Besides my fire starter, I carry a bit of dry kindling in case I walk into bad weather and everything gets soaked. Still, there are no dark clouds, and if I’m fortunate enough to cover the distance and find your camp’s fires by nightfall, I won’t need to make one of my own. This is the prayer I chant to the Divine, creating a rhythm for my steps as I start on my journey.
I carry my spear in my hand, but slung by a strap across my back I carry another, just in case the first gets lost or broken. I also packed a trio of darts I carved from a shinbone of the mammoth killed on the hunt with your family. I began working the bone when Pek left, and I packed them in hopes the Spirit of that mammoth might protect me. To throw the darts, I brought my atlatl. Lastly, I carry a lightweight flint ax with a wolf-bone handle that I’ve learned to throw with fairly good accuracy. Only Pek throws better, something he never tired of showing off. I think of all the times I wished he would stop, and how happy I’ll be the next time he shows up one of my throws.
In my belt I carry my favorite knife, the same one that cut the ropes that held Pek underwater. This knife knows my secrets, and just having it at my waist makes me feel less alone.
As the sun rises slowly and reluctantly into the sky, I hike through rolling waves of purple and white flowers that cover huge swaths of the meadow. By the time I climb into the eastern mountains, following the pass that the bison took until they ceased to return, thirst burns in my throat. Still, even in the promising cool shadows of the rocky slopes, I won’t let myself take a drink. I force myself to wait until I hear the music of running water before I slide my waterskin from my shoulder. Perhaps I’m being overly cautious—I feel fairly certain that I’ll always find water in the hills—but this route is new to me. I’ve never traveled to the other side of these mountains, and though I’ve heard stories, I don’t know what conditions I will find.
I follow the alpine trail, widened and worn under the hooves of so many bison, as it winds to my right, turning south, hugging the base of a steep slope of sharply angled rock. High peaks soar overhead, their ice-covered summits casting a deep blue shade across the ground.
Water trickles along gaps in the rock. In the few places touched by sunlight, scrubby shrubs spring from crevices. The highest peaks are still to the south, and wind from the north gusts behind me.
Ahead of me are rows of ridges still to climb.
Eventually, the path widens, and I find myself standing on a high ledge. The valley below is broader than those I’ve passed through so far. A frozen river—a finger of the Great Ice—fills the eastern end of the valley, silvery blue in the sunlight. West of the ice lies a broad, meltwater lake, hemmed in by tall grass. As I descend, the north wind swoops over the frozen summit behind me, pushing hard against my back and prompting me to cover my head with my hood. But as I drop down farther between the ridge walls, the wind calms. Grasses grow across the gravelly slope, joined by scattered shrubs at the base of the hill.
As long as I travel along the valley floor, far below the high walls to the north and south, the air is calm and warm. But once I reach the southern slope and the trail rises toward the next rocky peak, the wind picks up. Shrubs thin to grasses and then yield to barren gravel again as I climb. My ears sting with cold. Looking back toward the north from the crest, gusts of wind stir up swirls of sand and dust at my feet.
From here, the trail turns sharply downhill. A lower, grass-covered ridge blocks my view to the south until the trail bends right and heads lower still, down through a wide gap between squat, rolling hills.
These are the foothills of the southern slopes. The eastern mountains are finally at my back.
I’m amazed by the change in the landscape, as my eyes sweep over slopes protected from the harsh north winds. My father has told me the story of his own trip south many times, but until now, that’s all it was—just a story.
My father has told me how the broad shoulders of the eastern mountains hold back the north wind. He has described how the high peaks shelter the land south of the mountains from the harsh cold carried down from the Great Ice. Still, it never felt real to me until now—now that I stand here at the foot of the southernmost slopes and see the green land that rolls out in front of me. Protected from the north wind’s punishing cold, exposed to the sun’s warmth, the land that opens south of the mountains is remarkably different from the land to their north. All around me, shrubs and thickets blanket the ground. As I descend lower into the valley, trees spring up, growing as high as my shoulder, their trunks as wide as my waist. The sun heats my face with a strength I’ve never felt before.
The farther I walk, the taller the trees around me grow, some rising high above my head. The trail narrows abruptly, cool shade replaces the heat of the sun, and it becomes harder to stay on the path. I notice scents I’ve never smelled before—a surprising mix of growth and decay. Brush encroaches on the path from both sides, and I’m forced to pull my ax from my pack in order to clear a way through. As I go, I catch the sound of waves crashing against the base of a cliff. I know the ground must fall off to the sea to my right, though I cannot see the ledge through the dense trees.
I try to relax, try to remind myself of everything that is going well. The sound tells me I’m not far from shore. Though the tall trees block out the sun, I can determine its place in the sky based on the shadows cast on the ground.
Long fingers of shade stretch toward the east. It’s late in the day. The sun is dipping toward the sea.
Hunger gnaws at me, so I allow myself to pause long enough to rest and to have something to eat. I sit in a clump of soft, thick moss that seems to thrive in the cool shade, covering the ground under the tallest of trees. I’ve never been surrounded by trees so tall they could block the sun, and the strangeness of this place makes me uneasy. I can’t sit long before I’m on my way again.
I don’t travel far before the trail widens and the trees thin. The whispered roar of rushing water announces that I’m approaching another waterway.
When I reach it, I find that it is broad but shallow. Still, the current is swift and I don’t know the riverbed at all—I know better than to try to cross it here. I follow the bank west, hoping to come to the mouth where it empties into the sea. But the sound of the waves has faded; the coastline must have changed.
After following the twists of the stream for a while, the ground becomes damp and marshy, and the forest fades to brush. The sun reaches the top of my head. I stop and squat down a moment to rest and listen.
That’s when I hear it for the first time.
The grass moves as seemingly every living thing around me scatters—rabbits and squirrels race by and birds take flight. Ducking lower, I pick up the murmured rustle of a breeze moving through the brush. But unlike the breeze, it is constant and measured. Without turning around to look, I know I am being stalked.
Still sitting on my heels, I open my pack, draw out a dart tipped with an obsidian point, and load it into the atlatl. I can launch a dart, unlike my spear, without having to stand to my full height. I sink down as low to the wet ground as possible, crouching behind shoots of tall grass. My eyes scan the riverbank. Something moves in the corner of my vision, and I pivot my head.
That’s when I see him. A cat nearly identical to the one you shot on the mammoth hunt. My heart pounds in my temples at the memory of that cat’s claws, digging at the ground as it pursued me. I whisper a prayer and cock my arm back at the elbow. Rising up on one knee to gain a clearer view, I let the dart fly.
It flies true and finds its target, plunging into the cat’s shoulder. But this is one dart, and he is a large cat. I’d hoped the dart would slow him, but instead he lets out a horrifying sound—part growl, part groan—and leaps in my direction.
I know I don’t have time to load a second dart. I spring to my feet, sling my pack onto my back, and crash into the river. The water chills my feet and legs right through the fur and hides of my pants and boots, but I cannot slow my pace. Pressing my weight in
to each step to hold myself against the fierce force of the current, I stride, stride, stride. Each new step threatens to throw me off balance and pull me under, yet each new step puts more distance between me and the cat. Finally—drenched, coated up to my knees in muck, every bone in my body rattling with cold—I reach the far bank. Exhausted from the effort, I drag myself up, clawing at the sand and gravel bank and crawling on my belly until I reach the tall grass and take cover.
My spear still tight in my fist, I allow myself to lift my head. Just ten paces downstream I spot him, immune to the swift current, moving above the water. He walks on a broken tree limb, wedged between jutting rocks on one side and red clay on the other, forming a crude bridge.
In my panic, I’d failed to notice it. But the cat did not.
Now, just one leap away, the cat is coming for me.
NINE
I am out of options. He will be on me before I can make the shot with my spear. In hopes of reaching thicker cover and disappearing from sight, I turn and race toward a line of scrubby brush and stunted trees that rises from the grass just twenty paces away. My heart pounds in my chest like a drum—like the rapid drumbeat used by Urar to denote the heartbeat of the Divine.
Let this be my prayer. . . . Let my pounding, racing heartbeat be my prayer.
I hear him, his feet trampling the same grass as mine, just a moment behind. I watch my own shadow running at my feet, until it is overcome, swallowed up by a larger shadow. Something heavy falls against my back and knocks me to the ground.
I fall . . . roll . . . land on my back in time to see the eyes of the cat as he prepares to pounce. He coils back, thick bands of muscle in his legs twitching with power.
My spear slides in my sweat-drenched hand.
Just as he springs, I pull my spear in front of my chest. As the cat lunges—mouth open, curved teeth aimed at my throat—the spear plunges into his belly. Before the whole of his weight can pin me down, I roll to the side and he falls, bleeding, beside me.
I scramble to my feet and grab the knife from my belt. Remembering the chilling look in the eye of the mammoth I’d killed last year, I lean over and slit the cat’s throat with the blade to bring him a quick death.
A horrid sound—a gurgle of fear and loss—rises from the cat’s open mouth. The sound echoes in my ears and I wonder if I, too, let out a cry. I can’t be sure. I drop to the ground, the blood-covered blade in my blood-covered hand.
As my own fear drains away, pain takes its place. My back throbs in stinging waves as each beat of my heart echoes in the gashes torn open by the cat’s claws.
Fighting to sit up, I shrug off my parka and see that the back is shredded and bloody. I strip out of my wet pants and boots, and I wade back into the creek, staying close to the bank, and ease my wounds into the water. The chill quickly numbs the pain but also brings a rapid ache to my limbs. I can’t stay in the cold water long, so I climb out again, crawling up over silt and sand.
I want to lie down and rest, let my clothes dry, maybe eat something—but I know I have to keep moving. That cat may not be alone. Scavengers, even other predators, are likely nearby. Too weak to get to my feet, I drag my pack and my clothes to the cover of the tree line. I allow myself the time it takes to change into dry pants and boots and do the best I can to apply salve to my wounds. I reach my hand around to my back and try to rub the grease across my cuts, but blood washes it from my fingers and my hand comes away wet and sticky. Still, I have other cuts and scrapes on my arms and chin from my fall, and as I work the salve in, these calm and cool and some of the pain eases. Finally, I pour a few drops of honey onto my tongue before I force myself onto my feet.
I decide against pulling on a clean parka. The cuts across my back still throb with pain, and the thought of a hide pressing against them sends a wave of nausea through me. Instead I stay stripped to the waist, my tattered parka tied above my pants. I sling my pack and the extra spear over my arm to leave the wounds on my back exposed to the warm, dry air.
Standing in the murky shade, I notice for the first time how long the shadows have grown since I first became aware of the cat on the other side of the water. The sun is already low in the sky, its rays fading to pale light.
No wonder I’m hungry. At home, my clan has finished eating the evening meal by now. Seal, most likely. Seal served with arrow grass and nettle gathered in the meadow. Right about now Roon is collecting empty mats and Kesh is playing his flute.
I let my eyes fall closed for just a moment, searching my memory for the sound of that flute. A songbird in the tree above me sends out a tune, startling me out of my reverie.
I climb up out of the valley using the blood-soaked spear as a walking stick. The terrain on this side of the river has turned rocky. The ground rises to a broad ridge, and at the crest I overlook a long stretch of rolling land, dotted with clumps of tall trees of all colors—varieties of trees I’ve never seen before. Some have branches that hang down like the fronds of ferns, glowing pale green in the sharply angled light of evening. Others have leaves shaped like open hands.
My eyes sweep over the sprawling view, taking in tree-covered low hills to the east, and to the west, the sea. Near the sea, from a clearing surrounded by trees tall and thick enough that a canoe could be dug out of a single trunk, a wisp of blue smoke rises into the air, before being scattered by the breeze.
I have reached your camp.
I trudge back to the spot where I’d left the dead cat at the side of the river. I realize I can’t leave the carcass here; it’s too close to your camp to risk attracting other predators. Instead, I search the area for fallen limbs, long and light enough to fashion into a makeshift travois.
After collecting two long poles and a shorter one, I set to lashing them together with the cordage I carry in my pack. Lifting the cat is impossible, so I slide the limbs under him and secure him to the poles. The cat’s blood, thick and slippery, soaks my hands, and I’m forced to return to the river to wash them before I can get on my way.
Before leaving the woods, I drape my tattered parka over my shoulders, tying the sleeves around my neck so I can strap the front ends of the travois poles around my waist. In this fashion—my pack over one shoulder, the cat dragging behind me, my back exposed to the air under the shredded remnants of my coat—I start downhill, my eyes locked on the rising smoke, my mind locked on the warm hearth at its source.
About halfway down the slope the clearing ends and the woods begin again, but at the edge of the trees I discover a worn trail. It’s not wide, but wide enough for me to drag the cat behind me. The closer I come to the bottom of the hill the denser the forest becomes, and everywhere I look I spot another unfamiliar plant—crawling vines, broad-leafed ferns, thornbushes covered in tiny white blooms that smell as sweet as honey. The closeness of the trees creates a pocket of silence—the wind dies and a shiver of dread creeps along my spine. I keep my eyes open, but I see nothing but a few squirrels chasing each other from tree to tree. I listen, but I hear nothing but a distant gurgling—somewhere ahead there’s a brook.
Then, not loud but clear, a sound comes from behind me—the snap of a twig. I stop and spin as well as I can in my makeshift harness, but I see no one. Still, nothing but a foot on the ground could’ve made that sound. My eyes search for any movement, but there’s nothing, just the ripple of sunlight on the path, as the wind finally stirs the leaves and changes the shapes of the shadows.
Whoever is back there doesn’t want to be seen.
My hand on the blade in my belt, I turn and take a few more steps forward. Nothing responds. I return to the pace I’d set before, when the unmistakable sound of feet running toward me comes from behind. I turn, the blade in my hand, when my eyes fall on a familiar form. He is still at least fifty paces away, but I would recognize him from twice the distance.
He lets out a shout, and it’s obvious he recognizes me, too. “Kol!”
Pek hurries down the path until he comes close enough to get a clear
view of what I drag behind me. He slows. His eyes rake over the hastily made sled, the dead cat, and my tattered parka. “Kol,” he repeats, but instead of a shout, this time my name is more like a murmured prayer.
Pek approaches me with soft steps, as if pieces of me are spread out on the ground and stepping on one might break me. He eases himself around the beams of the travois, pushing into the brush that edges the path, his eyes fixed on the cat. When at last he comes up beside me, he wraps both arms around my shoulders and pulls me into an awkward embrace, careful not to touch my back. “Wait until Chev sees what you’ve done. This cat . . . we’ve all been hunting it. You can’t imagine how this cat has threatened this clan.”
“Has it?” I start, but Pek dashes ahead of me.
“You wait,” he says, “and I’ll bring others to pull the load the rest of the way.”
I stand still for a few moments after he disappears, but the woods are too lonely and strange now that I’ve seen my brother. There’s no reason for me not to pull the cat the rest of the way. I’ve brought it this far, and seeing Pek, alive and well, has taken weight from the load.
About a hundred paces farther down the path, light stirs in the underbrush to my right—a pattern of gold dancing across a sea of green. Something is moving, bending the branches that filter the sun. I stand staring, my attention held captive by the mystery, when all at once from out of the dense growth that borders the path an elk leaps, landing directly in front of me. He stands still for just a moment—nostrils flaring, hide quivering with tension—before he leaps as high as my shoulder and disappears into the trees to my left.
His place on the path is empty only a moment before it is filled by the hunter pursuing him—a girl with a spear raised in her outstretched arm, a girl who moves with a grace that rivals the elk’s.
Ivory and Bone Page 7
