The Females Are Not Coming Back

The females are not coming back. No one knows where the rumor came from, but we believe it right away. We should be stronger than that, after all this is hardly the first season. That is not to say that it has ever been easy. The ice, the fast, the walk—these are the obvious things. You know all about this from the documentaries, hushed commentary rousing tender admiration for our species’ unparalleled will to live. Such tenacity, you might say while dabbing a hot eye, something to inspire us all.

But you probably don’t know about the jealousy and the lobbying, the politics of who gets whom and who stands where. There is a lot of this. After all, once the females leave, there is not much left for us to do.

So at first, I refuse to believe it. Clearly the work of an under-stimulated mind, I tell those around me, natural, given the conditions. It has been a harsher winter than usual. To his credit, it is an elegant ruse, simple yet effective, I say generously. But the others are not interested in what I have to say. What they are interested in is exactly where the females could have gotten lost or who would be leading the mutiny if, hypothetically, there had been one. Whether it is possible for the ice to shift without us noticing, and if there is a predator in existence that could have eaten them all. Whether there is any reason at all that they would choose not to come back.

Eventually a meeting is called. We gather in the usual place, where the ground is marked by an ugly gash of ice lunging upwards, a miniature mountain tipping over. Its edges are polished razors, its skin opaque like the moon, and it has been here for as long as we can remember. Every season it is a little different: sometimes taller and more terrible, other times solid, snowed over and comforting. We call it the anvil.

The previous leader liked to stand atop the anvil, especially when he spoke. He would clamber up its south face and get as high up as he could, coming to a small ledge where he stood, eyes horizon-glazed and chest oratorial. Not our leader. Our leader speaks from the anvil’s shade, his back pressed up against its slow bulk. Here he is protected from the hungry, whipping wind.

It is from this position now that he says matter-of-factly: “They are coming back. For where else could they go? We must examine the facts. They are late. It is unusual, but not impossible, that they have been detained. It could be anything—a storm, sickness, fight—anything. Even if,” he stops, and the howling wind rushes in, devouring the pause. We are relieved when he starts speaking again. “If they were not coming back. We would have to face the hard truth, that our options are exceedingly limited.”

“Say, for argument’s sake, the rumor were true. The females are not coming back. It grows late. We are weak from the fast, our reserves are low. The hatching will soon begin. What are we to do? What can we do?”

Someone says: “But we have to do something. What if they need our help? We can’t just do nothing.”

“Did I say we would do nothing? Do you remember how I became the leader?”

The interrupter is silent. Of course we remember, some better than others. There were five sacrifices this season.

“We will send scouts,” the leader continues, his voice level again. “They will go towards the water and bring back information, so we can form a sensible plan of action. They will look for the females.”

This is deemed to be not such a bad idea. After all, even if they do not find the females, the scouts will be able to fish.

“Who will volunteer?”

These are the same words the leader says at the start of each season, but no one ever volunteers for the sacrifice. That we draw lots for.

Standing somewhere...