Ivory and Bone (3 page)

Maybe the thought of hunting mammoths sickens you the
way it does me. Maybe that’s the cause of your sullen silence. I doubt this is true, but I try to convince myself that it might be. More likely, there is a boy waiting for you in your southern camp and your head and heart are with him instead of with us. Or maybe you are thinking about what took place five years ago, the events that almost led our two clans to war. Perhaps you are reluctant to follow
an armed enemy onto unfamiliar ground.

If I let myself think about it hard enough, I’d probably be reluctant, too.

Once we cross the open grass, I lead the group to a path that rises through the rocky foothills of the mountains that form the eastern boundary of our hunting range. Within these hills are tucked hidden plains and alpine fields where this particular herd of mammoths often chooses
to graze, out of the open. As we walk, the grass gives way to gravel, and the grade becomes steeper as we slowly climb. At intervals, the path narrows. Rough boulders encroach from either side. By necessity, our party is forced to travel in single file.

I look back once to make sure we are all together before we navigate the final set of turns. It’s then that I see you, just a few paces behind
me. I’m startled to find you there. My brother and your sister have dropped back, and I suppose you ended up in front by default. I’m certain my face gives
away my surprise at finding you so close.

Your gaze is unflinching. It has weight. Part of me wants to shrug it off; part of me wants to hold very still so it doesn’t slip away from me.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing.” Your eyes are heavy-lidded,
but I know not to be fooled—you are not tiring. A spark glows in your dark eyes. They are at once impossibly dark and impossibly bright, alive with activity, as if a million thoughts churn behind them. I imagine a honeybee—the way it zips from bloom to bloom. That is how I imagine your thoughts moving behind those heavy-lidded eyes.

My own eyes move to the rocks at my feet. “We’re almost there.
I wanted to let you know. The path gets a bit rough here. You should watch your step.”

Thankfully, we are indeed almost there, and as we navigate the final bend toward the south, the scene that opens up in front of us is enough to distract from the stiffness of the previous moment. The path widens and turns at the head of a broad mountain meadow blanketed by wildflowers and tall grass, irrigated
by twin rivulets of meltwater that run down from the ice to the north and the snowcaps that crown the peaks farther east. The two streams merge about midway across the meadow, creating a deep, still pool. Around that pool stands a family of six mammoths, their light brown fur glowing almost red under the bright sun.

I stop and let everyone catch up. The herd is downwind from us, so I worry they
will soon know we’re here. I usher everyone to a space behind a large outcropping that acts as a natural windbreak.

My father steps up beside me, and it’s clear that from here on, he is taking lead on this hunt. It doesn’t wound my pride to yield to him. It’s customary for the most experienced hunter to take the lead, and in our clan, that’s always my father. He pats me on the shoulder, and I
take my place a half step behind him on his right.

My father crouches, and we all follow his cue. Bent close to the ground, we move through the shadows that obscure the eastern edge of the meadow. The sun beats bright against the low rocky wall to the west, but while the sun rises, the brush that grows along the gravel track to the east is still covered in cool morning shade. Out in the open,
gusts of breeze flatten the tall grass, but in the shelter of the ledges, the air hardly stirs.

We move in silence. The mammoths do not appear wary—perhaps the wind didn’t carry our scent to them after all. When we have come up alongside them on the edge of the meadow, my father squats down, but he signals for us to continue on beyond the herd. An animal with the speed of a mammoth cannot be
run down—it has to run to you. My father will get them moving. The rest of us will be ready to cut them off.

Now they are extremely close, maybe just fifty paces away. I can hear the water splash from their trunks and see it spray across their backs.

Stay in the present
, I tell myself.
Let the past go
.

My father raises his spear, and we all turn our eyes toward him. Then he stands and his arm
comes down swiftly, signaling that the hunt is on. He plunges forward, racing across the meadow as fast as his feet will move.

The herd sees him, and like one body, they turn and run toward the south, toward the wide edge of the meadow that descends into a river valley. Once they are in motion the rest of us emerge, cutting across the open to intercept them. Maybe it’s because you and your brother
and sister are here, maybe it’s because I have something to prove to myself and to Pek, but I run faster than I’ve ever run. The wind is at my back. I imagine it sweeping away the memories that haunt me. I outrun your sister; I outrun Pek. Only your brother, Chev, is ahead of me. My legs pump, my heels dig, and finally, I am moving stride for stride with Chev. I exchange a glance with him before
pulling ahead. Twenty paces more and I will intercept the mammoth at the front of the herd.

I close my mind, raise my arm, and ready my spear. I tune to the rhythm of the mammoth’s steps. The ground shakes like the skin of a giant drum.
Boom . . . boom . . . boom . . .
I feel the percussion of his pace roll through me with each step. When I know I can run no closer without
risking being trampled,
I let the spear fly.

But my angle is too wide. The razor-sharp point of my spear grazes across a thick mat of hair on the animal’s side and falls away.

I slow my steps—I need to retrieve my spear from where it fell. I turn, ready to dodge out of the way of the others in the hunting party, to yield my position to Pek or to your sister or brother, but instead I find that you have all dropped back
far behind. You are running hard with your spears ready, but you are not chasing the mammoths.

You are chasing the thing that is chasing me.

I
n the space between us, a saber-toothed cat runs hard, his huge claws tearing at the ground. His head is lowered, but I don’t need to see his eyes to know he is coming for me.

Glancing right, I spot my spear in the tall grass. Retrieving it means running back a few paces in the direction of the cat, and my thoughts crash together as my feet crash over the ground. My hand grasps the spear;
he is still a distance away but closing fast. I don’t dare take the time to raise my eyes to see if any of you are close enough to take the shot.

Inwardly, I call on the Divine to help me. My thoughts go to my mother; I think of all the times she counseled me to ask the Divine for help in the hunt, and all the times I’ve ignored her counsel.

Yet even if all the power of the Divine were suddenly
supporting my every move, I doubt that I could bring down this cat with one hurried shot. Only the perfect strike will
stop him, and I know I will need stealth and surprise to make that strike. I am almost certainly doomed to miss from my current position, and he would be on me in moments.

I cannot stand my ground. My only choice is to run.

Before the thought has fully formed in my mind I am
flying over the grass, back toward the shade of the ridge. As I reach the trail, I spot a narrow track up out of the valley into the foothills, and I head for it with all the speed the Divine will grant me.

Jagged rocks and sharply angled boulders form the floor of the path, but I move over them with surprising ease. Apparently fear reveals a grace and poise in my movements that have never manifested
before. In just moments, I reach the top of a rise where the path turns right and heads more steeply up the rough wall of rock. I allow myself the luxury of one quick glance over my shoulder and gasp.

Nothing is behind me on the path—neither cat nor human.

The temptation to hesitate lasts no longer than a heartbeat. The crack of rock falling on rock comes from my left and I spin around, my spear
ready, but still, I see no one . . . nothing.

Spooked, I turn slowly in place. My own feet send a few pebbles sliding downhill. Wind whistles past my ears. Otherwise, there is only silence.

Despite the urge to retrace my steps, to slide slowly down
the path the way I came in hopes that the cat chose not to pursue me, I know I need to keep climbing. Cats, after all, are not restricted to paths.
He could be overhead, I realize, as I raise my spear again and rake my eyes over the rock ledges above me. I navigate a tight turn that takes me out of sight of the valley below and wait, listening.

The faint sound of a skittering pebble reaches my ears from a spot on the trail just below the place where I stand. Then another . . .

Then another.

Steady steps are advancing toward me.

I squat
against the rock wall, planting my feet wide so I won’t lose my balance. I roll the shaft of my spear in my hand until it feels just right—or at least as right as it could ever feel in my damp and shaking hand—and rest it lightly on my shoulder. Unblinking, I stare at the spot on the trail where the cat will appear as he rounds the turn.

One more moment . . . One more moment . . .

A shadow breaks
across my line of sight, and I spring to my feet and raise my spear. Energy ripples from my shoulder to my fingers as my whole body flinches forward, every muscle tensed.

But it’s not the cat.

It’s you.

In the smallest fraction of time—less than the time it takes an echo to fade or a snowflake to melt—your hand is
over your shoulder and your spear is flying over my head. I duck, though your
throw is more than high enough and your aim is true to its target.

I spin around in time to see the cat crouched on a crag of rock directly above me, the spear buried deep in his chest. He opens his jaws in a final growl and his teeth flash, a row of perfect razors behind daggerlike incisors, but no sound comes. Instead, in one silent motion, he rolls onto his side and falls to the ground at
my feet.

I drop to my knees. A thick red stream runs from the hole in the cat’s chest down the path toward your feet. My eyes follow it to the spot where it skirts around the tips of your sealskin boots.

Along with the pelt, this spear will be your trophy for saving my life. Grabbing it with both hands, I pull it from the cat’s body and a rush of blood and fluid pours from the wound. I straighten
to my feet, but a sudden dizziness overwhelms me. Keeping my attention fixed to the ground, I try my best to stop my hands from shaking. After a few long moments, I feel composed enough to hold out the spear to you. “With my thanks,” I say, my eyes still locked on your boots.

Moments pass, and yet you don’t move. I stand with my arm extended, but you do not claim your spear. At last, the peace
of the moment is broken by the sound of feet hurrying up the path below. I raise my head and meet your gaze.

What I see there is easy to understand, but difficult to accept. Though you saved me, I can see that it wasn’t an act of graciousness toward a peer, like bending to lift a friend who has stumbled, but an act of benevolence toward a fool, like snatching up a reckless child who has tumbled
into deep water.

Disdain, sharp and clear, flows from your eyes to mine.

And I know at that moment . . . I will never have your friendship. I will never have your respect. If there was ever a chance for friendship, for trust, that chance was forever lost the moment I raised my spear as if to strike you.

I know that I would never have let the spear go, would never have let it leave my hand until
my target was in sight. I know this, but you don’t. And though some would assume the best, you choose to assume the worst. You choose to condemn me for a flinch.

All this passes between us as I stand holding out your spear as if pleading with you to accept some exotic gift or enter into an agreement whose terms you find unfavorable. You stare me down, silently refusing to accept. Finally, voices
rise from the path just beyond our view, calling our names.

“We’re here,” you say. You jerk the spear from my outstretched hand while simultaneously looking away, making clear that no gift is accepted, no terms agreed to.

Pek is the first to make the turn and take in the scene. Seeri comes up behind him quickly. They both run their eyes from the cat to the pool of blood to the spear, glistening
red in your hands.

“Well done,” says Pek, his voice a low whisper.

“Simple necessity,” you say. “Kill or be killed.” Our eyes meet, and I see that you intend to leave it at that. My shame is sufficient enough if you alone know the mistake I almost made.

Your lips press together and a momentary softness reaches your eyes, a hint of some past version of you who might have been able to forgive.
But then you throw your arms around your sister and whisper something into her ear and I feel the gulf open between us again.

As you and your sister drift back down the trail, leaving Pek and me behind, anger drains from me and the void it leaves quickly fills with fatigue.

“Father, Chev, and Mya all pursued the cat, each taking a different path into the hills. Seeri and I stayed on the mammoths,
and together we brought one down. Seeri landed the first strike.” He pauses and licks his upper lip, as if the memory is something he can taste. “These girls . . .” The wind reddens Pek’s cheeks and sends tears running down his face, but his smile does not dim. “These girls are going to change our lives.”

I look away as he says these last words, as he declares this bold prediction. I don’t want
him to read the worry in my eyes—the fear I feel of how my life may have already changed.

T
he dead cat looks small, lying motionless at my feet. It’s strange how living things seem to shrink when the life is drained from them. Still, it won’t be easy to carry. It probably weighs as much as me and Pek combined, but together we manage to lift it. My hands wrap around its shoulders and I notice the bristly texture of the fur at the base of its neck and the thick cords of sinew
under its skin. I notice the chill rapidly chasing away its warmth.

This is what fresh death feels like.

Once we’ve joined the rest of you in the valley, we sidestep the dead mammoth and drop the cat at your feet. Again, I thank you for what you did. The sight of the cat and the blood-soaked spear in your hand starts everyone talking. I can’t blame them—it’s stunning. Still, I listen carefully
and note that you never acknowledge my thanks.

I volunteer to run back to camp to bring the butchers.
The rest of the hunting party stands guard at the kill, protecting our food from scavengers. Where there is one saber-toothed, there is likely a pack of dire wolves nearby, or maybe even another cat.

I decide against going the way we came, but instead head south into the valley below us, running
for a while along the river before breaking west toward home. Along the way I keep my eyes open, but I never see the other five mammoths. Will they move north, as other mammoth herds have, staying close to the Great Ice as it draws away from the sea?

I run the whole way, my feet splashing in puddles that dot the ground where winter ice has melted, the early summer wind chilling my ears and my
nose. When I reach camp, I head straight to the kitchen, a long tent at the western edge of our close circle of hide-covered huts. Inside I find my mother sitting on the ground, working alongside her siblings and cousins. My mother has always been thin—strong in the way vines are strong—while her face, in contrast, has stayed full and rounded like a young girl’s. But today, in the speckled light
of the kitchen, her usually soft-edged face appears gaunt.

“Kol!” She drops the fist-shaped stone she uses to grind greens and roots in a bowl made of the hollowed-out skull of a bison. A smooth, flat rock lies in the hearth surrounded by burning coals, the remnants of a fire. The kitchen assaults my
senses: my nostrils fill with the oily scent of cooking fish, and the tips of my ears sting as
they thaw in the sudden warmth. “What news do you have?” My mother studies my face. Hope is trying to creep into her eyes, but wariness crowds it out.

“The hunt is a success,” I say, and her stiff lips twist into a smile.

The kitchen tent is crowded—all available hands have been called in to help prepare what is usually a simple midday meal cooked by two or three people. As soon as the words
have left my lips a cheer ripples through the room. At the back of the tent a flap in the wall has been opened to allow a second hearth to vent. Two figures bolt to their feet when I mention the kill. Though they are mere silhouettes against the light pouring through the open vent, I recognize my younger brothers before they even move.

“We’ve brought down a mammoth. The butchers are needed. But
they must come quick. A cat was also killed as it stalked the same prey. Only I left the kill to bring the news; all the others stayed to keep watch.”

My mother regards me closely. I know the questions she wants to ask—
Who brought down the mammoth? Who slayed the cat?
But she doesn’t dare ask here. If the answers do not give credit to her sons, she doesn’t want the others of the clan to hear.
At least not yet.

“You need butchers?” My youngest brother, twelve-year-old Roon, rough-hewn and awkward like an unfinished
stone tool, moves toward the front of the kitchen, clambering over seated figures. Kesh, lean and lanky at fifteen, follows right behind. “We’ll come—”

“We have butchers,” my mother says, as Ness, Mol, and Svana climb stiffly to their feet from the dimly lit center of the
tent. These three are all siblings—cousins of my father who are experienced and wise with regard to butchering a kill. Still, they don’t move with the energy and speed of my brothers.

“Let them come along, Mother, please. They’ll be needed to help load the meat and pull it back to camp.”

So the six of us go, pulling three empty travoises—overland sleds made of poles of birch and mammoth bone.
I lead the way, enduring my brothers’ relentless questions about you and your sister. “You’ll meet them soon enough,” I say. I step up the pace a bit. I feel an urgency to return to the kill, and I need a break from questions about what happened on the hunt.

When we finally come to the head of the rocky trail, everything I’ve described stretches out before us—the dead mammoth, the cat, my father,
and Pek in the company of three hunters who were all but strangers before today. Kesh and Roon drop the travois they’ve been pulling and race each other across the grass, leaving me and the butchers to bring the three sleds the rest of the way.

The butchers set immediately to work, moving with such
practiced precision they hardly need to speak. One uses an ax to divide the carcass into sections,
separating the limbs from the torso. The other two employ sharp knives that remove meat from bone. The process is like a dance to the three of them—no one calls out the steps; experience has taught them to anticipate each other’s moves. My brothers busy themselves with collecting the cut portions and securing them to the sleds with long cords made from the stalks of fireweed and stinging nettle,
while you, Pek, and Seeri truss up the cat. My father and Chev stand off to the side, speaking in low tones like old friends, only looking up from time to time to call out some instructions.

With so many hands set to the task, I feel unneeded, superfluous. What could I possibly contribute? I would only get in the way. So I let myself wander, roaming to a spot just down the hill, a remote stretch
of tall grass drenched in sunlight. I lie down and close my eyes, focus my ears, try to relax—try to catch that distinct whir of honeybee wings—but my thoughts thrum too loudly in my mind. Voices mix in—Roon’s high buzz overlapping with Kesh’s lower hum. I try to block them out, but it’s useless—the longer they work, the louder they become.

After a while, I stop trying and sit up.

Before me,
the valley the mammoths fled to opens at the bottom of a gentle slope, and from the angle where I sit the wide expanse of undulating meadow gives me the same odd
sensation of movement I feel when I sit at the edge of the bay. The land rolls out from me unbroken, the wind rippling the sea of grass like waves upon the water.

It’s then that I spot you—kneeling in the grass at the base of the hill,
you and your sister Seeri. Are you gathering? Your heads are bent, your focus on the ground. I hurry over to ask if you will need help carrying what you’ve collected. As I approach, I catch the sound of your voices trailing off, words spoken in unison. Seeri gets to her feet, but you remain kneeling in the grass, your head bowed, your fingers tying a cord around your neck. There are no roots or
greens to be gathered up.

When Seeri sees me she flinches briefly, then color blooms in her cheeks. Have I interrupted something private?

“I wanted to see if you needed help. . . . I’m sorry,” I say. Seeri glances at you, but you keep your head bent away from the sound of my voice. The air stretches taut with tension, like the skin of a drum. I continue. “I thought you were gathering. . . .”

Seeri offers a dim, melancholy smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “What we left behind can’t be seen; what we gathered can’t be carried.” She says this without looking directly at me, as if she’s speaking to someone unseen who’s just beyond my shoulder.

I’m not sure what to make of this—is it a quote of some
kind? A few words of a prayer or chant to the Divine? I think of the words I heard you
speak in unison. . . . Before I can ask, Seeri strides away, leaving me alone with you.

I stand there, hovering over the place where you sit, for long enough that I begin to think I will either have to speak or walk away. Thankfully, just at the moment I feel I will need to decide between the two, you silently get to your feet. You shoot me the briefest of glances—not really a
look
, but rather
a means of determining where you
don’t
intend to look—before dropping your eyes to the grass and pinning them there. Your hands move to the pendant that hangs from the cord at your throat, tucking it into the collar of your parka as you step around me.

“Wait,” I say. “I’d like to talk to you. There’s something I need to say.”

You keep moving until your shoulder comes alongside mine.

“Mya, wait.
I owe you an apology.”

You stop. You don’t answer, but you don’t walk away, either, so I take this as a sign that you’re at least willing to listen. I pivot toward you but you won’t even turn your face in my direction—
so stubborn
—so I’m forced to speak to your profile—your shoulder, your sleeve, the ear you’ve tucked your hair behind.

“I know that you’re upset with me about what happened, but
I never would have thrown at you—you were never in
any danger. I wanted to tell you that, and I wanted to ask you to forgive me.” It feels ridiculous to say these words to your left ear. I take a few steps until I’m standing right in front of you. Your head stays lowered, though, leaving me no choice but to speak to the straight line that parts your jet-black hair. “Mya?” The next words are not
easy to say, as if each one is a heavy weight I have to push uphill to reach your ears. Still, I will be the next High Elder, and selflessness and peacemaking are the defining traits of a clan leader. I take a deep breath and continue. “Mya, will you please forgive me?”

You remain silent so long . . . I have the chance to imagine a myriad of possible responses, each one more full of condemnation
than the last. Finally you raise your head. Your eyes sweep over my face as if you are seeing me for the first time. “You don’t know, do you?”

Of all the replies I was anticipating, this question was not among them.

I take this unexpected question and combine it with the cryptic words of your sister—none of it makes sense. My eyes dart from your face to the spot where you and Seeri had knelt
in the grass. My mind races to piece things together, to give shape to this formless confusion. In the end I can only be honest. “I don’t understand.”

You regard me suspiciously, as if you aren’t quite sure that I’m someone you can trust with the truth. “Five years
ago,” you start, “our two clans nearly went to war—”

“Yes, I know. Of course I know—”

“But do you know why?”

Do I? I always thought
that I knew the reason why. I was young when it happened, but as I’ve gotten older somebody must’ve told me. “There was a misunderstanding. . . .” I fumble through my memory. Could it be that I’ve never learned the reason? “Something happened that led to violence—”

“
Something
happened?”

Once again I find myself standing in front of you, grasping vainly for the right words to say. “I’m sorry.
That’s all I know.”

Your eyes narrow; you are assessing me. And it’s clear by your tight lips that the assessment is not favorable.

Maybe you’re right to judge me harshly. Maybe I should know more about the history between our clans.

“Thank you for your apology.”

You walk away, as if there is nothing more to say.