Oxbalm studied him and muttered, “Mammoths dying… villages dying … Mother Ocean is always upset. This winter was colder than any I’ve witnessed in all my fifty-three summers. And our greatest Dreamer is angry with the whole world…. Is that what you meant, Sunchaser? When you said that the mammoths are relics of the last days? Did you mean that our way of life is about to die? That we haven’t much time left?”
When Sunchaser didn’t answer, Oxbalm heaved a sigh and said, “Please talk to me, Sunchaser. I must know what you see. Will you tell me what troubles your soul? I won’t accuse. I won’t condemn. I need to understand what’s happening. You seem to hate everyone, but I can think of nothing we’ve done to madden you.”
“I’m not angry with you, Oxbalm… and I don’t hate anyone.” He turned to brace his back against the tree trunk—so that he could not see the dead mammoths, but instead, faced
the southern shoreline and the village of new mammoth hide lodges. A few of the lodges had the door flaps pulled back, letting in the cool morning air, and he could see the whalebone frames. They gleamed black with soot. People sat around the fires inside, talking quietly. “Oxbalm, I… I’ve discovered something in the past cycle. Something that frightens me.”
“What is that?”
Sunchaser folded his arms to barricade his heart. “I’ve discovered that there is a Wilderness inside all of us. Oh, we’ve fought to tame it, to silence its wild voices, but we never will. The Wilderness lives in the bones of our souls. I’ve been watching the people in the villages I’ve visited during the past few moons. Whalebeard Village and Brushnut Village are worse than here, but you’ve seen it, too. People walk the worn paths between the lodges with their eyes downcast and their foreheads furrowed. Back and forth, day after day, moon after moon. Even their children frown as they plod in their elders’ footsteps.”
“Yes,” Oxbalm answered softly. “I’ve seen it.”
Sunchaser met and held Oxbalm’s worried gaze. “I’ve tried asking them why they’re unhappy, Oxbalm. What they want out of life. They say they are angry, that Winter Boy was hard on them and that they have to travel great distances to dig the few tubers that are sprouting, or they tell me they need more meat. In rage, they demand, “Where have all the mammoths and mastodons gone? What happened to the giant sloths that used to skulk everywhere?” Some whisper that the end of the world is near. Haven’t I seen it? they ask. I’m a great Dreamer. If they’ve seen it, surely I must have, too.” His voice faded as sickness welled in his stomach. Faintly, he repeated, “Surely I must have, too.”
“And what do you tell them, Sunchaser?”
“I tell them to wait. Don’t give up, I say. Wait and see what the Spirits have in store for us. But whether they understand it or not, I know the source of their pain.”
Oxbalm took a step closer. His eyes narrowed as if in fear. “What is the source of it? I’ve wondered for a long time.”
Sunchaser smiled feebly. “It’s so clear. Why is it only I who seems to understand? Humans killed all the mastodons and the sloths. We’re killing all the mammoths.” He shook a fist. “But we haven’t silenced their voices. The lonesome trumpeting and playful grunts—the voices of all the animals we’ve killed—seeped into the Wilderness in our souls, where we never stop hearing them. After tens of tens of cycles, the calls of all the dead have grown so loud that they make a deep ache in our souls. It’s almost unbearable. And humans refuse to answer the calls. Perhaps we’re afraid. Perhaps we don’t know how to answer anymore.”
Sunchaser stopped, trying to find the right words. His eyes sought the lions. The female licked her paws and purred to the male. At last, Sunchaser said, “Except at night.”
“At night?”
“Yes. Last moon, a very old woman, who had seen mastodons as a child, told me that in her dreams she became Mastodon. She said it felt so warm, living inside that hairy hide. She said she could feel the wind ruffling her long hair as she roamed in search of twigs and shrubs. She said that when she lifted her trunk and trumpeted, the whole world trembled.
“And I’ll tell you something. Oxbalm. My own Wilderness shook, as if the Quaking Earth Spirits had possessed my soul. I’ve been thinking about that. Thinking that maybe if everyone trumpeted in their dreams, the mastodons would come back. I’ve never seen one, yet I miss them. I miss their lumbering tread and the tender way they used to twine their trunks when they mated.. I’ve heard the elders describe it.”