We are now the hunted.
My young cub Kip bounds past me and tugs at a man’s stolen skin — camel, it smells like. This land has been my greatest ally and greatest enemy. Some days it has offered up both slow prey and heavy fruit; some days powerful storms, drought, or disease. But in the end, it has always relented — clinging to us as we cling to it. And for Kip and his cubs it will be the same. Or so I have always believed.
Near the horizon a line of smoke rises, disappearing into the thin clouds. A raven lands on Kip’s back as he noses over a body.
I decide. Leave. We must leave.
~~~
The bears come from all directions. All who are left. I count 33. Two more lost to man, not counting Tur. And the bears of this year are not the bears of last, when men were but a curiosity — just one more meal offered up by the plain. Some of the bears limp. Ribs protrude.
I begin before the young males start fighting. Though tonight it will be a fight between the old males I fear.
I stand on my hind legs. “Man! They come in greater and greater numbers. We can no longer pretend. We have no choice. We must leave. Find new lands.”
A roar of shock is their response.
Bek rises to his hind legs. The low sun makes the scars on his torso appear to bleed afresh. When his father took the Ancestor Walk, he and I were the two candidates for Dominance. I won. But Dominance is like a hillside of rocks: impressive to the eye, but not so hard to send tumbling.
“Kill them,” he cries. “Kill them all!”
I respond before the shouts of approval can drown me out. “We have killed them, and still they come. We have found their cubs and killed them, and still more men come. Their numbers grow. Even if we kill ten of them for every one of us, this land will become theirs. We must cross the river.”
Bears shout, but to my surprise, cries of “It’s time!” blend with “Never!”
To my side, Kip rubs against his mother. I look out. Yes, Bek’s cub is crouching in his shadow.
“Bek! Look at the cub at your side. What you say is fine for you. But what of her? You shall go down a hero, dragging thirty men with you. But there will be thirty more behind them. And thirty more after that! When you are gone, and when the rest of these warriors live only in stories, what will become of her?”
Bek does not respond immediately, and in that gap Grot stands. He is the oldest of us. “What do we do, Kerg?”
A bear snarls, and Grot silences him with a glare. As the saying goes, an old bear at least has luck.
“We must cross the river,” I say. “Now. Soon the spring flood will be upon us, and we will be stranded here, on this side.”
“Kerg,” says Grot, “man is at the river. At the crossing spot. He will stand on the ledges and cast spears down.”
Many bears now speak at once. It feels like I stand amid a flock of geese. But let them talk. It is better if they convince themselves.
“The mammoths.” All talking ceases. Bek steps forward. “If mammoth and bear rush the river at once, there will be too many for the men to kill. Most of us will make it.”
“What makes you think the Grey Tusks will leave the plain?” asks a warrior bear.
Bek looks at the cub huddled against him and says nothing.
~~~
This time of year, the Gray Tusks will be on the far side of the south hills. The grass always comes in there first. It’s a warm day, and the warmth rouses the flies. They burrow under my fur and bite.
I rear up, snap pointlessly at a fly, and sort through the smells. Budding osage trees, camel dung, a bison carcass — my mouth moistens; I’ll explore the carcass on the way back — and, yes, mammoths, just over this next run of hills.
The adult mammoths search for new grass. The young bulls, bursting with clumps of fresh brown hair, lock tusks and twist heads. But these normal activities deceive; this herd was once much greater. And there were two other herds. Dead or left? I don’t know.
I recognize Old Mother from the gray streaks in her faded brown ears. I trot down the hill toward her, but make it no more than fifteen paces before two bulls rush up and block my path. I offer a guttural growl, but they don’t give way. One scrapes the ground with the arched nails of his foot, signaling a charge.
A raspy bray rises over the herd. Old Mother.
The bulls check themselves then move aside. Soon they are once more smashing their faces into one another. Ah, youth.
I practice my lines as I approach her.
“It is an honor, Old Mother. You and your herd look fit.”
She regards me with a watery eye, tugs stalks of grass from the ground, and stuffs them into her mouth.
“Fit to rot,” she says, munching. “But I do love sweet talk. Your grandfather was a sweet talker. Just twenty years ago he stood right where you are, complimenting me on my calf’s fine dark brown —”
“We’re leaving.”
Her trunk drops, and she lets it fall all the way to the ground, as if that had been her intention all along. She pulls up more grass.
“Leaving for good,” I continue. “Across the river. Man hunts our food, steals carcasses, even hunts us. But we’ve waited too long and now we need your help.”
“Really.”
“And you need ours.” I go over the flooding, men throwing down spears, and how if more of us make the journey, more of us are likely to survive.
She takes it all in, keeping her thoughts hidden.
“You’ll be remembered on both sides of the river,” I blurt.
She smiles. “Clever. That comes from your
