Lamb on the Tundra

The end of the world hadn’t come with zombies. It didn’t come with falling asteroids or an exploding sun. It came with silence. Out on the tundra, where winter was slowly draining into spring, she no longer remembered her given name. Her grandmother just called her Lamb. It was Grandma who taught her to hunt, to shoot, to skin. Grandma taught her that in this bitter wilderness, everything was survival, and survival was everything.

Sunrise broke at just before six hundred hours. Lamb’s grandmother had taught her military time and she knew no other way. She had been up with the dawn, boiling water over the firepit. She wore a mask, but the burning odor of moss and dung still filled her nose as the smoky fumes pricked at her eyes. Even in late April, the frigid morning stung the exposed part of her face. A coat made from a caribou pelt and rabbit fur gloves protected the rest of her. Once, she remembered, she had had a purple coat. It was as shiny as a pearl, with gloves that clipped on the sleeves. She was wearing it as Grandma loaded her onto the plane.

Inside, Lamb brewed tea from the blueberry leaf she had harvested last summer. There were no mirrors in the cabin. Only a hazy reflection in the lake gave Lamb any idea of what she looked like. A stranger, had one still existed, would have described her as tall, lean, dark blonde. Her features were hardened by a lifetime of razor-sharp winds and her hands were calloused.

The radio sat on the table behind her, a film of dust over its top. Fifteen years ago, the cabin had been filled with news and music, attestation that the rest of the world was far away, but it was still there. A few times a year, Kenny the bush pilot would break through the noise to announce he was flying in.

On these supply drops, Kenny, a jovial man with a red mustache, would inevitably stay for supper. He was the only company they ever had. Along with batteries, bullets, seeds, and other essentials, Kenny brought novelty. Around the firepit, he told stories of his many arctic adventures, freezing in subzero temperatures, swimming through icy rapids, wrestling with moose. At which point Grandma would always say, “Kenneth, you’re full of shit.”

Before long, Lamb would be shooed off to bed. She never went to bed. Crouched down behind the cabin door, fur pelt over her head for cover, she’d crack the door open a hair’s width and listen.

“Well, Kenny?” said Grandma.

“World population’s down another thirty percent from last year,” he said, clutching his stoneware mug in his thick gloves. “But they say the vaccine…”

“Should be ready by the end of this year?” said Grandma. “That’s what they said last year. That’s what they’ve been saying for the past three years, Kenny. Since this whole thing started. Thirty percent.” She drained her coffee. “Maybe it’s just humanity’s time.”

“You can’t honestly believe that.”

“All I believe in is making sure that little girl in there lives to see another sunrise.” Grandma poked him. “And the last thing I need is you filling her head with a lot of stupid stories, making her think she can fight a moose.”

By the time Lamb was ten, Kenny was only flying into the tundra once a year. On his last trip, when she was fourteen, his mustache that had once curled like a ginger smile now sagged snow white. “It’s getting worse,” he said grimly to Grandma as he handed her a box. They never saw him again.

Two years later, the radio stopped.

The tea had finished brewing, and Lamb carried it to the bedroom. She set the mug down and lit the hanging gas lamp. A pelt was suspended above the bed, curtaining it off from the rest of the room. A feeble voice spoke from behind it. “Is that you, my Lamb?”

Lamb pushed aside the pelt. “Good morning, Grandma. I made you tea.” Gently, she lifted the old woman up from the bed. She was as light as a snowdrift as she rested against Lamb’s arm. Taking the mug, Lamb lifted it to her dry lips. “Are you hungry, Grandma?”

“No, no. Just tired,” she said, closing her eyes. “Just so very…tired.”

Lamb brushed aside wisps of white hair from her forehead; even lying under layers of fur, she was cold to the touch. Lamb held the mug back up. “Keep drinking. You’ve got to stay warm.”

Out here, death wasn’t personal. Falcons ripped apart rabbits with their talons. Wolves hunted caribou, picking off the slow and the weak. Within six months of living on the tundra, Lamb had learned how to set a snare. By the time she was eight, she was allowed to shoot. Her first kill was a white-tailed tundra chicken, small and pathetic and barely enough to make a decent stew.

There was only one time Lamb refused a kill. One of her snares snagged a fox kit, and as she bent over it, she could see it was still alive. Its paws were dappled black and red and its eyes were amber gold. It curled its upper lip away from its small, sharp teeth. Even young and trapped, it was fearless.

Grandma lifted the snare, wrapping her hand around the kit’s neck. Lamb grabbed her arm. “No, Grandma!”

“What do you mean no?” Grandma said sharply.

“He’s just a baby!” said Lamb.

“A baby that’ll grow up to steal our meat off the rack just like the rest of them,” said Grandma. “I’ll snap its neck and it won’t feel a thing.”

“Let me keep him!” said Lamb. “Please! I’ll feed him and take care of him! I’ll even keep him away from the meat rack!”

Grandma stared at her. “Have you lost your mind? This is not a pet! It’s a wild animal, no different than any of the squirrels or birds you’ve killed! Why does it deserve to live any more than they do?”

“Well, why do I?” said Lamb.

“You’re being ridiculous.” Grandma turned away, hands on its neck. “It’s survival of the fittest, Lamb.” Lamb couldn’t look. Instead she ran.

She ran and ran, eyes blinded by tears, mind blinded, for the first time in her life, by anger. Anger at her grandmother, anger at the injustice of it all, anger at her own weakness. She was so blinded by all of these things, she didn’t realize she had run beyond the crunching frost that layered the patchy earth. She didn’t realize she had run out onto the lake over its glass-thin surface. She didn’t realize, until she plunged.

Frigid water filled her mouth and lungs as the lake swallowed her up. Someone yelled a name. She couldn’t hear what it was. She was suspended in time, unable to move, unable to think. Unable to do anything but feel the cold.

Something jumped in the water next to her. The something grabbed her arm and then she was being dragged. Her head was forced above the surface, and she took in a choking breath of air. It felt like knives piercing her lungs, but she knew she was alive.

Lamb was dropped onto the shore, and for a moment, she just lay still, staring up into the blinding blue sky. Looking over, she saw Grandma lying next to her.

“What about survival of the fittest?” Lamb asked.

“Oh shut up,” said Grandma, hugging her tight.

Lamb had spent the next day wrapped in bear fur and eating hot soup. Now it was the old woman, whispering breath and tiny body, lying under a mountain of pelts.

She had been cooped up in this room for weeks. She hardly ate. When Lamb had told her about a seagull getting into the fishing bait, it barely seemed to register. Her solid, indestructible grandma, who could take down a muskox with a single shot, had withered away into the frail creature in the bed.

Lamb held the tea mug so Grandma could drink. “Spring will be here soon,” she said. Grandma didn’t answer. “Maybe if it warms up in the afternoon, I can carry you outside for a bit. Would you like to eat lunch outside, Grandma?”

“No,” she sighed. “Please, just let me sleep.”

“Fresh air will do you some good,” said Lamb.

“I’ve had a lifetime of fresh air,” said Grandma. “Now look at me.”

As Lamb started to turn, Grandma tried to sit up. “Wait.” Her hand fumbled weakly on Lamb’s wrist. “Don’t leave me.”

Lamb knelt as she took the hand in hers. The skin was cold and the fingers brittle, and as she held her, Lamb willed her own warmth to flow into her grandmother. “I promise. I’ll stay right here.”

“Thank you, my Lamb.”

For the rest of the day, Lamb sat by the bed. For hours, no sound was uttered as she watched her grandmother sleep. Finally, the silence became too tremendous. It felt as though she was back in the lake, being dragged down by the weight of her clothes, ice water in her lungs.

Lamb shot out of her chair, half convinced she was drowning. She stumbled over to the gas lamp and turned up the light. Under its glow, she could see a paperback on the table: Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas. Quickly, she grabbed it and sat down. The book, worn soft from years of handling, had been the only luxury Grandma allowed herself on the plane fifteen years ago.

For twenty minutes, Lamb numbly recited the familiar verses without emotion. Anything to fill the void. Almost from memory, she read but did not feel. Her own voice felt alien to her ears.

Out of the corner of her eye, something shifted. Grandma was awake. Her eyes were open, but they were unfocused as she gazed at the ceiling. “How are you feeling?” asked Lamb, relieved. “Would you like some stew?”

“Did I do the right thing bringing you out here?” Grandma whispered. “I just wanted you to be safe, far away from the sickness. Now there’s no one left. They’re all gone, and soon I’ll be gone.”

The words made Lamb feel ill. “Grandma, don’t talk like that.”

“We should’ve died with the others, let the disease take us. Now you’ll pay the price for my arrogance. You’ll be alone. The last…the last…”

“Maybe I’m not,” said Lamb. “There could be others.” Neither of them believed it, but it was a comforting lie nonetheless. “Maybe someday I’ll find them.”

Grandma lifted Lamb’s hand to her cheek. “A good, brave girl to the end.” She closed her eyes and drifted to eternal sleep.

Standing outside of the cabin, Lamb wanted to wail. She did not. Loud, high-pitched noises could attract predators, and the last thing she needed tonight was a bear. She swallowed her grief for now.

The ground was too solid, she knew. The active layer might soften enough tomorrow for her to dig, but she would never break through the rock-like permafrost. Her grandmother was dead, and she could not bury her. There was no choice. She would have to cremate the body.

The thought almost made Lamb throw up. It’s not my grandma, she thought. It’s just…an empty vessel.

Quickly, she gathered moss and dried dung from the bin. It wasn’t enough, not to burn a body for hours. She needed to make a pyre. In this treeless tundra, she needed wood.

For a moment, Lamb despaired. By the bin lay the axe. What good was an axe if she had no trees to chop?

Then again, it didn’t have to be a tree…

In her bed, Grandma looked as though she were merely sleeping. Perhaps she was. Perhaps Lamb had made a horrible mistake and she’d wake up at any moment.

Lamb stared at the body that had once been her grandmother. She knew it would never move again.

Gently, Lamb swaddled the body in pelts, covering the head and feet. Laying her on the floor, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m about to make a mess.” Standing over the bed, she raised the axe. It came down with a crash, sending splinters flying. Again and again until it was nothing but a shattered heap.

She built the pyre far away from the cabin, out on the plain under the brilliant Northern Lights. The swaddle lay nearby, but she would not look at it, did not want to think about the final step. Finally, it was complete, not pretty but sufficient. She placed the swaddle on the pyre. For a full minute, she just stared at the body concealed in bear fur. Out here, death wasn’t personal. One did what needed to be done. And so, she poured the fuel from her lantern over the pelt. She lit the match. A spark, a flame, and then another, and another. Its fingers wrapped around the pelt, singeing the fur and releasing its sharp, pungent odor.

Lamb sat down on the frozen earth. Only then did the dam of her grief break and she began to weep. She did not care if she was heard. Who would hear her? She was the last person on Earth. “Grandma, who am I without you?”

Something stirred on the plain. Lamb started. Quickly wiping her tears, she reached for the shotgun she’d brought for protection.

A fox. Lamb lowered the gun. She was in no mood to hunt.

It did not bolt as the Northern Lights did their magnificent dance behind it. Instead, it met her gaze soundlessly. Its paws were dappled black and red. Then it turned and walked away, back over the plain into the light. And in the shimmering green and pink ribbons above, she heard the answer.

“I remember,” she said. “I’m Agnes.”