The cave's warmth was a lie. It was not the warmth of a full belly or a joyful fire; it was the damp, heavy warmth of too many bodies crowded together, breathing the same stale air. The moment Karuk ducked under the hide flap covering the entrance, the smell hit him—a thick mix of woodsmoke, wet fur, and the sour tang of unwashed skin.
The central fire was a pit of sullen red embers, too weak to push back the shadows that danced and writhed on the rough stone walls. It gave more smoke than light, stinging the eyes.
All eyes turned to them. The hunters stood for a moment, frozen in the entrance, their snow-dusted furs making them look like ghosts returned from a land of the dead. Karuk saw the hope flare in the faces of the women huddled around the fire, a bright, desperate spark. They looked past the men, searching for the shape of a meat-sled, the gleam of a heavy haunch.
He watched that spark die.
It went out in his mother's eyes first. She was tending the fire, her thin hands poking at the embers with a stick. She saw Gron's empty hands, saw the slump of his shoulders, and the light in her face just… vanished. Her shoulders curled inwards, as if she'd been struck.
A low moan came from one of the elders. It was not a sound of protest, but of acceptance. A final, quiet surrender.
Karuk's little sister, Lana, detached herself from the huddle of children and ran to him, wrapping her thin arms around his leg. She looked up, her face pale and smudged in the dim light. "Karuk? Did you bring the good meat? The crunchy fat?"
He couldn't speak. He just looked down at her, his throat tight and raw. He shook his head, a tiny, miserable movement.
Her face crumpled. She didn't cry. She just let go of his leg and walked back to the other children, her small head bowed. That was worse than any scream.
The silence in the cave was thick and heavy, broken only by the crackle of the embers and the relentless howl of the wind outside. The hope had been a fragile shield against the cold, and now it was shattered.
Gron finally moved, striding to the center of the cave near the fire. He laid his spear down with a quiet, deliberate care. "The trail was old," he said, his voice rough but loud enough for all to hear. "The mammoth have gone to a sun-place we do not know. The snows covered their signs."
Bor grunted, throwing his spear down with a clatter that echoed in the tense silence. "The spirits have turned their backs!" he snarled, glaring around the cave as if challenging someone to disagree. "They give us nothing but wind and white death!"
"The spirits give what they give," came a thin, reedy voice from the shadows. Old Man Hask emerged, his back bent like a weathered root. His eyes, milky with age, seemed to see more than anyone else's. "Anger is a fire that burns the one who holds it, Bor."
Bor spat into the fire, making the embers hiss. "My belly burns worse than any fire, old man."
The tribe began to move again, the moment of frozen disappointment passing into the grim routine of survival. Karuk found a spot against the wall, away from the others. The cold of the stone seeped through his furs immediately. He pulled his knees to his chest, trying to make himself small.
His mother brought him a gourd bowl. Inside was a thin, grey broth. A single, familiar-looking bone, stripped clean of any nourishment long ago, lay at the bottom. It was the third time they had boiled this same bone.
"Drink, my son," she said softly, her hand resting on his head for a brief moment. "It is warm."
He took the bowl. The warmth was a ghost on his palms. He sipped the broth. It tasted of water and ash and despair. He could feel the eyes of the other children on him, and he felt a surge of shame for taking even this.
He watched the life of the cave. Two women were meticulously scraping the last remnants of fat and tissue from a frozen hide, their movements slow with fatigue. Another was trying to mend a torn fur with a bone needle and sinew, her fingers clumsy with cold. The children were listless, not playing, just sitting and staring at the fire. One little boy was chewing listlessly on a piece of leather strap.
This was not living. This was waiting to die.
Gron and Fen sat together near the fire, talking in low tones. Karuk could catch pieces of it.
"…the caribou grounds to the east…"Fen suggested, his voice hesitant.
"A five-sun walk,"Gron replied, shaking his head. "Through the Deep-Snow Pass. We would lose people. Maybe all."
"Staying,we lose all for sure," Fen said, his voice barely a whisper.
The shaman, a woman named Orla, began to chant by the fire. She shook a rattle made of a gourd and pebbles, her voice a low, rhythmic hum. She was calling to the Spirit of the Mammoth, begging it to return. She threw a pinch of dried herbs onto the embers, and a puff of fragrant smoke rose, a fleeting, sweet smell that was quickly swallowed by the cave's staleness.
Karuk saw the desperate faith on the faces of the tribe as they watched her. They needed to believe it would work. He wanted to believe it, too. But all he could see in his mind was the endless, empty white of the hunting grounds. The mammoth were not listening. The spirits were silent.
He finished the broth and set the bowl down, the hollow feeling in his stomach worse than before. The brief warmth of the liquid was gone, leaving a deeper cold behind. He looked at his father, the strong, proud leader of the Frost-Tribe, now looking old and broken. He looked at his mother, her beauty worn away by worry and hunger. He looked at Lana, who was so thin.
A hard, cold knot tightened in his chest. This was not enough. Trying the same things, following the same trails, praying to the same silent spirits—it was not enough. A strange, new feeling began to stir in him, something sharper than hunger, colder than the wind. It was the seed of a terrible thought: What if the old ways are wrong?
The wind screamed at the cave mouth, a mocking sound. The night stretched ahead, long and dark. Karuk closed his eyes, but he did not sleep. He just listened to the sound of his tribe slowly starving, and the new, defiant beat of his own heart.