"And what about the Fireheads? Did she speak of them?"

"Of course she spoke of the Fireheads, Longtusk. Fireheads come when we are weak and dying. They cut our corpses open for our bones and hearts…"

"But," he said, "there are no Fireheads in the Cycle. Maybe the Fireheads weren’t here when the ice last retreated."

"What does it matter?"

"What I’m saying is that things are different now. The Fireheads are a new threat we haven’t faced before…"

But the Matriarch continued to quote the Cycle. "When I die, I belong to the wolves — or the Fireheads. We must accept the Fireheads, as we accept the warming, and simply endure. In the future, all will be as it was, and there will be great Gatherings again."

Longtusk tried another approach. "When was the last time you heard from the Matriarch of Matriarchs?"

Rockheart growled, "Longtusk—"

"The last Gathering?"

"…Yes."

"Then she is probably dead."

Some of the Cows rumbled and trumpeted in dismay.

"And she was wrong," said Longtusk grimly.

Rockheart tusked the ground, rumbling his challenge. "Do I have to fight you to shut you up?"

Longtusk ignored him. "I have seen the Fireheads. I have seen what they do. They wait for mammoths to die. If the mammoths take too long, they finish them off with their spears… The Matriarch of Matriarchs was right that the mammoths have endured warming before, and recovered. But this is not the past. The Fireheads make everything different—"

Rockheart’s blow was a mere swipe at his tusks, a loud ivory clatter that echoed over the steppe. He said grimly, "You have forgotten your Cycle. The Matriarch has given her orders, and we will follow."

Longtusk eyed Rockheart. He recalled how easily he had defeated this old tusker before — and yet here he was again, prepared to confront him, and Longtusk knew he could beat Rockheart down again, just as easily.

But that wasn’t the way to succeed. Not today.

And he couldn’t keep his peace, either, even though he longed to. He didn’t want to be different! He only wanted to be one of the Family… All he had to do was stay silent.

But that wasn’t the right path, either.

He summoned up the inner strength he had found during those long dark months in the Firehead camp, after the death of Neck Like Spruce and his calf.

He said, "We cannot survive here, Matriarch. This little patch of steppe is too small. Look around. You are thin, half-starved. A simple accident could kill us all — a flash flood, a lightning strike like the one which struck down that spruce.

"And some day the Fireheads will come here. They will — I know them! And—"

This time, Rockheart’s blow was to his temple, and pain rang through his skull. He staggered sideways. He felt warm blood trickle down his flesh.

The Matriarch faced him, shifting from one foot to the other, distressed. "End this, Longtusk."

"Mother — Matriarch — where are your calves?"

Rockheart’s tusks came crashing down on his. His ivory splintered, agonizingly, as if a tooth had broken, and the tip of his right tusk cracked off and fell to the ground.

"By Kilukpuk’s black heart, fight," Rockheart rumbled.

"What makes you so wise?" Milkbreath said, upset, angry. "What makes you different? How do you see what others don’t? How do you know what we must do?"

Longtusk, bleeding, aching, could see Rockheart prepare for another blow, but he knew he must not respond — not even brace himself.

"…The calves are dead." It was Splayfoot, his sister.

Rockheart hesitated.

Gaunt, weakened, Splayfoot came limping toward Longtusk. "The youngest died last winter, when there was no water to be had. That’s your answer, Longtusk. He is different, Matriarch. He has seen things none of us can imagine. And we must listen. I would have died with the others at that drying mud seep — as would you, Rockheart — if not for Longtusk."

The Matriarch rumbled sadly, "Even when we have met Bulls, even when we have mated, our bodies have not borne calves. It is the wisdom of the body. If there is too little food and water the body knows that calves should not come."

"For how long?" Longtusk asked. "Look around you. How long before you all grow too old to conceive?" He glared at them wildly, and trumpeted his challenge. "Which of you will be the last to die here, alone?"

Rockheart, growling, prepared another lunge at Longtusk, but the Matriarch stopped him. Anguished, angry, she rumbled, "What would you have me do?"

Longtusk said, "There may be a way. A place to go. Beyond the reach of the ice — and even of the Fireheads." Shuddering, trying to ignore the pain of his temple and broken tusk, he looked to the east, thinking of the geese.

Rockheart roared his disgust. "And must we follow you, Firehead monster? Shall we call you Patriarch? There has never been such an animal. Not in all the long years of the Cycle—"

"He is right," Splayfoot insisted. "The spring blizzards kill our calves. The ice storms of the autumn kill those who are heavy with next year’s calves. None of us can bear the heat of summer. And when the seeps and water holes ice over in the winter, too thickly for us to break through, we fight each other for the water, to the death… We can’t stay here. He is right."

Threetusk came pushing between them, his spindly extra tusk coated with mud. He looked up at Longtusk with trunk raised. "Take me! Oh, take me!"

The arguments continued, for the rest of that day and into the night, and even beyond that.

The day was bright and clear and cold. The sun was surrounded by a great halo of light that arced above the horizon, bright yellow against a muddy purple sky. It was a sign of the icecap, Longtusk knew.

It was an invitation — and a challenge.

He drew a deep breath through his trunk, and the cleanness of the air filled him with exhilaration.

"It is time," he rumbled, loud enough for all to hear.

And the mammoths began to prepare for the separation.

The Family was to be split in two by Longtusk’s project: calf separated from parent, sibling from sibling. And, though it was never stated, a deep truth was understood by all here — that the sundered Family would never be reunited, for those who walked with Longtusk into the cold mists of the east would never come back this way.

Willow pulled on all his clothing, stuffed his jacket and hat and boots with grass for insulation against the cold, and collected together his tools and strips of dried meat. Once he had understood that Longtusk was planning to move on, the Dreamer had been making his own preparations. He had made himself simple tools, spears and stone axes, and he disappeared for days at a time, returning with the fruits of his hunting: small mammals, rabbits and voles. He ate the flesh or dried it, stored the bones as raw material for tools, and used the skin, dried and scraped, to make himself new clothing.

Soon he had become as healthy and equipped as Longtusk could recall — much better than during his time as a creature of the Fireheads. It dismayed Longtusk to think that he, and the mastodonts, had received so much better treatment at the paws of the Fireheads than Willow, their close cousin.

He sought out his mother, the Matriarch.

She wrapped her trunk in his and reached out to ruffle the topknot of fur on his head, just as she had when he was a calf — even though he had grown so tall she now had to reach high up to do so. "Such a short time," she said. "I’ve only just found you, and now we are to be parted again. And this time—"

"I know."

"Maybe we’ll both be right," she said. "Perhaps there really is a warm island of steppe floating in the icecap. And maybe the Fireheads and the weather will spare those who stay here, and we will flourish again. That way there will be plenty of mammoths in the future to argue about who was right and wrong. Won’t it be wonderful?"