The world was growing cold, and its air and water were shriveling away — and, she supposed, all life with them…

And it was not the world where she had been born. The songs of this small world and the songs of that other place — massive, liquid, alive — were unmistakably different.

But how could that be? How could there be a place here that was not there? It was beyond her imagination.

And — why had she been brought here?

She recalled the Island, her Family. It was as if she had been with them yesterday, listening to Silverhair’s patient account of how, when she was no older than Icebones now, the Lost had found the Island and nearly killed them off, the last of all the mammoths. All her life, Silverhair had told Icebones she would one day be a Matriarch. And she had steadily coached her daughter in the wisdom of the mammoths, teaching her the songs of the Cycle, imparting a deep sense of blood and land…

Yes, one day I will be a Matriarch, Icebones thought. I have always accepted my destiny. But not here. Not now. I am not ready!

But, ready or not, what was she to do next?

She sucked the thin, dry air through her trunk, felt its cold prickle in her lungs, smelled the lingering tang of ash. Alone, longing for the warmth of her Family, she began to sing: "I am Icebones. My Matriarch was Silverhair, my mother. And her Matriarch was Owlheart. And her Matriarch was Wolfnose…"

She called with deep rumbles. She sensed a fluttering of skin over her forehead, the membranes stretched tight over the hollows in her skull that made her voice’s deepest sounds. And she stamped, too, a rhythmic thumping that sent acoustic pulses out through the hard rocky ground.

Icebones. Icebones…

She gasped and turned around, trunk held high. But she was alone.

Her name had come not through the air, but as deep sound through the hard rock of the ground.

She stamped out, "I am Icebones, daughter of Silverhair. Who are you?"

Long heartbeats later came a reply. I am strong and my tusks are powerful. More powerful than my brother’s. Are you in oestrus? Are you with calf? Are you suckling?

Icebones snorted. It was a Bull, then: intent only on rivalry with his fellows and on mating with any receptive Cow — just like all Bulls, who, some Cows would say, are calves all their lives.

"I am not in oestrus. Where are you?"

It is a cold place. By the shore of a round sea. There is little to eat. Snow falls. There are few of us. Predators stalk us.

She raised her trunk and sniffed the air. She could smell only the rock, the thin, dry air and her own dung. There was no scent of Bull — and an adult Bull in musth, dribbling from his temple glands and trickling urine, emitted a powerful scent indeed. "You must be far away, very far."

But my tusks are long and powerful, almost as long as my —

His last word was indistinct.

"And you have no need of a name?"

Names? None of us have names.

She snorted. "I will call you Boaster."

The steppe is sparse. We walk far to graze. Once we were many, like daisies on the steppe. Now we are few.

"We must find each other," she said immediately, rapping her message into the deep rock.

A Family of Cows, with no adult Bulls, could not prosper: without Bulls to impregnate the Cows, it would be extinct within a generation. And likewise an isolated bachelor herd without Cows would soon die, unable to reproduce itself. It was a deeper layer of peril, she realized, lurking beyond the dangers of the fires that belched into the air.

Yes. I am ready for you, Icebones. I have no need to wait for musth. But now his words were becoming indistinct. Perhaps he was walking over softer ground, or a storm on that northern ocean was making the rocks too noisy… Follow the water, she caught… Water and the thick warm air… the lowest place…

And then he was gone, and she was alone again.

The light was ebbing out of the sky now. The sun had long vanished behind the Mountain, and an ocean of shadow was pooling at its base, obscuring those stretches of steppe and forest, turning them gray and lifeless. The stars were emerging through a great disc of blackness that spread down from the zenith toward the horizon, revealing a huge, clear sky.

There was a presence beside her, a trunk pulling at hers. Eager for company, she clung to it gratefully. But she felt sparse, stiff hair on that trunk, and tasted bitterness.

It was the Ragged One. "You must come back. The others want you."

"Why?"

"They want to Remember the old one. As you told them they should."

Icebones told the Ragged One of the Bull she had spoken to.

The Ragged One seemed to understand little. "The Bulls were brought here, to the Mountain, to us. And if one of them was in musth, and one of us in oestrus, there would be a mating. That was all we needed to know about Bulls."

"And you would sing the Song of Oestrus?"

But the Ragged One knew nothing of that. "Once there were many of us. Many like you, many like me. The Lost did not mean to keep us forever. They were making the world, you see. They were covering it with oceans and steppe and forests. One day there would be room for us to roam, in Clans. But then the Sickness came…"

She described a horrific illness among the mammoths. It would begin with blood in urine. Then would come waves of heat and cold, and growths that would sprout from mouth and feet and anus. Finally, after a suffusion of great pain, there would be death.

"And if one caught it, all would fall." She turned to Icebones, growling. "I know you think we have been kept by the Lost, that we are like calves. But we heard the mammoths calling to each other, all over this quiet world, Icebones. We heard the cries of the carnivores too, as they broke through fences no longer maintained by the Lost. We heard their joy at the ease of the kills they made, and later their disappointment at how little meat remained.

"And one by one those distant mammoth voices fell silent.

"Can you imagine how that was? Perhaps you should indeed teach us to Remember. Perhaps that is why you have been sent among us — to Remember all who died."

Icebones was horrified. But she said, "We aren’t dead yet. On this Mountain there is no food, and precious little water. We must go down to the plains."

The Ragged One snorted. "You are a fool. The world is growing cold, yes. Because the Lost have gone."

Icebones was baffled. "Where did they go?"

"They went up, into the sky," the Ragged One said. "And that is where we must go. Not down. Up." She said this decisively, and stalked away stiff-legged.

The Remembering was simple.

Icebones had the mammoths help her dig out the body of their grandmother. It had been scorched and dried by its immersion in the ash. Much of the hair was blackened and curling, and the skin was drawn tight. The eyelids, gruesomely, had fallen open, and the eyes had become globes of cloudy, fibrous material, sightless.

Icebones said, "Watch now, and learn." She scraped at the bare ground with her tusks. Then she picked up a fingerful of grit and ash and dropped it on the grandmother’s unresponding flank.

The mother reached down, picked up a loose rock, and stepped forward to do the same.

Soon they were all using their trunks and feet to cover the inert body with ash, dust and stones — all save the Ragged One, who stayed on the edge of the group, unwilling to participate, and yet unable to turn away.

As they worked, Icebones felt a deeper calm settle on her soul. The Cycle said this was how the mammoths had always honored their dead.

Silverhair had told her of a place on the Island called the Plain of Bones, where the ground was thick with the bones of mammoths — of Icebones’s ancestors, who had walked across the land for uncounted generations before her. She wondered how many mammoth bones lay beneath the hard rocky ground of this small new world.