The butchers set immediately to work, moving with such practiced precision they hardly need to speak. One uses an ax to divide the carcass into sections, separating the limbs from the torso. The other two employ sharp knives that remove meat from bone. The process is like a dance to the three of them—no one calls out the steps; experience has taught them to anticipate each other’s moves. My brothers busy themselves with collecting the cut portions and securing them to the sleds with long cords made from the stalks of fireweed and stinging nettle, while you, Pek, and Seeri truss up the cat. My father and Chev stand off to the side, speaking in low tones like old friends, only looking up from time to time to call out some instructions.
With so many hands set to the task, I feel unneeded, superfluous. What could I possibly contribute? I would only get in the way. So I let myself wander, roaming to a spot just down the hill, a remote stretch of tall grass drenched in sunlight. I lie down and close my eyes, focus my ears, try to relax—try to catch that distinct whir of honeybee wings—but my thoughts thrum too loudly in my mind. Voices mix in—Roon’s high buzz overlapping with Kesh’s lower hum. I try to block them out, but it’s useless—the longer they work, the louder they become.
After a while, I stop trying and sit up.
Before me, the valley the mammoths fled to opens at the bottom of a gentle slope, and from the angle where I sit the wide expanse of undulating meadow gives me the same odd sensation of movement I feel when I sit at the edge of the bay. The land rolls out from me unbroken, the wind rippling the sea of grass like waves upon the water.
It’s then that I spot you—kneeling in the grass at the base of the hill, you and your sister Seeri. Are you gathering? Your heads are bent, your focus on the ground. I hurry over to ask if you will need help carrying what you’ve collected. As I approach, I catch the sound of your voices trailing off, words spoken in unison. Seeri gets to her feet, but you remain kneeling in the grass, your head bowed, your fingers tying a cord around your neck. There are no roots or greens to be gathered up.
When Seeri sees me she flinches briefly, then color blooms in her cheeks. Have I interrupted something private?
“I wanted to see if you needed help. . . . I’m sorry,” I say. Seeri glances at you, but you keep your head bent away from the sound of my voice. The air stretches taut with tension, like the skin of a drum. I continue. “I thought you were gathering. . . .”
Seeri offers a dim, melancholy smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “What we left behind can’t be seen; what we gathered can’t be carried.” She says this without looking directly at me, as if she’s speaking to someone unseen who’s just beyond my shoulder.
I’m not sure what to make of this—is it a quote of some kind? A few words of a prayer or chant to the Divine? I think of the words I heard you speak in unison. . . . Before I can ask, Seeri strides away, leaving me alone with you.
I stand there, hovering over the place where you sit, for long enough that I begin to think I will either have to speak or walk away. Thankfully, just at the moment I feel I will need to decide between the two, you silently get to your feet. You shoot me the briefest of glances—not really a look, but rather a means of determining where you don’t intend to look—before dropping your eyes to the grass and pinning them there. Your hands move to the pendant that hangs from the cord at your throat, tucking it into the collar of your parka as you step around me.
“Wait,” I say. “I’d like to talk to you. There’s something I need to say.”
You keep moving until your shoulder comes alongside mine.
“Mya, wait. I owe you an apology.”
You stop. You don’t answer, but you don’t walk away, either, so I take this as a sign that you’re at least willing to listen. I pivot toward you but you won’t even turn your face in my direction—so stubborn—so I’m forced to speak to your profile—your shoulder, your sleeve, the ear you’ve tucked your hair behind.
“I know that you’re upset with me about what happened, but I never would have thrown at you—you were never in any danger. I wanted to tell you that, and I wanted to ask you to forgive me.” It feels ridiculous to say these words to your left ear. I take a few steps until I’m standing right in front of you. Your head stays lowered, though, leaving me no choice but to speak to the straight line that parts your jet-black hair. “Mya?” The next words are not easy to say, as if each one is a heavy weight I have to push uphill to reach your ears. Still, I will be the next High Elder, and selflessness and peacemaking are the defining traits of a clan leader. I take a deep breath and continue. “Mya, will you please forgive me?”
You remain silent so long . . . I have the chance to imagine a myriad of possible responses, each one more full of condemnation than the last. Finally you raise your head. Your eyes sweep over my face as if you are seeing me for the first time. “You don’t know, do you?”
Of all the replies I was anticipating, this question was not among them.
I take this unexpected question and combine it with the cryptic words of your sister—none of it makes sense. My eyes dart from your face to the spot where you and Seeri had knelt in the grass. My mind races to piece things together, to give shape to this formless confusion. In the end I can only be honest. “I don’t understand.”