Ivory and Bone(21)

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.