Ivory and Bone by Julie Eshbaugh Page A

of the mountains is remarkably different from the land to their north. All around me, shrubs and thickets blanket the ground. As I descend lower into the valley, trees spring up, growing as high as my shoulder, their trunks as wide as my waist. The sun heats my face with astrength I’ve never felt before.
    The farther I walk, the taller the trees around me grow, somerising high above my head. The trail narrows abruptly, cool shade replaces the heat of the sun, and it becomes harder to stay on the path. I notice scents I’ve never smelled before—a surprising mix of growth and decay. Brush encroaches on the path from both sides, and I’m forced to pull my ax from my pack in order to clear a way through. As I go, I catch the sound of waves crashing against the baseof a cliff. I know the ground must fall off to the sea to my right, though I cannot see the ledge through the dense trees.
    I try to relax, try to remind myself of everything that is going well. The sound tells me I’m not far from shore. Though the tall trees block out the sun, I can determine its place in the sky based on the shadows cast on the ground.
    Long fingers of shade stretch toward theeast. It’s late in the day. The sun is dipping toward the sea.
    Hunger gnaws at me, so I allow myself to pause long enough to rest and to have something to eat. I sit in a clump of soft, thick moss that seems to thrive in the cool shade, covering the ground under the tallest of trees. I’ve never been surrounded by trees so tall they could block the sun, and the strangeness of this place makesme uneasy. I can’t sit long before I’m on my way again.
    I don’t travel far before the trail widens and the trees thin. The whispered roar of rushing water announces thatI’m approaching another waterway.
    When I reach it, I find that it is broad but shallow. Still, the current is swift and I don’t know the riverbed at all—I know better than to try to cross it here. I follow the bank west, hopingto come to the mouth where it empties into the sea. But the sound of the waves has faded; the coastline must have changed.
    After following the twists of the stream for a while, the ground becomes damp and marshy, and the forest fades to brush. The sun reaches the top of my head. I stop and squat down a moment to rest and listen.
    That’s when I hear it for the first time.
    The grass moves as seeminglyevery living thing around me scatters—rabbits and squirrels race by and birds take flight. Ducking lower, I pick up the murmured rustle of a breeze moving through the brush. But unlike the breeze, it is constant and measured. Without turning around to look, I know I am being stalked.
    Still sitting on my heels, I open my pack, draw out a dart tipped with an obsidian point, and load it into theatlatl. I can launch a dart, unlike my spear, without having to stand to my full height. I sink down as low to the wet ground as possible, crouching behind shoots of tall grass. My eyes scan the riverbank. Something moves in the corner of my vision, and I pivot my head.
    That’s when I see him. A cat nearly identical to the one you shot on the mammoth hunt. My heart pounds in my temples at thememory of that cat’s claws, digging at the ground as it pursued me. I whisper a prayer and cock my arm back at the elbow. Rising up on one knee to gain a clearer view, I let the dart fly.
    It flies true and finds its target, plunging into the cat’s shoulder. But this is one dart, and he is a large cat. I’d hoped the dart would slow him, but instead he lets out a horrifying sound—part growl, partgroan—and leaps in my direction.
    I know I don’t have time to load a second dart. I spring to my feet, sling my pack onto my back, and crash into the river. The water chills my feet and legs right through the fur and hides of my pants and boots, but I cannot slow my pace. Pressing my weight into each step to hold myself against the fierce force of the current, I stride, stride, stride. Each newstep