The path widens and turns at the head of a broad mountain meadow blanketed by wildflowers and tall grass, irrigated by twin rivulets of meltwater that run down from the ice to the north and the snowcaps that crown the peaks farther east. The two streams merge about midway across the meadow, creating a deep, still pool. Around that pool stands a family of six mammoths, their light brown fur glowing almost red under the bright sun.
I stop and let everyone catch up. The herd is downwind from us, so I worry they will soon know we’re here. I usher everyone to a space behind a large outcropping that acts as a natural windbreak.
My father steps up beside me, and it’s clear that from here on, he is taking lead on this hunt. It doesn’t wound my pride to yield to him. It’s customary for the most experienced hunter to take the lead, and in our clan, that’s always my father. He pats me on the shoulder, and I take my place a half step behind him on his right.
My father crouches, and we all follow his cue. Bent close to the ground, we move through the shadows that obscure the eastern edge of the meadow. The sun beats bright against the low rocky wall to the west, but while the sun rises, the brush that grows along the gravel track to the east is still covered in cool morning shade. Out in the open, gusts of breeze flatten the tall grass, but in the shelter of the ledges, the air hardly stirs.
We move in silence. The mammoths do not appear wary—perhaps the wind didn’t carry our scent to them after all. When we have come up alongside them on the edge of the meadow, my father squats down, but he signals for us to continue on beyond the herd. An animal with the speed of a mammoth cannot be run down—it has to run to you. My father will get them moving. The rest of us will be ready to cut them off.
Now they are extremely close, maybe just fifty paces away. I can hear the water splash from their trunks and see it spray across their backs.
Stay in the present, I tell myself. Let the past go.
My father raises his spear, and we all turn our eyes toward him. Then he stands and his arm comes down swiftly, signaling that the hunt is on. He plunges forward, racing across the meadow as fast as his feet will move.
The herd sees him, and like one body, they turn and run toward the south, toward the wide edge of the meadow that descends into a river valley. Once they are in motion the rest of us emerge, cutting across the open to intercept them. Maybe it’s because you and your brother and sister are here, maybe it’s because I have something to prove to myself and to Pek, but I run faster than I’ve ever run. The wind is at my back. I imagine it sweeping away the memories that haunt me. I outrun your sister; I outrun Pek. Only your brother, Chev, is ahead of me. My legs pump, my heels dig, and finally, I am moving stride for stride with Chev. I exchange a glance with him before pulling ahead. Twenty paces more and I will intercept the mammoth at the front of the herd.
I close my mind, raise my arm, and ready my spear. I tune to the rhythm of the mammoth’s steps. The ground shakes like the skin of a giant drum. Boom . . . boom . . . boom . . . I feel the percussion of his pace roll through me with each step. When I know I can run no closer without risking being trampled, I let the spear fly.
But my angle is too wide. The razor-sharp point of my spear grazes across a thick mat of hair on the animal’s side and falls away.
I slow my steps—I need to retrieve my spear from where it fell. I turn, ready to dodge out of the way of the others in the hunting party, to yield my position to Pek or to your sister or brother, but instead I find that you have all dropped back far behind. You are running hard with your spears ready, but you are not chasing the mammoths.
You are chasing the thing that is chasing me.
TWO
In the space between us, a saber-toothed cat runs hard, his huge claws