@anthonyscribbles
My son froze to death. Our cave was not enough to save him from the winter's icy teeth. I knew fire, even then, but the snow was too much, the wood too damp. Never did I forget my helplessness. I tried rocks, I tried sticks, I tried breath. But the fire wouldn't light. My partner never forgot, either. Many a season had our son seen, but had always remained her baby. She could not forgive me, for not saving him. Now the cave is mine alone. I paint its walls with my memories.
On the cold stone of my home, they haunt me. Even the mammoth, hunted pride of my youth, looms as a reminder of the strength I've lost to age. Once, I hunted them, but not anymore. Today, I must paint a new memory: another mammoth. I'll paint him to be big, and sturdy. He would have been strong, I think.
I met him among the tall trees beyond the mountain. The forest is a bad place for mammoths, but there he'd wandered. Runt though he was, his legs were tall as I and thick as the trees around us. His great frozen tusks curved towards the sky; his matted black fur was like a shadow on the snow. I turned to leave, but his eyes arrested me. They were the same brown as my son's. He looked at me, and I at him.
A cautious step forward did not scare the beast. Not did an extended hand, offering a berry. For all his size, this was a young mammoth, and a small one. Abandoned by his herd, I guessed. I fed him another berry, then another, until all I'd picked for the day's meal was spent. We needed more, and I knew where to find some. But the mammoth wouldn't move. I wanted him to join me, but he ignored my coaxing. So I left without him.
I was returning to his spot in the forest when I heard the hunters. That why I ran. I knew they'd prize his shadow-fur, the color he shared with my own son. The animal was easy to spot, and he'd never outrun them amongst the trees. No, the hunters would catch him; the hunters would kill him. They'd pierce his flesh with spears and blind him with fire. They'd howl and cheers when he came crashing down before them.
There wasn't much time. I waved my arms and pointed towards the sound of their voices. But the mammoth wouldn't move. When I placed a trail of berries in the snow, he ate only the ones within reach. The hunters were running; I could hear their footsteps. I tried to scare the animal: with my shouts, with my arms. But the animal wouldn't move. The hunters' winded gasps were only a few trees away. I yanked his fur and kicked his tusks. I punched his trunk and threw snow in his eyes. But the mammoth wouldn't move.
The hunters would soon see him. Two branches, hanging low, looked just dry enough to hold a flame. Yanking them from the tree, I began to make fire. As I worked, the hunters grew nearer. I had only moments. The frosty air pierced my lungs and numbed my fingers. It robbed me of my breath, and I wheezed as the sticks began to smoke. I breathed life into the fire, and the torch was ablaze. I brandished it at the mammoth, and commanded him to run.
But the mammoth wouldn't move.
The hunters leapt over the bushes. They thought I was hunting, too. The first spear pierced his shoulder. He roared a fearful roar, but wouldn't move. The second one penetrated his rib cage. Blood stained the creature's shadow-fur, and the white snow was colored red at his feet. But the pain was not enough; not even my flame before him could make the mammoth flee.
Desperation moved my hands before my mind was aware. From tree to tree I ran, until we were surrounded by a ring of fire that opened only behind the animal. The trunks creaked and popped like bones snapping, and the hunters screamed at me in a bewildered rage. Embers rained from the canopy as the fire spread; everyone but the animal shielded their eyes and mouths. I prodded at his rear, that he might turn to the opening and flee, but the mammoth wouldn't move.
A burning stick fell onto him, and I watched in horror as flames began to sprout from that precious hair. He was too tall for me to reach the fire that slowly engulfed his back. I begged for help—I wanted him to live! The hunters had gone. There we stood: two exiles in a blazing tomb. I sought his eyes, and the mammoth looked out at me with fear and pain clouding his vision.
The third spear flew through the wall of flames, and buried itself in his leg. I shouted my son's name, but the poor thing fell to the ground. I climbed up to extinguish his hair, but the skin was already burned away, and the mammoth lay dying.
In his final moments, I stroked his head and spoke whatever cold comfort I could. The hunters did not come back fro their prize. Perhaps they killed for pity. Perhaps they'd aimed for me.
The fire burned itself out, and its smoldering ashes gave me the tools to tell my mammoth's story. I'll paint him to be big, and sturdy. He would have been strong, I think, had he lived to see but a few seasons more.