"What is it?" Thunder asked softly. "Can there be mammoths here?"

Icebones grunted. "What kind of mammoth lives in the middle of a pond?"

"Kilukpuk, Kilukpuk… How is it I know that name?"

And a trunk poked up out of the water, and two wide nostrils twitched. It was short, hairless, stubby, but nevertheless indubitably a trunk.

Icebones stepped forward. The mud squeezed between her toes, unpleasantly thick, cold and moist. "I am Icebones, daughter of Silverhair. If you are mammoth, show yourself."

A head broke above the surface of the water. Icebones saw a smooth brow with two small eyes set on top, peering at her. "Mammoth? I never heard of such things. Bones-Of-Ice? What kind of name is that?" The creature sniffed loudly. "Don’t drop your dung in my pond."

Thunder growled, "If you don’t show yourself I will come in there and drag you out. Before I fill up your pond with my dung."

Thunder’s musth-fueled aggression was out of place, Icebones thought. But it seemed to do the trick.

There was a loud, indignant gurgle. With a powerful heave, a squat body broke through the languidly rippling water.

It stood out of the water on four stubby legs. It had powerful shoulders and rump, and a long skull topped by those small, glittering eyes. It wasn’t quite hairless, for fine downy hairs lay plastered over its skin, smoothed back like the scales of a fish. But the whole body was so heavily coated in crimson-brown mud that it was hard to see anything at all.

It was like no mammoth Icebones had ever seen. And yet it had a trunk, and even two small tusks that protruded from its mouth, curling slightly and pointing downward. And it gazed at Icebones with frank curiosity, its stubby trunk raised.

More of the hog-like creatures came drifting through the water. They looked like floating logs, Icebones thought, though thick bubbles showed where they belched or farted.

Meanwhile the other mammoths gathered around Icebones and Thunder — all save the calf. Woodsmoke, quickly bored, had splashed into the mud at the fringe of the pond and was digging out lumps of it with his tusks.

Spiral asked, "What is it?"

The creature in the pond said, "It is Chaser-Of-Frogs. I am the Mother of the Family that lives here."

Evidently, Icebones thought dryly, her dignity was easily hurt. "Mother? You are a Matriarch?"

Chaser-Of-Frogs eyed Icebones suspiciously. "I do not know you, Bones-Of-Ice. Do you come from the Pond of Evening?"

She must mean one of the lakes to the west of here, Icebones thought. She said, "I come from a place far from here, which—"

Chaser-Of-Frogs grunted and buried her snout-like trunk in pond-bottom mud. "Always making trouble, that lot from Evening. Even though my own daughter mated with one of them. When you go back you can tell them that Chaser-Of-Frogs said—"

Thunder growled and stepped forward. "Listen to her, you floating fool. We come from no pond. We are not like you."

"And yet we are," Icebones said, drawn to the pond’s edge, trunk raised. She could smell fetid mud, laced with thin dung. "You have tusks and a trunk. You are my Cousin."

"Cousin?" The glittering eyes of the not-mammoth stared back at her, curious in their own way. "Tell me of Kilukpuk. I know that name… and yet I do not."

"It is an old name," Icebones said. "Mammoths and their Cousins are born with it on their tongues." And Icebones spoke of Kilukpuk, and of Kilukpuk’s rivalry with her brother, Aglu, and of Kilukpuk’s calves, Hyros and Siros, who had squabbled and fought in their jealousy, of Kilukpuk’s favorite, Probos, and how Probos had become Matriarch of all the mammoths and their Cousins…

Her own nascent Family clustered around her. The log-like bodies in the pond drifted close to the shallow muddy beach, tiny ears pricked, the silence broken only by occasional gulping farts that broke the surface of the water.

"I have never heard such tales," mused Chaser-Of-Frogs. "But it is apt. I sink in the mud, as did Kilukpuk in her swamp. I browse on the plants that grow in the pond-bottom ooze, as she must have done. I am as she was." She seemed proud — but she was so caked in mud it was hard to tell.

How strange, Icebones thought. Could it be that these Swamp-Mammoths really were ancient forms, remade for this new world? Perhaps they had been molded from mammoths, the way Woodsmoke was molding lumps of mud.

Only the Lost would do such a thing, of course. And only the Lost knew why.

"You mammoths," said Chaser-Of-Frogs now. "Tell me where you are going."

"To the east," Thunder said promptly. "We are walking around the belly of the world. We are seeking a place we call the Footfall of Kilukpuk—"

"You will not get far," Chaser-Of-Frogs said firmly. "Not unless you know your way through the Nest of the Lost."

Thunder growled, "What Nest?"

Chaser-Of-Frogs snorted, and bits of snot and mud flew into the air. "You’ve never even heard of it? Then you will soon be running like a calf for her mother’s teat." She sank into her mud, submerging save for the crest of her back and the tip of her trunk.

Then she rose again lazily, as if having second thoughts. "I will show you. Tomorrow. It is in gratitude for the stories, which I enjoyed. Today I will rest and eat, making myself ready."

Thunder said, "You fat log, you look as if you have spent your whole life resting and eating."

Autumn slapped his forehead. "She will hear you."

Chaser-Of-Frogs surfaced again. "Don’t forget. No dung in the pond. Those disease-ridden scoundrels from Evening are always playing that trick. I won’t have it, you hear?"

"We won’t," said Icebones.

Chaser-Of-Frogs slid beneath the dirty brown water and, with a final valedictory fart, swam away.

The ground stank of night things: of roots, of dew, of worms, of the tiny reptiles and mammals that burrowed through it.

All the mammoth found it difficult to settle. They were deeper into the Gouge than they were accustomed to. The air felt moist and sticky, and was full of the stink of murky pond water. The vegetation was too thick and wet for a mammoth’s gut, and soon all of their stomachs were growling in protest.

Icebones could sense the deep wash of fat log-like bodies as the Swamp-Mammoths swam and rolled in their sticky water. Not a heartbeat went by without a fart or belch or muddy splash, or a grumble about a neighbor’s crowding or stealing food.

And, as the light faded from the western sky, a new light rose in the east to take its place: a false dawn, Icebones thought, a glowing dome of dusty air, eerily yellow. It was the Nest of the Lost, of course, just as Chaser-Of-Frogs had warned.

Autumn, Breeze and Thunder faced the yellow light, sniffing the air with suspicious raised trunks. It pleased Icebones to see that they were starting to find their true instincts, buried under generations of the Lost’s unwelcome attention.

Not Spiral, though. She started trotting to and fro, lifting her head and raising her fine tusks so they shone in the unnatural light.

As the true dawn approached, Icebones heard the pad of clumsy footsteps. It was Chaser-Of-Frogs.

In the pink-gray half-light the Swamp-Mammoth stood before them, her stubby trunk raised. Her barrel of a body was coated in mud that crackled with frost, her breath steamed around her face, and her broad feet left round damp marks where she passed. "Are you ready? Urgh. Your dung stinks."

"The food here is bad for us," Autumn growled.

"Just as well you’re leaving, then," Chaser-Of-Frogs said. "Go drop a little of that foul stuff in the Pond of Evening, will you? Hey! What’s this?"