, too, I guess, but it wasn’t like…” She couldn’t bear to go on.

  “Like you felt when Tiger died?”

  Carly hung her head. “I howled,” she said. “Or something howled. It was as if I wasn’t there anymore. Nothing was there except the…pain and that terrible noise.”

  “I know,” Nellie said, “I know, baby.”

  She raised her head then and looked straight at Nellie and said, “And when my own mother died I didn’t even cry.”

  Nellie returned her stare for a moment and then shut her eyes and bit her lip and rocked herself to and fro. Suddenly she jumped up and began to walk around the room. For a long time she walked back and forth, shaking her head and frowning, and then she came back and sat beside Carly again. She looked angry.

  “No,” she said. “Not your own mother. Anna Hartwick was not your mother, Carly. Oh, I don’t mean she didn’t give birth to you, because she did, but your mother was Aunt M. And Woo Ying. Woo Ying is much much more your mother than Mama ever was.”

  “Woo Ying?” Carly couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Woo Ying’s being anybody’s mother.

  “Yes. It was Aunt M. and Woo Ying who gave you the kind of love and care that babies need.”

  “But I loved Mama. I really did.”

  “Of course you did. But not as if she’d really been a mother to you.”

  Carly nodded. She looked at Nellie’s bright blue eyes and remembered how they had looked on the day Mama died. “But she was a mother to you, and to Charles and Arthur and Lila?” She didn’t mean it to be a question, but it almost was.

  “Yes. When we were little. Mama was good with little babies, I think. At least until Petey died. And then—well, after that I guess things became reversed. After that it was as if I were the mother and she became my child.”

  “Oh, Nellie,” Carly said. She was thinking that when Mama died Nellie had lost both her mother and her child. Carly threw her arms around her sister and began to cry.

  Carly and Nellie were still sitting on the love seat and crying, with their arms around each other, when a voice said, “Well, if this isn’t a dreary scene. If you two young ladies intend to keep this up, you can just come on out in the kitchen where the furniture is waterproof.” Aunt M. had her hands on her hips and she was frowning.

  Nellie jumped up and said, “Aunt M. I—” But before she got any farther Aunt M. had marched out of the room.

  “Oh, dear,” Nellie said. “I’m afraid she’s dreadfully angry. She asked me to come down and try to cheer you up. And it must have looked like all I did was upset you even more. I’d best go talk to her.”

  Wiping her eyes and gulping, Carly said, “No. I’ll talk to her. It’ll be all right. You know how Aunt M. is.”

  “Yes, I guess I do know,” Nellie said. “And I’m sure you can make her understand. So I guess I’ll be getting on into town before the Emporium closes.”

  She got out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes and then kissed Carly and hugged her and hurried toward the front door. But in the hall she stopped suddenly and came back.

  “I haven’t just upset you more, have I?” Nellie’s freckled forehead was crinkled with worry. “Telling someone that their mother never really loved them is a terrible way to try to cheer them up. Sometimes I think I always say and do the wrong thing.”

  “Nellie Hartwick!” Carly said. “You stop that this minute. Stop being such a worry-wart. You did too cheer me up. I promise you did.”

  And it was true too. Standing by the window and watching Nellie as she hurried down the garden path, Carly felt sure something was better, and she also felt sure she would understand just what it was as soon as she’d had time to think about it.

  At the gate Nellie turned and looked back toward the house, and as she stood there with one hand on the gate and with the bright sunshine making a gleaming halo of her flyaway red hair, she suddenly looked so beautiful that Carly caught her breath in surprise. She’d never thought of Nellie as beautiful before. Lila, yes, but not Nellie. But now suddenly it seemed to Carly that Nellie’s bright stormy beauty was much more exciting than Lila’s, even if Nellie would never look like a pale polished cameo in the moonlight.

  In the kitchen Aunt M. was making tea, still frowning. “What in God’s name was going on in there? What did Nellie say to upset you like that?”

  “It wasn’t what she said that made me cry,” Carly said. And then she began to tell Aunt M. all about the conversation with Nellie. Her own confession was easier the second time, and she didn’t hang her head as she told Aunt M. about how she’d hated herself for her terrible heartlessness.

  All the time Carly was talking, Aunt M. stood perfectly still with the teapot in her hand while the kettle boiled and steamed away on the range. But when it was all told she made a harrumphing sound and nodded her head sharply.

  “Heartlessness! Now that’s the silliest thing I ever heard of. There never has been a child with a heart any bigger than yours, Carly Hartwick, and there never will be. Now, what I call heartless is a woman who would hold her own grief and disappointment against a helpless baby. She never wanted you, Carly. She didn’t want to get over Petey’s death. And when your father and Doctor Dodge, too, told her that a new baby would cure her grief she just set herself to prove them wrong. And…well, there, I’ve said enough. Too much, probably,” and Aunt M. clamped her lips together and went to get the kettle off the stove.

  She kept her lips clamped like that while she poured the tea water and got out some sugar biscuits, but as she sat down at the table she sighed deeply and said, “Poor child! Poor overburdened, put-upon child!”

  “Overburdened,” Carly said, eagerly. “That’s what’s been wrong with
me. I’ve been feeling—”

  “I didn’t mean you, you silly goose,” Aunt M. said. “You’re not in the least overburdened, and never have been. And if you’re planning to start being dramatic about how your mother never loved you, you can just stop it right now, because plenty of other people loved you from the very start. I was talking about your poor sister. Well, well. I’ve a notion that Nellie’s talk with you may do her as much good as it did you. Seems to me she faced up to some things she should have seen for what they were years ago.”

  Carly sat down at the kitchen table and began to poke some biscuit crumbs around with one finger. Being called a silly goose when she’d just made such a difficult confession didn’t seem fair. Looking up at Aunt M. from under angry eyebrows, she decided to get even.

  “Nellie said that Woo Ying is my mother most of all. More than anybody else—my mother is Woo Ying.”

  “And so he is,” Aunt M. said. “Would you like a cup of tea, dear, or do you just plan to sit there and pout?”

  Chapter 36

  WHAT NEILIE HAD said about Mama was on Carly’s mind all the rest of that day and now and then on the next, even during school. On two different occasions she had to ask Mr. Alderson to repeat a question because she hadn’t been listening. After the second time he made some pointed comments about springtime “daydreamers,” and during recess Mavis said that Carly was acting awfully peculiar, almost as if she were in love, or something.

  She was still trying to sort it out when Matt asked again if she wanted to go looking for condors. It was on the Friday before the spring holidays and she was waiting for Lila in front of the school, just as she’d been the last time he’d asked, and actually she started the conversation herself. But only because she had something for Rosemary.

  “Matt,” she called, “wait a minute.”

  Matt pulled up so quickly that Rosemary bunched her neat little hooves and skidded on the gravelly road. “What d’you want?” Matt said.

  Carly was fishing around in her lunch pail. “I have something for Rosemary. I saved her my apple core.”

  While Rosemary munched the apple core, Carly noticed that Matt was frowning at her in a thoughtful way as if he were trying to decide something. And sure enough, a moment later he said, “I—I don’t suppose you’d be wanting to look for condors again? During spring vacation, I mean?”

  Carly was surprised. Matt hadn’t said much of anything to her since she’d turned him down so fiercely the last time he’d asked if she wanted to go exploring. Afterward she’d been sorry about yelling at him, but she hadn’t wanted to explain why she’d done it, or even known how to, so she didn’t say anything at all.

  But she didn’t want to hurt his feelings again, even though the thought of starting out on another exploring trip brought back memories—memories of the day when she and Tiger started out together and she’d been so sure they were going to see the condors. So all she said was “I don’t know. I’ll be at Greenwood most of the time. I’d have to ask Aunt M.”

  Matt looked pleased. Carly didn’t mention that Aunt M. would almost certainly say no.

  But Aunt M. said yes. Carly was amazed. “He wants to go up to the spring,” she said. “Carlton Spring. It’s quite a long way.”

  “Condor Spring,” Aunt M. said. “And I know how far it is. Edward and I rode up there many times.”

  “I didn’t know you called it Condor Spring.”

  Aunt M. smiled. “All us old-timers call it that,” she said. “Yes, I think you should go. Just be sure to tell Dan Kelly what trail you’ll be taking and how long you’ll be gone.”

  So Carly and Matt left Grizzly Flats at midmorning of a warm spring day on their way to Condor Spring. Carly had ridden Chloe as far as the Kelly ranch and stopped in for a while for a visit with Dan and Maggie. While Matt unsaddled Chloe and put her in the barn, and got the donkeys ready to go, Carly drank milk and ate gingerbread in Maggie’s kitchen and listened to Dan tell about his last trip into the mountains. It was cozy and comfortable in the kitchen, and Carly found herself in no hurry to leave. Matt was fretting, saying they’d not have any chance at all to see the condors dancing if they didn’t get going, but Carly stayed where she was—until Dan took Matt’s side.

  “Well, then, off with ye,” Dan said, pushing back his chair and going to the door. “Time’s a-flying and ’tis a longish way you have to go.”

  Dan, too, Carly thought. It seemed odd that first Aunt M. and now the Kellys should be so determined to make her go to the spring. Not that she didn’t want to. It was just…With the thought still unfinished Carly let Dan boost her up on Rosemary—Matt had insisted that she should ride Rosemary, although, strictly speaking, it wasn’t her turn—and they were off.

  It was a beautiful day. The world was green with spring except where lupines and California poppies turned whole hillsides purple and orange. In the shady depths of the canyons large ferns lifted their graceful fronds beside rainwater streams that still trickled down to the valley below.

  But Carly’s mood didn’t match the day. She was trying hard to act normal, and when Matt pointed out things like the wildflowers or raccoon tracks or jackrabbits, she made an effort to be interested, but he seemed to know there was something wrong. He asked her once if she was mad at him and she said, “No, silly. Why should I be mad at you?”

  It was the truth too. She wasn’t angry, or sad, or even scared, really. It was just that she found it hard to believe that anything good was going to happen.

  The sun was almost directly overhead when the donkeys slid down the last incline to where, under the sheltering shade of oaks and cottonwoods, the clear spring water filled the shallow pool. But nothing stirred and there was no sound except for the trickle of water and the faint whisper of the breeze among the branches.

  “Nothing there yet,” Matt said. “Come on.” He kicked Barney in the ribs and the old donkey headed for the pool at a trot.

  The NO TRESPASSING sign was still there, its message blurred by knife scratches, and nothing remained of the dead condor. But at one edge of the pool the damp earth was crisscrossed by blurred indentations, and floating near the bank was an enormous black feather.

  “See,” Matt said excitedly. “They’ve been here. Not long ago, I betcha.”

  Carly nodded. “I know,” she said, and for a moment hope flared. Maybe, just maybe, something wonderful would happen after all.

  While Matt led the donkeys downstream to a little meadow and hobbled them, Carly picked out a good lookout spot behind a tall stand of ferns, and when Matt returned they settled down to watch and wait. They ate their picnic lunch and watched some more, and then they played mumblety-peg with Man’s pocket knife. After that they caught frogs and raced them by putting them in the middle of a circle to see whose frog would be first to reach the edge. When the frogs escaped, they built bark boats and floated them on the pool.

  Even without condors it should have been a good day. And it was, too, except that…except that the strange, uneasy feeling was still there, like a dark cloud that would never quite go away. And no condors swooped in to land beside the pool with a great rush of wind and whisper of gigantic feathers. At last, when the sun had begun to sink behind the high ridge to the west, Matt said, “Well, I reckon they’re not going to come,” and Carly agreed with him, thinking to herself that she’d never really believed that they would. But all she said was “I guess not. Let’s go get the donkeys.”

  The donkeys had moved downstream following the deeper grass that grew beside the water, and when Matt and Carly found them they were grazing happily in the deep shade of the valley floor. Matt was down on his knees removing Rosemary’s hobbles when, for no particular reason, Carly glanced up at the sky—and there they were.

  Just above the deeply shadowed canyon three huge birds seemed to be floating eastward on shafts of sunlight. “Look! Look, Matt!” Carly gasped and sank down into the tall grass. Still on his knees, Matt tipped his head backward and his mouth fell
open. “Lordy.” He gasped. “Condors.”

  The air was clear and reddish-gold and the condors seemed, not near, but magnified by the brilliant light. Flying in against the sun, the huge black birds were haloed with sunset. Triangles of white beneath their wings gleamed like snow, and long fringes of finger feathers tilted from shiny black to mirrored gold. Sweeping down over the spot where Carly lay in the deep shadow, the first condor tipped into a sweeping turn, soared over the second bird, under the third, and turned to pass them again and again. For an immeasurable length of time the three condors rode the air currents with effortless grace, soaring and turning and soaring again in an intricate pattern of movement like winged dancers in an airborne minuet.

  When the gigantic birds finally drifted westward and disappeared over the crest of the hills, Carly stayed where she was, staring up into the sunlit distance. She didn’t want it to end—the beauty and high excitement and the brief escape into a far bright freedom. Slowly and reluctantly she came back to the coolness of the grass, the munching of the grazing donkeys, and the shadows of the valley floor.

  “Carly”—Matt’s voice was questioning, worried—“we’d best be going. It’s getting late. Are you all right?”

  Carly sat up, smiling. “Yes,” she said. “I’m all right. Let’s go.”

  They didn’t talk much on the way home, and what they did say was about other things, ordinary things like the history test that Mr. Alderson had scheduled for right after the end of vacation. But when they were back at Grizzly Flats and Carly was up on Chloe, getting ready to leave, Matt said, “Well, it was a good day?” and made it into a question.

  Carly nodded. “A good day,” she said with certainty.

  “Even if we didn’t see them dancing?”

  “Next time,” she said. “Next time for sure.”

  “Well, maybe not for sure. You can’t count on what condors will do.”

  Carly tugged on the reins and whirled Chloe into a trot. “Yes, I can, Matt Kelly,” she called back over her shoulder. “I can count on condors if I want to.”