recognize Old Mother from the gray streaks in her faded brown ears. I trot down the hill toward her, but make it no more than fifteen paces before two bulls rush up and block my path. I offer a guttural growl, but they don’t give way. One scrapes the ground with the arched nails of his foot, signaling a charge.
A raspy bray rises over the herd. Old Mother.
The bulls check themselves then move aside. Soon they are once more smashing their faces into one another. Ah, youth.
I practice my lines as I approach her.
“It is an honor, Old Mother. You and your herd look fit.”
She regards me with a watery eye, tugs stalks of grass from the ground, and stuffs them into her mouth.
“Fit to rot,” she says, munching. “But I do love sweet talk. Your grandfather was a sweet talker. Just twenty years ago he stood right where you are, complimenting me on my calf’s fine dark brown —”
“We’re leaving.”
Her trunk drops, and she lets it fall all the way to the ground, as if that had been her intention all along. She pulls up more grass.
“Leaving for good,” I continue. “Across the river. Man hunts our food, steals carcasses, even hunts us. But we’ve waited too long and now we need your help.”
“Really.”
“And you need ours.” I go over the flooding, men throwing down spears, and how if more of us make the journey, more of us are likely to survive.
She takes it all in, keeping her thoughts hidden.
“You’ll be remembered on both sides of the river,” I blurt.
She smiles. “Clever. That comes from your mother.”
“So will you help us? Together we’ll rush the gap.”
“No.”
My ears sag.
“We mammoths make for much easier targets than bears.”
I look at the ground. I was foolish to think I could sneak that by her. “But—”
“ But I have a better plan. A group of you short-faced bears will rush the men — if they are there. While you fight, the rest of us will cross the river.”
Having just attempted to lay most of the sacrifice on the mammoths, I can’t make an issue of how her plan lays disproportionate death on us — not without causing an argument that may ruin it all. Some of the bulls edge closer, and mothers nudge their calves away.
“Why not send some of those bulls?” There is meekness in my voice, and I grimace inwardly.
To my surprise she says, “Very well, we’ll have a contest.”
I try to look puzzled. I’m not sure that I succeed. “What kind?”
“A memory contest.”
I laugh, unable to control myself, and I actually use a paw to wipe the smile from under my snout.
“Really now,” I say. “The mammoths can remember when these hills were mountains.”
Old Mother looks defeated. “Well, it was worth a try.” She lets a smile seep in. “We’ll do a rock drop.”
I nod. I make arrangements and turn to leave.
“Oh, Kerg, just one more thing. A pride of lions is stalking us. They’re making some of the younger mothers nervous. Be a dear and shoo them away.”
My mouth hangs open.
She smiles sweetly at a young bull who has sauntered to within a few paces of me. “Of course, Kerg, we could always remain here one more year, perhaps two.”
A fly enters my mouth, and I clamp down and swallow the filthy thing. Then I go searching for lions.
~~~
I wander the lowlands scanning the potholes, scanning the cattails, even scanning the sky. I draw a long breath through my nose. There are no lions. A patch of water grass trembles. I take an even longer breath, letting the humid air linger.
Clever, aren’t they.
“Come out, lion. I know you’re in there.”
A young, mud-covered lion rises from a pothole. The prince Felos.
I laugh. “You look like a drowned prairie turkey.”
He bounds from the mud and stops a few paces from me. Lionesses saunter up to his side, eyes on me. One licks the mud from his neck, her tongue making long strokes from his shoulder up to his mane. He purrs, somehow maintaining his ferocity. But lines of ribs
A raspy bray rises over the herd. Old Mother.
The bulls check themselves then move aside. Soon they are once more smashing their faces into one another. Ah, youth.
I practice my lines as I approach her.
“It is an honor, Old Mother. You and your herd look fit.”
She regards me with a watery eye, tugs stalks of grass from the ground, and stuffs them into her mouth.
“Fit to rot,” she says, munching. “But I do love sweet talk. Your grandfather was a sweet talker. Just twenty years ago he stood right where you are, complimenting me on my calf’s fine dark brown —”
“We’re leaving.”
Her trunk drops, and she lets it fall all the way to the ground, as if that had been her intention all along. She pulls up more grass.
“Leaving for good,” I continue. “Across the river. Man hunts our food, steals carcasses, even hunts us. But we’ve waited too long and now we need your help.”
“Really.”
“And you need ours.” I go over the flooding, men throwing down spears, and how if more of us make the journey, more of us are likely to survive.
She takes it all in, keeping her thoughts hidden.
“You’ll be remembered on both sides of the river,” I blurt.
She smiles. “Clever. That comes from your mother.”
“So will you help us? Together we’ll rush the gap.”
“No.”
My ears sag.
“We mammoths make for much easier targets than bears.”
I look at the ground. I was foolish to think I could sneak that by her. “But—”
“ But I have a better plan. A group of you short-faced bears will rush the men — if they are there. While you fight, the rest of us will cross the river.”
Having just attempted to lay most of the sacrifice on the mammoths, I can’t make an issue of how her plan lays disproportionate death on us — not without causing an argument that may ruin it all. Some of the bulls edge closer, and mothers nudge their calves away.
“Why not send some of those bulls?” There is meekness in my voice, and I grimace inwardly.
To my surprise she says, “Very well, we’ll have a contest.”
I try to look puzzled. I’m not sure that I succeed. “What kind?”
“A memory contest.”
I laugh, unable to control myself, and I actually use a paw to wipe the smile from under my snout.
“Really now,” I say. “The mammoths can remember when these hills were mountains.”
Old Mother looks defeated. “Well, it was worth a try.” She lets a smile seep in. “We’ll do a rock drop.”
I nod. I make arrangements and turn to leave.
“Oh, Kerg, just one more thing. A pride of lions is stalking us. They’re making some of the younger mothers nervous. Be a dear and shoo them away.”
My mouth hangs open.
She smiles sweetly at a young bull who has sauntered to within a few paces of me. “Of course, Kerg, we could always remain here one more year, perhaps two.”
A fly enters my mouth, and I clamp down and swallow the filthy thing. Then I go searching for lions.
~~~
I wander the lowlands scanning the potholes, scanning the cattails, even scanning the sky. I draw a long breath through my nose. There are no lions. A patch of water grass trembles. I take an even longer breath, letting the humid air linger.
Clever, aren’t they.
“Come out, lion. I know you’re in there.”
A young, mud-covered lion rises from a pothole. The prince Felos.
I laugh. “You look like a drowned prairie turkey.”
He bounds from the mud and stops a few paces from me. Lionesses saunter up to his side, eyes on me. One licks the mud from his neck, her tongue making long strokes from his shoulder up to his mane. He purrs, somehow maintaining his ferocity. But lines of ribs
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