slide around to the trail that winds up and away from camp toward the meadow without catching anyone’s attention. For a fleeting moment, I think of our families—my father, your sister, my mother—how could they not notice our absence? But then I realize that they probably do. Perhaps they have all noted that we are both absent. Perhaps they assume we are together.
I let you lead me up the trail, climbing the long, gradual rise that rolls from the sea toward the vast expanse of treeless fields and meadows that stretch north, all the way to the foot of the Great Ice. The northern sky is cloaked in thick gray clouds and I wonder if ahead it might be raining. The scent of a storm swirls in the breeze—a surprisingly warm breeze that alternates with the chilly northern wind I would expect, and I know that rain is out there somewhere.
You stoop to pick a rock from the path, a smooth round stone like an egg the size of your fist. Crouching, you dig out another, and then a third. I stop, watching your fingers claw at the dry, dusty ground, thinking of the coming rain and how it will bring new life to the wildflowers and support to the bees. The spring was wet but this summer has been dry, and we are due for relief. I glance up at the gray sky, darkening as the sun lowers, and I know the Divine will not make us wait much longer.
Our feet move almost silently across the grass as you turn off the path and head into an open space at the edge of an outcropping of rocks, large jagged boulders that push up out of the ground like the back of a stalking cat. Insects keep a thrumming rhythm all around us, but otherwise, the night is still. You sit on the grass about fifty paces from the line of rocks and look up at me. I guess this is our destination.
Folding my legs beneath me, I kneel on the sparse grass and watch as you arrange the stones you carry in front of you.
“Five years ago . . .” You place the three stones in a line. “Five years ago, my clan was on the verge of breaking. There were arguments, disagreements about what path was best for our people. My father, with the breath of his final days, was advocating for a move south. Because of him, the clan constructed fifteen two-person kayaks. In those days, our clan was not familiar with the sea. We relied almost exclusively on the mammoth herds for food. Our use of kayaks was limited, and only two members of the clan were adept at boat-making. The task was slow, but eventually, fifteen boats were complete.
My father had intended to move the clan—over sixty of us in all—in two groups. But when he died . . .” You fall silent, drawing a line in the dirt between clumps of grass with your finger. “In the end, we took thirteen kayaks and moved twenty-five people. The others—my extended family I’d known all my life—we never saw again.
“But the trip was slow; we didn’t know the way, and we were not strong paddlers. At the end of every day on the sea, exhausted and hungry, we had to find a safe place to camp. We had to find food to eat. That was why, when we landed on your shore, we were so relieved. That was why my people were so anxious to go on a combined hunt. We needed safety, shelter, and food, and you offered us all these things.”
As I listen to your story, a gust of sharp, cool wind flattens the grass and prompts me to tighten the laces at my throat.
“The first night, we all slept under the stars in the center of your camp. In the morning, before first light, the hunting party gathered. They wanted to head out early, knowing the mammoths were gathered here, in this very place. My brother never forgot it—a place where rocks rose up from the ground like the inverted hull of a boat. He recognized the spot as we passed through here with your parents the day we first arrived, hiking out to the meadow to find you.
“He leaned close to me and whispered in my ear. ‘The rocks. There.’ He didn’t say any more. He didn’t have to. I’d heard the story so many times. I knew that this was where