"Touch it," called Neck Like Spruce.

Cautiously Longtusk reached forward with his trunk’s fragile pink tip, and explored the surface of the rock.

"…It’s warm."

"They put the rocks in the fires to make them hot, then clutch them to their bellies in the night."

Now Crocus was jabbering, pointing to the markings on the skin walls, streaks and whorls and lines, daubed there by Firehead fingers. The cub seemed excited.

He traced his trunk tip over the patterns, but could taste or smell nothing but ochre and animal fat. He growled, baffled.

"It’s another Firehead habit," Spruce said testily. "Each pattern means something. Look again, Longtusk. The Fireheads aren’t like us; they have poor smell and hearing, and rely on their eyes. Don’t touch it or smell it. Try to look through Firehead eyes. Imagine it isn’t just a sheet of skin, but a — a hole in the wall. Imagine you aren’t looking at markings just in front of your face, but forms that are far away. Look with your eyes, Longtusk, just your eyes. Now — now what do you see?"

After a time, with Crocus chattering constantly in his ear, he managed it.

Here was a curving outline, with a smooth sheen of ochre across its interior, that became a bison, strong and proud. Here was a row of curved lines, one after the other, that was a line of deer, heads up and running. Here was a horse, dipping its head and stamping its small foot. Here was a strange creature that was half leaping stag and half Firehead, glaring out at him.

He looked around the settlement with new eyes — and he saw that there were makings everywhere, on every available surface: the walls of the huts, the faces of the Fireheads, the shafts of the hunters’ spears, even Crocus’s heated stone. And all of the markings meant something, showing Fireheads and animals, mountains and flowers.

The illusions were transient and flat. These "animals" had no scent, no voices, no weight to set the Earth ringing. They were just shadows of color and line.

Nevertheless they were here. And everywhere he looked, they danced.

The settlement was alive, transformed by the minds and paws of the Fireheads, made vibrant and rich — as if the land itself had become conscious, full of reflections of itself. It was a transformation that could not even have been imagined by any mammoth or mastodont who ever lived. He trembled at its thin, strange beauty.

How could any creatures be capable of such wonder — and, at the same time, such cruelty? These Fireheads were strange and complex beings indeed.

Now Crocus dragged his face back to the wall of her own hut. Here was a row of stocky, flat-backed shapes, with curving tusks before them.

Mastodonts. It was a line of mastodonts, their tusks, drawn with simple, confident sweeps, proud and strong.

But Crocus was pointing especially at a figure at the front of the line. It was crudely drawn, as if by a cub — by Crocus herself, he realized.

It looked like a mastodont, but its back sloped down from a hump at its neck. Its tusks were long and curved before its high head, and long hairs draped down from its trunk and belly.

He growled, confused, distressed.

"Longtusk?" Neck Like Spruce called. "That’s you, Longtusk. Crocus made you on the wall. You see? She was trying to honor you."

"I understand. It’s just—"

"What?"

"I haven’t seen a mammoth since I was separated from my Family. Neck Like Spruce, I think I’ve forgotten what I look like."

"Oh, Longtusk…"

Crocus came to him, perceiving his sudden distress. She wrapped her arms around his trunk, buried her face in his hair, and murmured soothing noises.

Winter succeeded summer, frost following fire.

Sometimes, Longtusk dreamed:

Yellow plain, blue sky, a landscape huge, flat, elemental, dominated by the unending grind and crack of ice. And mammoths sweeping over the land like clouds -

He would wake with a start.

All around him was order: the mastodont stockade, the spreading Firehead settlement, the smoke spiraling to the sky. This was the reality of his life, not that increasingly remote plain, the mammoth herds that covered the land. That had been no more than the start of his journey — a journey that had ended here.

Hadn’t it?

After all, what else was there? Where else could he go? What else was there to do with his life, but serve the Fireheads?

Troubled, he returned to sleep.

And five years wore away.

The hunting party of Fireheads and mastodonts — and one woolly mammoth — marched proudly across the landscape. The high summer cast short shadows of Longtusk and his rider: Crocus, of course, now fully grown, long-legged and elegant, and as strong and brave as any of the male Firehead hunters. She was equipped for the hunt. She carried a quartz-tipped spear, and wore a broad belt slung over her shoulder, laden with stone knives and hammers, and — most prized of all — an atlatl, a dart thrower made of sculpted deer bone.

"…Ah," Walks With Thunder said now, and he paused. "Look."

Longtusk looked down at the ground. At first he saw nothing but an unremarkable patch of steppe grass, with a little purple saxifrage. Then he made out scattered pellets of dung.

Walks With Thunder poked at the pellets with his trunk tip. "See the short bitten-off twigs in there? Not like mastodonts; we leave long twisted bits of fiber in our dung. And we produce neat piles too; they kick it around the place as it emerges…" He brought a piece of dung into his mouth. "Warm. Fresh. They are close. Softly, now."

Alert, evidently excited, he trotted on, and the party followed.

Over the years Longtusk had been involved in many of the Fireheads’ hunts. Most of them targeted the smaller herbivores. The Fireheads would follow a herd of deer or horse and pick off a vulnerable animal — a cow slowed by pregnancy, or a juvenile, or the old or lame — and finish it quickly. Then they would butcher it with their sharpened stones and have the mastodonts carry back the dripping meat, skin and bones.

The hunts were usually brief, efficient, routine events, and only rarely would the hunters take on an animal the size of, say, a giant deer. The hunters were after all seeking food, and they tried to make their success as certain as possible, minimizing the risks they took.

But today’s hunt was different. Today they were going after the largest prey of all. And only the strongest and most able hunters, including Bedrock himself, had been included in the party.

Though Crocus had joined in hunts before — the only female Firehead to do so — and had become skillful with spear and stone knife, this was the first time she had been allowed by her father to take part in such an event. And so — because Longtusk still refused to allow any other rider on his back but Crocus — it was the first time for him, too.

They were heading west, and they came to a strange land.

There were pools here, but they were small and misshapen and filled with icy, cloudy, sour water. Trees, mostly spruce, struggled to grow, but they were stunted and leaned at drunken angles. The ground was broken and hummocky, and Longtusk had to step carefully. Here and there, in fact, the turf was no more than a thin crust over a deeper hollow. With his deeper senses he could hear the peculiar echoes the crusty ground returned, but still an incautious footstep could lead to a stumble or worse.

Walks With Thunder, with Bedrock proudly borne on his back, loped alongside Longtusk. "The ice is retreating to its northern fastness. But this is a place where a remnant of ice was covered over by wind-blown silt and soil before it could melt. The earth is thin; the trees can establish only shallow roots, so they grow badly. And the ice is still there, beneath us… Look."