My Books > Secrets > Snowfall

A thousand brothers in my head, but some are closer to me than others. This brother is one such. ‘Brother drowning in the snow when the mammoth falls on him.’ Or as Dave calls him, Snowfall.

The incident of the mammoth occurred when my brother was newly Changed, on his ritual mammoth hunt. It captures something important about this brother. It was funny. This brother is like a clown. Things happen to him. Accidents. He appears clumsy, and then he saves himself. He is quick and strong … and lucky.

I am sorry for the inadequacy of my words. I do not know how to express the laughter in my brother’s soul, the lightness of his spirit. These are not characteristics of our people, but this brother comes nearest to achieving a light heart.

In my mind, at the moment his memory was captured in the line, he is about ten winters past his Change. About twenty-two, twenty-three, that would make him. We are all clones, of course, and yet there are differences born of the different worlds in which we live. Snowfall is quite solid — a little shorter than I am, and quite a bit heavier. The hair that covers him is very thick. The climate is very cold in his time.

Snowfall’s heart-brother is proud of Snowfall, proud of the way he lightens our spirits, of the strength of his heart. I know this although of course his heart-brother isn’t part of my line. But I know how he felt about Snowfall. His feelings for Snowfall are an important part of Snowfall’s image of himself.

Let me tell you a story of Snowfall.

We are tired. Beyond hunger. Light-bodied, distant-from-the-world, pared to the bone, gutted. We know we cannot last much longer, we know what we will have to do if this night brings us nothing.

One of us will have to die so that the rest might live. The thought is a grief beyond bearing. The death of a brother is always a deep sorrow, but this time … I know who will be chosen.

We fan out in pairs. My heart-brother and I track along a frozen stream, bending low, scanning the ice for shadows, searching the banks for signs of tracks. We know this stream. Remember it edged with tall, pale grass and bright flowers, remember it bordered by drifts of crisp snow, remember it in bright moonlight, and in dark skies and driving snow. But none of my memories remember the fast rushing water stilled by cold.

The world is frozen. I know there are other animals in this dark, frozen waste, but I also know, if we find them, it will be by chance. The snow is a fury of hard-edged ice, blotting out smell, blurring hearing, reducing vision. Always touching, my brother and I creep along the bank, and then, when we are sure it will hold us, along the stream itself. The cold creeps into our bones, and images of hot blood and steaming flesh dance in our minds, blinding us to the world. Doggedly we push away the memories. We have to find prey. Or a brother will die.

Halfway into our time, we stop, and look at each other, and my heart-brother embraces me, and for the space of ten heart-beats he holds me close, his breath warm in my hair, the scent and warmth of him an infinite comfort. Then we cross to the far bank and walk four paces from the stream. We can go no further if we are to use the stream as our guide. We head back.

The moon is low when we reach the place from which we came. Four brothers are already there. Failure and grief hang about them like the scent of decay. We greet them, sharing images of our search. One of them is of my line. Four winters older than I. We hold each other tightly, letting our minds dream of our line-brother, remembering him, preparing for our grief.

We wait for the others to return.

Two by two they drift in. No prey. No sign of any prey.

Hope fading.

Our grief grows with every brother. Until we are all there, and there is an end to hope, and it is time.

We scoop a hollow in the deep snow, pressing it into a barricade against the howling wind. We huddle together around the chosen brother, letting our minds drift back to happier times, warmer times. We find favorite memories and share them with our brothers. We groom our brother carefully, tenderly. We are weak, dizzy with hunger, desperate for flesh. But this is our brother. More than flesh. More than a means of survival.

Part of us.

We eat the snow to moisten our dry mouths, then lick our brother all over. As his brother had done when he was born. And then, one by one, each brother presses his head to his, saying Farewell. Saying We love you. We will always remember you. You will be with us forever.

And finally, it is my turn.

I remember with him the moment I was born. The last little brother he brought into the world. We remember him licking me all over, his love the first thing I was aware of in the world. He shares his pride in me. Remembers his fear when the mammoth had fallen on me on my Change-hunt, remembers his relief when I wriggled out of the snow beneath the beast, and his pride when I leapt up, laughing, and grasped the flailing trunk and bit down with all my strength. I remember with him his heart-brother, dead now many seasons. But not gone. Never gone. We welcome the memory of his heart-brother to our sharing and together we experience again the first time the two of them had played. And then, as in memory they laugh, I bring my head down on his neck with all my speed and strength.

I drink his blood, then hold him as each of our brothers drink.

And then, lovingly, remembering, we consume his flesh.