The tribe waits at the mouth of a small cave in the wall. They do not talk. They stare up at a row of little burning stones that count something I cannot count.
A slab slides open. The cave is empty, bright, warm. No fire makes the light. The tribe walks in. I do not. A cave that opens itself is a cave that wants you.
Inside, they stand close, closer than tribe stands, but they look away from each other. Shoulder to shoulder like a hunting line, yet each one hunts nothing, stares at the wall, breathes small. The slab shuts. The cave swallows them whole.
I press my hand to the wall. It hums. The whole thing moves. Not the tribe, the cave, rising, climbing the cliff inside the cliff, carrying them up without one foot lifted. They do not climb. The mountain climbs for them.
The slab opens somewhere new. Different air, different light, same blank faces. They step out unafraid. They have done this many times. They trust the swallowing.
This is a good trap. Warm, patient, dressed as help. It takes the tribe up the cliff so the legs forget how. A creature that carries you is a creature that owns you.
I will take the stone steps.
My legs are mine.