Ivory and Bone(6)

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.





THREE


The 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?