Mammoth Boy by John Hart

language of the recital.
    “Great ice come, all down mountain and never melt.”
    He went on, speaking to himself in a low voice from his couch in the hay, in words Urrell did not understand, till, satisfied he had recollected the story aright, he resumed, “Winters colder, colder. Very long. Summer short. My people live here then. Living in caves, make snow houses, hunt bison, snow-ox, reindeers. Plenty eat for all. Share with big cat, big bear, and that time they learn to speak bear, long-tooth tiger, wolfs. They hunt together.”
    “Then ice melt and go back up mountain. Not good for big cat, not for bear. New people come and hunt. Hunt much, so big cats go and bears go. Mammurak go. My people stay to keep caves, but they few, then fewer. Now all gone down caves. I last. When go, close cave. No-one find way.”
    Urrell had listened in utter silence. It was the longest sustained statement he had heard Agaratz make. He, Urrell, the waif, was being introduced into another reality, one in which Agaratz moved with ease, examples of which Urrell had glimpsed. Was Agaratz, its last guardian, testing him, this youth from another people, so that he, the waif Urrell, might become the tradition bearer of such knowledge?
    Urrell asked: “Agaratz, can you teach me how to speak to bears?”
    “I try.”
    “Can we go to the land of mammoths, to find them?”
    “None now.”
    Old Mother had spoken of them. She had been in no doubt at all.
    “Agaratz, the Old Mother came from that land. She knew the mammoths.”
    “When summer come, Urrell, we go find mammuraka.”
    Urrell snuggled down happily with Rakrak, to dream of mammoths.
    With winter closing in there was little to do but cure hides, sew garments and keep warm. Urrell grew to asking Agaratz about his people and seeking to be taught anything Agaratz was willing to reveal. Often it meant returning time and again to the same theme.
    “Agaratz, why did your people not move when the cold came?”
    “They…” he wavered, deciding which word to use “…look after caves.” Urrell noticed the explanation did not satisfy Agaratz’s sense of what he sought to convey.
    “Did they look after paintings?”
    “After paintings, yes.”
    “Who did the paintings?”
    “Olds, olds, from old times.”
    Urrell watched him roll hand over hand to show time long past.
    “Were they your people, Agaratz?”
    “Before, olds, other kin, all gone.”
    “Gone where?”
    “To mamu.”
    “ Is that where the dead go?”
    “Land of mamu… ”
    More he would not say, nor where this land lay, except to wave vaguely into the earth beyond the depths of their cave. At this time Urrell noticed how little Agaratz ate – a few nuts, a handful of seeds. He grew lethargic, he who was so active, slept bouts of many hours in the hay-filled recess whereas his own and Rakrak’s appetites remained undiminished. Urrell ensured the fire was kept up.
    For many days and nights blizzards drove snow across the open lands, filling their gulch until they could step out of the cave entrance straight on to the drifts. No need for the climbing pole, left poking up through the snow. Before the drifts grew too deep Agaratz had hauled up their cache of bison meat in its hide, and the store of fish, to the lip of the entrance. The emptied bison hide they had dragged into the cave, thawed, scraped, and hung across its mouth. This lessened the worst gusts. Then Agaratz had surprised Urrell by getting him to help to scrape up snow against the hide, tamping each handful till they had built a snow wall, leaving only a small, blockable entry hatch.
    “Now less cold.”
    It left the cave in gloom, but livable, lit and warmed by the fire. As their fuel had dried well, little smoke was produced. Even so, Urrell’s hands became black with ingrained grime, his face sooty from the fire.
    It did not bother him till his fingers began to itch and the tips split, then he showed them to Agaratz.
    “ Ishll. Bad. Eat plants.”
    He