around us, pushing life into our
limbs and hope into our hearts. Maybe, just maybe, by our own
stupidity we’ve stumbled upon the perfect job for us.
With every passing minute my body temperature
warms, both from the athletic exertion and because some of the
sting seems to drain from the air, as if our very motion is
siphoning the cold away. Eventually, the thick, powdery snow thins,
giving way to hard packed ice that propels us forward at speeds
that are beyond anything I’ve ever imagined, sending bolts of
excitement up my spine and whirling around my chest.
It’s easy. Abe leads, and we follow, matching
his every turn, cut, and angle, until the ice turns to slush, like
it does sometimes in the Brown District in the very heart of the
summer when it hasn’t snowed for a few days and the sun sneaks a
peak between the clouds.
Except this slush seems permanent, like it
never really gets solid again, not even after a good snowfall. Like
maybe it’s not cold enough to sustain it.
A minute later my eyes widen and something
lurches in my stomach when I see what lies ahead. Armies of trees,
as spindly and free of leaves as the ones that surround the
village, but different somehow. It takes me a moment to realize
what it is. They’re not covered in snow. We’re in the thick of
winter, the coldest time of year, and they’re as brown and
snow-free as if it’s the least cold summer day of the year.
As I’m thinking all this, Abe pulls up,
sending up splashes of brown muck that seem as much dirt as snow,
and even then, snow is a loose term. In fact, it’s almost
more water than snow. We’re sliding on water and dirt.
We stop in a line, staring out at the brown
and gray forest before us, naked, as if its white blanket has been
picked up by a giant and rolled away, leaving it bare and
unprotected. And beyond the trees are flatlands, dotted with
strange green and gray plants, with gnarled branches, protruding at
strange angles. The land is so flat I can see for miles, all the
way to the horizon, where the cloud-free sky starts its rise in a
pool of red blood. From where we’re standing, a full quarter of the
sky is red, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Welcome to the border,” Abe says, grinning.
I grin back just as Nebo slides past us, out of control until he
loses his balance and crashes down the river of water melting off
the mountainside.
~~~
When we reach the border, the barest glint of
sunlight slices through the battalions of gray before the clouds
are able to close ranks and block it again. The sun is high in the
sky, at its peak: midday has arrived. A full half day of work spent
sliding down the hill. Not too shabby.
To think, the border can be reached in only a
half day. If it wasn’t for the fear of catching the Cold, you’d
think Icers would come down to see it all the time, regardless of
whether the king forbids it.
Then I see them: the Heaters. People of fire
country. My first ever glimpse.
Two brown-skinned men man a lonely wooden
watchtower that rises above the trees at the very edge of ice
country. I can’t take my eyes off them as they hop over a railing
and descend a planked ladder, wearing almost nothing. They must be
colder than a baby who’s lost its blanket!
But then I feel it. A sort of tingling that
starts in my toes and stretches up my legs and through my torso.
Eventually it reaches my fingers and even the tip of my nose,
leaving everything feeling…warm. Nay, more than that. More than
warm. Hot. Like I’ve just stepped into our fireplace back at home,
letting the flames surround me. Sweat beads on my face and drips
off my nose and chin.
I look around to see if anyone else is
feeling the same sensation.
While I’ve been staring at the Heaters,
everyone else’s been stripping. Bearskin coats and gloves and hats
are flying all over the place, discarded haphazardly. Buff’s got
his pants half off too, leaving the bottom half of his muscled
limbs and hope into our hearts. Maybe, just maybe, by our own
stupidity we’ve stumbled upon the perfect job for us.
With every passing minute my body temperature
warms, both from the athletic exertion and because some of the
sting seems to drain from the air, as if our very motion is
siphoning the cold away. Eventually, the thick, powdery snow thins,
giving way to hard packed ice that propels us forward at speeds
that are beyond anything I’ve ever imagined, sending bolts of
excitement up my spine and whirling around my chest.
It’s easy. Abe leads, and we follow, matching
his every turn, cut, and angle, until the ice turns to slush, like
it does sometimes in the Brown District in the very heart of the
summer when it hasn’t snowed for a few days and the sun sneaks a
peak between the clouds.
Except this slush seems permanent, like it
never really gets solid again, not even after a good snowfall. Like
maybe it’s not cold enough to sustain it.
A minute later my eyes widen and something
lurches in my stomach when I see what lies ahead. Armies of trees,
as spindly and free of leaves as the ones that surround the
village, but different somehow. It takes me a moment to realize
what it is. They’re not covered in snow. We’re in the thick of
winter, the coldest time of year, and they’re as brown and
snow-free as if it’s the least cold summer day of the year.
As I’m thinking all this, Abe pulls up,
sending up splashes of brown muck that seem as much dirt as snow,
and even then, snow is a loose term. In fact, it’s almost
more water than snow. We’re sliding on water and dirt.
We stop in a line, staring out at the brown
and gray forest before us, naked, as if its white blanket has been
picked up by a giant and rolled away, leaving it bare and
unprotected. And beyond the trees are flatlands, dotted with
strange green and gray plants, with gnarled branches, protruding at
strange angles. The land is so flat I can see for miles, all the
way to the horizon, where the cloud-free sky starts its rise in a
pool of red blood. From where we’re standing, a full quarter of the
sky is red, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Welcome to the border,” Abe says, grinning.
I grin back just as Nebo slides past us, out of control until he
loses his balance and crashes down the river of water melting off
the mountainside.
~~~
When we reach the border, the barest glint of
sunlight slices through the battalions of gray before the clouds
are able to close ranks and block it again. The sun is high in the
sky, at its peak: midday has arrived. A full half day of work spent
sliding down the hill. Not too shabby.
To think, the border can be reached in only a
half day. If it wasn’t for the fear of catching the Cold, you’d
think Icers would come down to see it all the time, regardless of
whether the king forbids it.
Then I see them: the Heaters. People of fire
country. My first ever glimpse.
Two brown-skinned men man a lonely wooden
watchtower that rises above the trees at the very edge of ice
country. I can’t take my eyes off them as they hop over a railing
and descend a planked ladder, wearing almost nothing. They must be
colder than a baby who’s lost its blanket!
But then I feel it. A sort of tingling that
starts in my toes and stretches up my legs and through my torso.
Eventually it reaches my fingers and even the tip of my nose,
leaving everything feeling…warm. Nay, more than that. More than
warm. Hot. Like I’ve just stepped into our fireplace back at home,
letting the flames surround me. Sweat beads on my face and drips
off my nose and chin.
I look around to see if anyone else is
feeling the same sensation.
While I’ve been staring at the Heaters,
everyone else’s been stripping. Bearskin coats and gloves and hats
are flying all over the place, discarded haphazardly. Buff’s got
his pants half off too, leaving the bottom half of his muscled
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