BERINGIA: THE LAST LAND

The reindeer did not come.

Ara had been standing on the hill since before sunrise.

Grass stiffened by the night’s frost brushed against her ankles. The wind came from the north. It carried a cold, dry scent. Each time she breathed out, a white cloud bloomed before her face and vanished almost at once.

The plain was quiet.

Too quiet.

Ara narrowed her eyes and looked west.

Every year at this time, the sound came first from behind the low hills in the distance.

Thud.

Thud. Thud.

Hundreds—thousands—of hooves striking the frozen earth.

Then the dust would rise.

And after that, reindeer beyond counting would pour across the plain until they seemed to fill the whole world.

That was when the Wind People began preparing for winter.

The hunters ran with their spears while those who remained behind butchered the animals they brought back. Meat was dried. Fat was gathered and stored separately. Hides were stripped and worked. Bones were kept. Antlers were kept. Even the sinews were dried and saved.

When the reindeer came, it meant they could survive the winter.

But this year, nothing had come.

Ara bent her knees and touched the ground.

It was cold.

And hard.

“You’re watching again?”

A voice came from behind her.

Ara did not turn. She already knew who it was.

“Maybe they’ll come today.”

It was her younger brother, Nuru.

At eleven, Nuru still had the softness of childhood in his face. But he carried a small spear in one hand, much shorter than the ones the adults used.

Ara said nothing.

Nuru came to stand beside her.

“Father went hunting again today.”

“I know.”

“He’ll bring back a rabbit, at least.”

“Probably.”

Nuru studied his sister’s face.

“You don’t look like you believe that.”

Only then did Ara smile.

“Since when did you get so good at reading my face?”

“Since I was born.”

“Liar.”

“You were six when I was born.”

“Exactly. So how would you remember?”

Nuru closed his mouth.

A moment later, they both laughed.

But the laughter did not last.

The plain was still empty.

Nuru was the first to ask.

“Are they really not coming?”

This time, even Ara could not answer easily.

The reindeer had been late before. It had happened in years when the snow came early. It had happened when the river froze later than usual.

But never this late.

Not once, as far as Ara could remember.

And she knew something else—something the others had not yet begun to say aloud.

It was not only the reindeer that had disappeared.

Three days ago, the bison that were always seen in the eastern marshes were gone. Yesterday, she had found no horse tracks by the river. For several days now, the wolves had been howling from much farther away than usual.

It was as if the world were slowly emptying.

“Let’s go down,” Ara said.

“Why?”

“The wind is going to get stronger.”

Nuru looked up at the sky.

There was not a cloud in sight.

“How do you know?”

Ara pointed toward the northern horizon.

“There.”

Nuru stared for a long time.

“What’s there?”

“Nothing.”

“So?”

“That’s why.”

Nuru looked as confused as ever.

Ara did not explain further.

On days when the sky was too clear, the north wind sometimes rose without warning. Her grandmother Hara had taught her that.

Hara used to say that the sky did not speak.

But if you watched it long enough, it warned you first.

Ara was better at reading the ground than the sky.

Tracks.

Broken grass.

Animal hair.

The hardness of droppings.

The direction in which the wind carried a scent.

Some people called it a useless habit.

Her father did not.

Ever since she was little, he had laughed when he saw her walking with her eyes fixed on the ground.

“One day, you’ll find the animals before I do.”

Ara had believed him.

And she had wanted that day to come.

But today, she did not want to find any animal at all.

She wanted the entire reindeer herd simply to appear beyond the plain.

The two of them walked down the hill.

Below lay twenty-nine small shelters pressed low against the ground. They were made from wooden poles and hides. From a distance, they looked like stones flattened by the wind.

Smoke rose from the center of the settlement.

Several people were gathered around a fire.

As Ara and Nuru approached, they heard the conversation.

“We have to cut the meat again.”

“The children eat first.”

“Wait until the hunters return.”

“Return with what?”

The last speaker was Bara.

He was a large man with broad shoulders. When he saw Ara, he stopped speaking for a moment.

“Went up the hill again?”

“Yes.”

“Did they come?”

Ara shook her head.

Bara gave a short, bitter laugh.

“Thought so.”

Uma, an old woman sitting beside him, glared at him.

“Don’t say things like that.”

“It’s true.”

“There is a time for words.”

“Is there a time for hunger?”

The people around the fire fell silent.

Bara said no more.

Ara went to find her mother, Naya.

Inside their shelter, Naya was looking into a leather bag. It held dried meat.

When Ara entered, Naya quickly closed it.

But Ara had already seen.

There was not much left.

“How many days?” Ara asked.

“How many days of what?”

“Meat.”

“That isn’t something you need to worry about.”

“How many?”

Naya looked at her daughter for a moment.

Ara did not look away.

At last, her mother sighed.

“Twenty days, if we divide it carefully.”

“Twenty?”

“If we don’t reduce the children’s share.”

“And after that?”

“The reindeer will come.”

Naya said it, but there was no strength in her voice.

Ara looked outside the shelter.

“What if they don’t?”

Her mother’s hands stopped moving.

After a moment, Naya said, “We’ll talk when your father comes back.”

Ara did not ask again.

By the time the sun had climbed high, the hunters returned.

Six men had gone out.

Only five came back on their feet.

Everyone rushed outside at once.

Ara ran with them.

Her father, Takan, was at the front.

He was tall and lean. There was blood on his shoulder.

“Father!”

Ara ran toward him, but Takan raised a hand.

“Not my blood.”

Behind him, two men were dragging something.

A small deer.

It was so thin that its ribs showed through its hide.

Relief appeared on the faces around Ara for an instant, then disappeared.

One deer.

Not enough to feed so many people for even a day.

Ara counted the hunters again.

“Where’s Ramu?”

No one answered.

Takan turned his head.

Behind the two hunters was something long, covered with hide.

Ara did not ask again.

Nuru came running, then stopped.

The smile vanished from his face.

Ramu had a five-year-old daughter.

A little while later, the child’s crying spread through the shelters.

Ara tried not to listen.

She heard it anyway.

That day, the smell of venison and the sound of mourning filled the home of the Wind People together.

Near sunset, the elder Torak called everyone together.

They gathered around the central fire.

Torak was not the oldest man among the Wind People, but everyone listened when he spoke.

He had survived many winters.

His beard was gray, and an old scar crossed his left cheek.

“From today, we divide the meat again.”

Someone began to protest, but Torak raised a hand.

“Children and nursing mothers receive the same as before. Hunters receive the same. Everyone else gets less.”

Bara asked, “Until when?”

“Until the reindeer come.”

This time, Ara spoke.

“What if they don’t?”

Her father looked at her.

So did Torak.

Firelight shifted in the elder’s eyes.

“They will.”

“Why?”

Every face turned toward Ara.

Naya spoke softly.

“Ara.”

But Ara did not stop.

“Because they came every year, they have to come this year too?”

Torak’s expression hardened.

“What are you trying to say?”

“The reindeer aren’t the only animals that are gone.”

Ara looked around at the others.

“There are fewer bison. I haven’t seen the horses. Even the wolves are farther away.”

“And?”

“The animals are moving.”

Bara scoffed.

“What is strange about animals moving?”

“They’re all going the same way.”

Several people exchanged looks.

Torak asked, “Which way?”

Ara answered.

“East.”

The wind blew.

For a moment, the flames bent low.

Torak’s expression changed.

Only for an instant.

But Ara saw it.

Surprise.

No.

Fear.

Then Torak’s familiar face returned.

“You’re mistaken.”

“You haven’t even checked.”

“There is no need.”

“Why?”

“Because there is nowhere to go in the east.”

Ara opened her mouth again, but her father spoke first.

“Enough.”

“Father.”

“Enough.”

Takan’s voice was quiet but firm.

Ara bit her lip.

Torak looked around the gathering.

“Tomorrow we send another hunting party. They’ll go as far as the south side of the river.”

One by one, the people dispersed.

Ara did not move.

She watched Torak walk back toward his shelter.

His hand was trembling.

Only slightly.

But unmistakably.

Torak was afraid when he heard the word east.

Why?

Night deepened.

Ara could not sleep.

The wind struck the hide wall of the shelter.

Beside her, Nuru slept curled into a ball.

Her mother was asleep too.

Her father was gone.

He was probably helping with Ramu’s body.

Ara rose quietly.

She pulled on her furs and stepped outside.

The fire had almost gone out.

The sky was full of stars.

Ara walked east alone.

She did not go far.

There was a place she had noticed during the day.

A dry streambed.

A few days earlier, she had seen horse tracks there.

Ara bent over the ground.

The moonlight was weak.

She touched the soil with her fingers.

One.

Two.

Three.

Horse.

Old tracks.

East.

A short distance away, she found another trail.

Bison.

Also east.

Ara felt her heart begin to beat faster.

She walked a little farther.

Reindeer tracks.

Many of them.

At first, she thought they belonged to only a few animals.

They did not.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Perhaps more.

The problem was the direction.

Every track led east.

Ara dropped to one knee.

She placed her fingers against the frozen earth.

Then she saw something strange among the reindeer prints.

She leaned closer.

It did not belong to an animal.

A heel.

A sole.

Toes.

A human footprint.

Ara stopped breathing.

There was another beside it.

And another.

It was not one person.

Someone had already gone east.

Ara slowly lifted her head.

Beyond the black plain, she could see nothing.

Then it came.

Very far away, something rode the wind.

Ara went still.

Not a wolf.

Not a reindeer.

A human voice.

Once.

Then again.

This time, clearer.

Someone was shouting.

From the east.

Ara rose.

And began to run.

Not toward her people.

Toward the voice.

Ara did not yet know that the stranger she would meet that night would break an ancient taboo of the Wind People, lead them to abandon the land they had always known, cost many lives, and finally draw them toward a world none of them had ever imagined.

It was all beginning

in the east.