Now (Silverhair said to Icebones), every mammoth has heard of the mother of us all: Kilukpuk, the Matriarch of Matriarchs, who grew up in a burrow in the time of the Reptiles. The tale I am going to tell you is of the end of Kilukpuk’s life, two thousand Great-Years ago, when the Reptiles were long gone, and the world was young and warm and empty.

Now by this time Kilukpuk had been alive for a very long time.

Though she was the mother of us all, Kilukpuk was not like us. By now she more resembled the seals of the coast, with stubby legs and a nub of trunk. She had become so huge, in fact, that her body had sunk into the ground, turning it into a Swamp within which she dwelled.

But she had a womb as fertile as the sea.

One year she bore three Calves.

The first was called Probos; the second was called Siros; the third was called Hyros.

There was no eldest or youngest, for they had all been born at the same mighty instant. They all looked exactly the same. They played together happily, without envy or malice.

They were all equal.

Yet they were not.

Only one of them could be Matriarch when Kilukpuk died.

As time wore on, the Calves ceased to play with one another. They took to watching each other with suspicion and hostility, hoping to find some flaw or small crime they could report to their mother. At least, that was how Hyros and Siros behaved. For her part, Probos bore no ill will to her sisters.

Kilukpuk floated in her Swamp, and showed no favor to any of her daughters.

Now, Kilukpuk did not intend that her daughters should stay forever in the Swamp, as she did. So from the beginning she had pushed her three daughters onto the land.

They had mewled and complained, wishing only to return to the comforting mud of the Swamp, and to snuggle once more against Kilukpuk’s mighty dugs — which as you know were as big as the Mountains at the End of the World. But gradually the Calves learned to browse at the grasses and nibble at the leaves of the trees, and ceased to miss the warm bath of the Swamp.

Now, Hyros became very fond of the foliage of the lush trees of those days, and she became jealous if her sisters tried to share that particular bounty. It got to the point where Hyros started climbing the trees to ensure she reached the juiciest leaves before her sisters, and she would leap from branch to branch and even between the trees to keep her sisters away, and she made a great crashing noise when she did so.

And Siros likewise became very fond of the fruits of the seas and rivers, and she became jealous if her sisters tried to share that particular bounty. It got to the point where Siros started swimming in the rivers and sea to ensure she reached the thickest reeds before her sisters, and she made a great galumphing splashing noise while she did so.

Now, none of this troubled Probos. She knew that the grasses and sedges and herbs and bushes of the world were more than enough to feed her for the rest of her long life, and as many calves as she could imagine bearing. She tried to tell her sisters this: that they had nothing to fear from her or each other, for the world was rich enough to support all of them.

This enraged her sisters, for they thought Probos must be trying to trick them. And so, silently, separately, they hatched their plans against her.

One day, when Probos was browsing calmly on a lush patch of grass, she heard Hyros calling from a treetop. "Oh, Probos!" She was so high up, her voice sounded like a bird’s cry. "I want to show you how fond I am of you, sister. Here — I want you to have the very best and sweetest and fattest leaves I can find." And Hyros began to hurl down great mouthfuls of bark and leaves and twigs from the very tops of the trees.

Now, Probos was a little bewildered. For the truth was, she had grown to relish the thin, aromatic flavor of the herbs and grasses. She found tree leaves thick and cloying and damp in her mouth, and the bark and twigs scratched at her lips and tongue. But she did not wish to offend her sister, so she patiently began to eat the tree stuff.

For a day and a night Hyros fed her sister like this, unrelenting, and soon Probos’s dung grew slippery with undigested masses of leaf. But still she would not offend her sister, and she patiently worked her way through the great piles on the ground.

Suddenly Hyros stopped throwing down the leaves. She thrust her small, mean face out of the foliage, and glared down at Probos, laughing. "Look at you now! You will never be able to climb up here and steal my leaves!"

And when Probos looked down at herself, she found she had eaten so much she had grown huge — much bigger than her sisters, though not so big as Kilukpuk — so big that she could, surely, never again climb a tree. She looked up at Hyros sadly. "Why have you tricked me, sister? I had no wish to share your leaves."

But Hyros wasn’t listening. She bounded off through her branches, laughing at what she had done.

Kilukpuk saw this, but said nothing.

A little while later, when Probos was grazing contentedly on a patch of particularly savory herbs, she heard Siros calling from the river. "Oh, Probos!" Siros barely poked her nose out of the water, and her voice sounded like the bubbling of a fish. "I want to show you how fond I am of you, sister. Here — I want you to enjoy the sweetest water of all with me. Come. Give me your nose."

Now, Probos was a little bewildered. For the truth was, she was quite happy with the water she lapped from small streams and puddles; she found river water cold and silty and full of weeds. But she patiently kneeled down and lowered her nose to her sister in the water.

Siros immediately clamped her teeth on the end of Probos’s nose and began to pull. Through a clenched jaw she said, "Now, you stand firm, sister; this will not take long."

For a day and a night Siros dragged at her sister’s nose like this, unrelenting, and soon Probos’s nose started to stretch, longer and longer, like growing grass. And it hurt a great deal, as you can imagine! And while this was going on she could not eat or drink, and her dung grew thin and watery and foul-smelling. But still she would not offend her sister, and patiently she let Siros wrench at her aching nose.

Suddenly Siros stopped pulling at Probos’s nose. She opened her jaws and slid back into the water, and Probos fell backwards.

Siros thrust her small, mean face out of the water, and glared up at Probos, laughing. "Look at you now! What a ridiculous nose. With that in the way, you will never be able to slide through the water and steal my reeds!"

And when Probos looked down at herself, she found her nose had grown so long it dangled between her legs, all the way to the ground.

She looked down at Siros sadly. "Why have you tricked me, sister? I didn’t want to share your reeds or your water."

But Siros wasn’t listening. She turned and wriggled away through the water, laughing at what she had done.

Kilukpuk saw this, but said nothing.

The years passed, and at last the day came when Kilukpuk called her Calves to her.

But the Calves had changed.

Siros had spent so long in the river and the sea that her skin had grown smooth, the hair flowing on it like water. And Hyros had spent so long in the trees that she had become small and agile, fast-moving and nervous.

As for Probos, she had a body like a boulder, and legs like mighty trees, and a nose she had learned to use as a trunk. Whereas Siros wriggled and flopped and Hyros skittered to and fro, Probos moved over the land as stately as the shadow of a cloud.

Kilukpuk hauled herself out of her Swamp. "My teeth grow soft," she said, "and soon I will not be here to be your Matriarch. I know that the question of which of you shall follow me as Matriarch has much vexed you — some of you, at least. Here is what I have decided."