If I let myself think about it hard enough, I’d probably be reluctant, too.
Once we cross the open grass, I lead the group to a path that rises through the rocky foothills of the mountains that form the eastern boundary of our hunting range. Within these hills are tucked hidden plains and alpine fields where this particular herd of mammoths often chooses to graze, out of the open. As we walk, the grass gives way to gravel, and the grade becomes steeper as we slowly climb. At intervals, the path narrows. Rough boulders encroach from either side. By necessity, our party is forced to travel in single file.
I look back once to make sure we are all together before we navigate the final set of turns. It’s then that I see you, just a few paces behind me. I’m startled to find you there. My brother and your sister have dropped back, and I suppose you ended up in front by default. I’m certain my face gives away my surprise at finding you so close.
Your gaze is unflinching. It has weight. Part of me wants to shrug it off; part of me wants to hold very still so it doesn’t slip away from me.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Nothing.” Your eyes are heavy-lidded, but I know not to be fooled—you are not tiring. A spark glows in your dark eyes. They are at once impossibly dark and impossibly bright, alive with activity, as if a million thoughts churn behind them. I imagine a honeybee—the way it zips from bloom to bloom. That is how I imagine your thoughts moving behind those heavy-lidded eyes.
My own eyes move to the rocks at my feet. “We’re almost there. I wanted to let you know. The path gets a bit rough here. You should watch your step.”
Thankfully, we are indeed almost there, and as we navigate the final bend toward the south, the scene that opens up in front of us is enough to distract from the stiffness of the previous moment. 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.