The rock beneath their feet was unyielding. Sometimes, when the land was gouged and scarred by ancient flows of molten rock, they had to detour far from the Sky Trail.

The only water was to be found in hollows where rain or snow had gathered. Most of these puddles were frozen to their bases, but as they descended they found a few larger ponds where some liquid water persisted beneath a thick shell of ice. Gratefully the mammoths cracked the ice lids with their tusks or feet and sucked up the dirty, brackish water.

But the taller, spiral-tusked sister complained about the foul stink of the pond water compared to the cool, clean stuff the Lost used to provide for them.

At night, when the shrunken sun had fallen away and the cold clear stars emerged from the purple sky, they mostly kept walking, their trunks seeking out water and scraps of vegetation. They would pause only briefly to sleep, and Icebones encouraged them to gather close together, the pregnant one at the center, so that they shared and trapped the warmth of their bodies.

It was very disturbing to Icebones to walk over new land: land where there were no mammoth trails, no memories in her head, nobody to lead. It was the mammoths’ way to learn the land, to build it into their memories and wisdom, and to teach it to their young. That way the land’s perils could be avoided and its riches sought. That learning had never happened here. And it troubled her that every step she took was into strangeness — and unknown danger.

After a few days they reached the terminus of the Sky Trail. The shining line sank into a kind of cave, a place of hard straight lines and smooth walls. Icebones shrank from it. But the others clumped forward eagerly and explored every cold surface and every sharp straight edge, as if saying goodbye.

They walked on.

Below the Sky Trail terminus, the rock was just as barren and sparse of life as it had been at higher altitude. But Icebones felt her spirits lift subtly, as if the looming Sky Trial, the mark of the Lost, had been weighing on her spirit.

The Bull came to walk with her. His coat was glossy and thick, and he held his growing tusks high. "Why must we call you Icebones?"

"Because it is my name."

He thought about that. "Very well. But why not Boulder, or Snowflake, or Pond?"

"My mother said I was heavy and cold in her womb. As if she’d swallowed a lump of ice, she told me. And so she called me Icebones. A name is part of a mammoth—"

"I have no name," he said.

"I know."

"Will you give me a name?"

Intrigued, she asked, "What kind of name?"

"I am strong and fierce," he said, illustrating this with a comically deep growl. "I will be a brave hero, and I will mate all the Cows in the world. Silverhair was brave and strong. Perhaps my name should be Silverhair."

She snorted her amusement. "That was the name of my mother. She was indeed brave and strong. But you are a Bull, and you need the name of a Bull."

"I don’t know the names of any Bulls."

"The Cycle tells of the bravest and strongest Bull who ever lived. His name was Longtusk. He lived long ago, in a time when the steppe was full of mammoths. He lived alone among the animals, and he even lived among the Lost — for it is the fate of Bulls, you know, to leave their Families and travel far. But then at last he found his Clan and led them on a great journey, to a place where they could live without fear. In the end he gave his life to save them."

The Bull trumpeted his appreciation. "I would like to be called Longtusk," he growled. "But I am no hero. Not yet, anyway."

She pondered. "Your voice is deep and carries far, like the thunder. Longtusk had a faithful companion called Walks With Thunder. Thunder. There. That shall be your name."

"Thunder, Thunder!" The towering Bull, with his spindly legs and thin, immature tusks, ran after the Cows to tell them his exciting news.

The next morning, the Cow with the spiral-shaped tusks came up to Icebones, trailed, as always, by her smaller sister. The older one said diffidently, "That fool of a Bull says you have given him a name."

"He has found his name," Icebones said.

The Cow snorted. "I have no need of a name — not from a mammoth. The Lost liked me, you see. They used to admire my tusks and my long hair. Their cubs would brush my belly hairs with their paws, and I would let the older ones climb on my back while I walked."

Icebones tried not to show her revulsion.

"They would talk to me all the time," said the Cow. "Not the way a mammoth talks, of course. They had a funny jabber they made with their mouths, and they didn’t use their bellies or feet or foreheads at all. But you could tell they were talking even so." She walked oddly as she said this, as if showing off her hair and fine muscles for an invisible audience of Lost. "So I am quite sure the Lost had their own name for me."

Icebones stayed silent, watching her.

At length the Cow said, "But if you were to give me a name — a mammoth name, I mean — what would it be?"

Most mammoth names reflected a deep characteristic of their holder: an attribute of her body, her smell or taste or noise — even her weight, like Icebones’s. Few were to do with the way a mammoth looked: Silverhair, yes, for that lank of gray on her forehead had been such a startling characteristic. But Icebones knew that sight was the most important sense of all for the Lost. And so for this one, the way she had looked in the eyes of the Lost was the key to her character.

"Your name will be Spiral," Icebones said. "For your tusks twist around in spirals, the one like the other."

"Spiral." The Cow wandered away, admiring her own tusks.

Her sister made to follow Spiral as usual, but she hesitated. "Icebones, what about my mother?"

It is not my place to name these mammoths, Icebones thought. I am not their Matriarch, or their mother. But if not me, who? She thought of the smell of the older Cow, her tangy, smoky musk. "Autumn," Icebones said impulsively. "For she smells of the last, delicious grass of summer."

The Cow seemed pleased. "And my other sister, the one with calf?"

"I would call her Breeze—"

"For her hair is loose and whips in the wind, like the grass on a windblown steppe!"

"Yes." This little one isn’t so bad, Icebones thought, when she gets away from her foolish sister. "Will you tell them for me?"

"Yes, I will."

"And what about you?"

"Me?" The Cow was transfixed, as if she hadn’t imagined such an honor could be applied to her. "You choose, Icebones."

Icebones probed at the young Cow’s mouth, and tasted sweetness. "Shoot," she said at last, "for you taste of young, fresh grass."

The Cow seemed delighted. "Thank you, Icebones… But what about her?"

She meant the Ragged One, who grazed alone as usual, irritably dragging at grass tufts and willow tips, her rough hair a cloud of captured sunlight around her.

"She is the Ragged One," said Icebones. "No other name would suit."

But the little Cow had already scampered away, after her sister.

They approached the lip of the Mountain-base cliff. The wall was heavily eroded, and very steep — what they could see of it; none of them cared to approach the edge.

At last Icebones found a steep gully that cut deep into the ground. Its floor was strewn with boulders and frost-shattered rubble, as if a river had once flowed there. It would not be an easy route, but this cleft, cutting deep into the rock behind the cliffs, offered a way down to the plains below.

Cautiously, reluctantly, the mammoths filed into the gully.

The rock that made up the walls was gray-red and very hard, its surface covered with sharp-edged protruding lumps, speckled with glimmering minerals of green and black. Moss grew in cracks in the walls and over some of the loose rocks. The wind tumbling off the Fire Mountain’s broad flanks poured through this gap, and mercilessly sucked out the mammoths’ heat. Icebones could hear the rumbles of complaint echoing back from the tall, sheer walls.