Silverhair tm-1 Read online

  "You do," said Silverhair softly. "Oh, you do."

  "They are feeding me well, Silverhair. They cleaned out my abscess. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Can you imagine how that feels?"

  "Is that why you are prepared to bend before them? Because they cleaned out your tusk?"

  The rumble fell silent for a long time. Then Snagtooth said, "Silverhair, I think I understand them. I think I am like them."

  "Like the Lost?"

  "Look around you. There are no bitches here. No cubs. These Lost are alone. Like a bachelor herd, cut off from the Families. No wonder they are so cruel and unhappy… Silverhair, I envy you. I can smell it from here, even above the blood and the rot of your wounds and the burning of Eggtusk’s flesh—"

  "Smell what?"

  "The calf growing inside you."

  Silverhair, startled, listened to the slow oceanic pulsing of her own blood. Could it be true?

  Snagtooth murmured, "For me it’s different, Silverhair. Year after year my body has absorbed the eggs of my unborn calves, even before they fully form."

  Now, in the midst of her own confusing pulse of joy, Silverhair understood. She should have known: for the Cycle teaches that sterile Cows, unable to produce calves, will sometimes grow as huge as mature Bulls, as if their bodies are seeking to make up in stature what they lack in fertility.

  Snagtooth said, "Now do you understand why I submit to the Lost? Because there is nothing else for me, Silverhair. Nothing."

  And Snagtooth turned her head, and Silverhair saw her clearly for the first time since they had arrived at this nest. "Oh, Snagtooth…"

  Snagtooth’s trunk was gone — her trunk with its hundred thousand muscles, infinitely supple, immensely strong, the trunk that fed her and assuaged her thirst, the trunk that defined her identity as mammoth. Now, in the center of her face, there was only a bloody stump, grotesquely shadowed by the fire’s flickering light.

  Snagtooth had allowed the Lost to sever her trunk at its root. She couldn’t even feed herself or obtain water; she had made herself completely reliant on the mercy of the Lost, for whatever remained of her life.

  The pain must have been blinding.

  "It isn’t so bad!" Snagtooth wailed thickly. "Not so bad…"

  The eternal Arctic day wore on.

  Silverhair’s stomach was so empty now, her dung so thin, she seemed to have passed beyond the pain of hunger and thirst. She couldn’t even pass urine anymore. The rope burns on her legs seemed to be rotting, so foul was the stench that came from them. She was giddy from lack of sleep, so much so that sometimes the pain fell away from her and she seemed to be floating, looking down on the fouled, bloody body trapped between the stakes on the ground, flying like a gull halfway to the Sky Steppe.

  She tried to sense the new life budding inside her — did it have limbs yet? did it have a trunk? — but she could sense only its glowing, heavy warmth.

  At last, one dark and cloudy midnight, the situation came to a head.

  Skin-of-Ice approached her. She saw that he staggered slightly. His hairless head was slick and shining with sweat. In his paw he held a glittering flask, already half-empty. He raised it in his paw, almost as a mammoth would raise a trunkful of water. But he drank clumsily, as a mammoth never would, and the fluid spilled over his chin and neck.

  She had no idea what the clear fluid was. It certainly wasn’t water, for its smell was thin and sharp, like mold. Surely it would only serve to rot him from within. But perhaps that explained why, when the Lost forced this liquid down their throats, they would dance, shout, fight, fall into an uncomfortable sleep far from their nests near the fires or in the artificial caves. Sometimes — she could tell from the stink — they even fouled themselves.

  And it was when the clear liquid was inside him that Skin-of-Ice would cause Silverhair the most pain.

  He wiped away the mess on his face with his paw. He stalked before her, eyeing her, calculating. Then he turned and barked at the other Lost. Two of them emerged from one of their improvised caves, reluctant, staggering a little. They yapped at Skin-of-Ice, as if protesting. But Skin-of-Ice began to yell at them once more, pointing to the bindings on Silverhair’s legs, and then pointing behind him.

  Silverhair stood stolidly in her trap. It was obvious she was to face some new horror. Whatever it was, she swore to herself, though she could not mask her weakness, she would show no fear.

  The Lost, reluctantly obeying Skin-of-Ice, clustered around the stakes that trapped Silverhair’s legs and loosened the ropes. Her wounds, with their encrusted blood and scab tissue and half-healed flesh, were ripped open.

  Released, her right foreleg crumpled and she dropped to one knee. The blood that flowed in her knees and hips, joints that had been held stiff and unmoving for so long, felt like fire.

  But for the first time since being brought to this place, Silverhair’s legs were free. She stood straight with a great effort.

  Now the Lost started to prod at her, and to pull at her ropes. She tried to resist, but she was so weakened, the feeble muscles of these Lost were sufficient to make her walk.

  She moved one leg forward, then another. The pain in her hips and shoulders had a stabbing intensity.

  But the pain began to ease.

  Silverhair had always been blessed by good health, and her constitution was tough — designed, after all, to survive without shelter the rigors of an Arctic winter. Even now she could feel the first inklings of a recovery that might come quickly — if she were ever given the chance.

  But still, it hurt.

  Her strength was returning. But she did not let her limp become less pronounced. Nor did she raise her head, or fight against the ropes. It occurred to her it might be useful if the Lost did not know how strong she was.

  As they passed a fire, Skin-of-Ice pulled out burning branches. He kept one himself and passed the others to his companions. Soon the patch of littered beach was illuminated by overlapping, shifting circles of blood-red light, vivid in the subdued midnight glow.

  They led her past Snagtooth. Her aunt was still tied loosely by the rope dangling from her neck. The stump of her severed trunk was ugly, but it seemed to be healing over.

  Snagtooth turned away.

  Silverhair walked on, flanked by the Lost, led by the capering gait of Skin-of-Ice in the flickering light of the torches.

  They were dragging her to another shelter: a dome shape a little bigger than the rest. The shelter stank of mammoth. She felt her dry trunk curl.

  The other Lost backed away, leaving her with Skin-of-Ice. Almost trustingly, he reached up and grabbed one of the ropes that led to the tight noose around her neck. Feigning weakness, she allowed herself to be led forward toward the shelter.

  Skin-of-Ice shielded his torch and led her through the shelter’s entrance. It was so narrow, her flanks brushed its sides.

  She felt something soft. It felt like hair: like a mammoth’s winter coat.

  Inside the shelter was utter darkness, relieved only slightly by a disk of indigo sky that showed through a rent in the roof. The stench of death was almost overpowering.

  She wondered dully what the Lost was planning. Perhaps this was the place where Skin-of-Ice would, at last, kill her.

  He bent and flicked his torch over a small pile in the middle of the floor. It looked like twigs and branches. A fire started. At first smoke billowed up, and there was a stink of fat. But then the smoke cleared, and the fire burned with a clear, steady light.

  She saw that the fire was built from bone shards, smashed and broken. Mammoth bones.

  The fire’s light grew.

  The walls of this shelter were made of some kind of skin, and their supports were curved, and gleamed, white as snow.

  The supports were mammoth tusks.

  The tusks had been driven into the ground, so that their tips met at the apex of the shelter. They were joined at the tip by a sleeve of what looked like more bone, to make a continuous arch.

  Th
e wall skins, too, had been taken from mammoths, she saw now: flayed from corpses, scraped and cleaned, rust-brown hair still dangling from them. As she looked down, she saw more bones — jaws and shoulder blades and leg bones as thick as tree trunks — driven into the ground to fix the skins in place.

  Black dread settled on her as she understood. This shelter was made entirely from mammoth hide and bone. It was like being inside an opened-out corpse.

  But the horror was not yet done. Skin-of-Ice was pointing at the ground with his paw.

  Resting by the doorway was the massive skull of a mammoth. She recognized it. She was looking into the empty eye sockets of Eggtusk.

  Skin-of-Ice was confronting her, his paws spread wide, and he was cawing. She knew that he had brought her here, shown her this final horror, to complete his victory over her.

  She began to speak to him. "Skin-of-Ice, it is you who is defeated," she said softly. "For I will not forget what you have done here. And when I put you in the ground, the worms will crawl through your skull and inhabit your emptied chest, as you inhabit these desecrated remains."

  For a heartbeat he seemed taken aback — almost as if he understood that she was speaking to him.

  Then he raised his goad.

  She summoned all her strength, and reared up. The ropes around her neck and forelegs parted.

  Skin-of-Ice, evidently realizing his carelessness, fell backwards and sprawled before her.

  At last her trunk was free. She raised it and trumpeted. She took a deliberate step toward him.

  Even now he showed no fear. He raised a paw and curled it: beckoning her, daring her to approach him.

  She stabbed at him with her tusk.

  But he was fast. He squirmed sideways.

  Her tusk drove into the earth. It hit rock buried there, and she felt its tip splinter and crack.

  Skin-of-Ice wriggled away. But a splash of bright fresh red disfigured his side, soaking through the loose skins he wore.

  She felt a stab of exultation. She had wounded him.

  He scrambled out of the shelter.

  She set about wrecking this cave of skin. She trampled on the heap of burning bones. She smashed away the supports that held up the grisly roof. When the layers of flayed skin fell over her, exposing the midnight sky, she shook them away.

  All this took mere heartbeats.

  Then, with her trunk, she picked up the fragments of skin, and laid them reverently over her back. She found herself breathing hard, her limited reserves of energy already depleted.

  She turned to meet her fate.

  Beyond the ruins of the hut there was a ring of light: a dozen burning branches held aloft by the paws of the Lost. Several of them had thunder-sticks, which they pointed toward her. She could see their small eyes, sighting along the sticks at her head and belly.

  And there was Skin-of-Ice. He was holding his side, but she could see the blood leaking through his fingers.

  She tried to calculate. If she charged directly at him, even if the stinging hail from the thunder-sticks caught her, her sheer momentum could not be stopped. And Skin-of-Ice, wounded as he was, would not be able to evade her this time.

  She rumbled to her calf. "So it is over," she said. "But the pain will be mine, not yours. You will not see this terrible world of suffering, dominated by these monsters, these Lost. It will be brief, and then we will be together, in the aurora that burns in the sky…"

  She lowered her head -

  There was a braying, liquid roar.

  The Lost scattered and ran, yelling.

  A shape loomed out of the shadows: bristling with fur, one tusk held high. It was Snagtooth. Silverhair could see how she trailed the broken length of rope that had restrained her.

  Without her trunk Snagtooth was unable to trumpet, but she could roar; and now she roared again. She selected one of the Lost and hurled herself straight toward him. The Lost screamed and raised his thunder-stick. It spat fire, and Silverhair could see blood splash over Snagtooth’s upper thigh. But the wound did not impede her charge.

  Snagtooth’s mutilated head rammed directly into the belly of the Lost.

  Silverhair heard a single bloody gurgle, the crackle of crushed bone. The Lost was hurled into the air and landed far from the circle of torches.

  But this victory was transient. The Lost gathered their courage and turned on Snagtooth. Soon the still air was rent by the noise of thunder-sticks.

  Snagtooth reeled. She fell to her knees.

  Silverhair screamed: "Snagtooth!"

  Through the storm of noise, Silverhair could hear Snagtooth’s rumble. "Remember me…"

  And Silverhair understood. In the end, Snagtooth had thrown off her shame. She had chosen to give her life for Silverhair and her calf. Now it was up to Silverhair to get away, to accept that ultimate gift.

  She turned away from the noise, the Lost, the fallen, agonized shape of Snagtooth, and slipped away into the silvery Arctic light.

  The Lost closed around Snagtooth with their thunder-sticks and ice-claws.

  Part 3: Matriarch

  The Story of Ganesha the Wise

  This (said Silverhair) is the story of Ganesha, who is called the Wise.

  I am talking of a time many Great-Years ago — ten, twelve, perhaps more. In those days, the world was quite different, for it was warmer, and much of the land was covered in a rich Forest.

  Now, in such a world you or I would be too hot, and there would be little for us to eat. But Ganesha’s Family thought themselves blessed.

  For Ganesha’s Family, and their Clan and Kin, had lived for a hundred Great-Years in a world awash with heat, and Ganesha had no need to keep herself warm, as you do. And she ate the rich food of the Forest: grass, moss, fruit, even leaves and bark.

  If Ganesha was standing before you now you would think her strange indeed.

  Though she had a trunk and tusks, she had little fur; her gray skin was exposed to the cooling air all year round. She had little fat on her lean body, and her ears were large, like huge flapping leaves. And Ganesha was tall — she would have towered over you, little Icebones!

  Ganesha had two calves, both Cows, called Prima and Meridi.

  Everyone agreed that Meridi was the beauty of the Family: tall, strong, lean, her skin like weathered rock, her trunk as supple as a willow branch. By comparison Prima seemed short and fat and clumsy, her ears and trunk stubby. But Ganesha, of course, loved them both equally, as mothers do.

  Now, Ganesha was not called Wise for nothing. She knew the world was changing.

  She walked north, to the edge of the Forest, where the trees thinned out, and she looked out over the plains: grassy, endless, stretching to the End of the World. When she was a calf, she remembered clearly, such a walk would have taken many more days.

  And if Ganesha stepped out of the Forest, enduring the burning sun of that time, she could see where the Forest had once been. For the land was littered with fallen, rotten trunks and the remnants of roots, within which insects burrowed.

  And Ganesha could smell the ice on the wind, see the scudding of clouds across the sky.

  The Cycle teaches us of the great Changes that sweep over the world — Changes that come, not in a year or two or ten, not even in the span of a mammoth’s lifetime, but with the passing of the Great-Years.

  And that is how Ganesha knew about the great Cold that was sweeping down from out of the north, and how she knew that the Forest was shrinking back to the south, just as the tide recedes from the shore.

  Ganesha was concerned for her Family.

  She consulted the Cycle — which, even in those days, was already ancient and rich — but she found no lesson to help her.

  However, Ganesha was Wise. As she looked into the great emptiness that was opening up in the north, Ganesha understood that a great opportunity awaited her calves.

  But to take that opportunity she would have to step beyond the Cycle.

  Ganesha called her calves to her.


  "The Forest is dying," she said.

  Prima, squat and solid, said, "But the Forest sustains us. What must we do?"

  Meridi, tall and beautiful, scoffed at her mother. "All you have seen is a few dead trees. You are an old fool!"

  Ganesha bore this disrespect with tolerance.

  "This is what we must do," she said. "As the Forest dies back, a new land is revealed. There are no trees, but there are grasses and bushes and other things to eat. And it stretches beyond the horizon — all the way to the End of the World.

  "This land is called a Tundra. And, because it is new, the Tundra is empty. You will learn to live on the Tundra, to endure the coming Cold.

  "It will not be easy," she said to them. "You are creatures of the Forest; to become creatures of the Tundra will be arduous and painful. But if you endure this pain your calves, and their calves, will in time cover the Tundra with great Clans, greater than any the world has seen."

  Prima lowered her trunk soberly. "Matriarch," she said, "show me what to do."

  But Meridi scoffed once more. "You are an old fool, Ganesha. None of this is in the Cycle. Soon I will be Matriarch, and there will be none of this talk of the Tundra!" And she refused to have anything to do with Ganesha’s instruction.

  Ganesha was saddened by this, but she said nothing.

  Now (said Silverhair), to ready Prima for the Tundra took Ganesha three summers.

  In the first summer, she changed Prima’s skin. She bit away at Prima’s great ears, reducing them to small, round flaps of skin. And she nibbled at Prima’s tail, making it shorter and stubbier than her sister’s, and she tugged at the skin above Prima’s backside so that a flap came down over her anus.

  Prima endured the pain of all this with strong silence, for she accepted her mother’s wisdom. All these changes would help her skin trap the heat of her body. And so they were good.

  But Meridi mocked her sister. "You are already ugly, little Prima. Now you let Ganesha make you more so!" And Meridi tugged at Prima’s distorted ears, making them bleed once more.