Ice Country(20)
We carve up the mountain for almost an hour, feeling the icy wind whipping 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 legs looking exceedingly white and hairy in his black undergarments. The others are taking their pants off, too, but underneath they’re wearing some kind of short pants, looser than undergarments, and much less embarrassing. Without any other choice, I follow Buff’s lead and strip down to my skivvies, relishing the feel of the warm—not just not cold, but warm! like it’s full of hot stew or warm tea—air. Although I feel out of place amongst the other more appropriately clad Icers, once the Heaters approach I feel better. They’ve got next to nothing on—just a thin cloth covers their torsos, giving them an almost savage look. Their hair and eyes are dark, and their bodies lean and tight and firm, like their skin’s been twice-stretched over their bones and muscles. They carry long spears and have wooden bows looped on their backs with leather straps.