Ice Country(21)

Heaters. What a day. Maybe I should lose at cards more often.

One of them speaks, using language that’s the same as ours, but sounds so different coming from his mouth, like every word’s rounder and longer. “I don’t recognize these two baggards,” he says, motioning to Buff and me.

“They’re new. Today,” Abe says.

The Heater nods, says, “Got a full load of searin’ tugmeat and at least ten bags o’ ’zard niblets. The king’s favorite.”

“That it?” Abe asks.

“Yeah,” the other Heater says. He’s taller than the first, but every bit as strong-looking. “Might be a coupla more months ’fore we have any special cargo.”

I look at Abe, wait for him to question what the brown guy means by special cargo, but he just shrugs. “Roan’s paid up that long anyway,” he says. “He’ll get his herbs either way.”

Herbs? What are these guys talking about? Tugmeat and ’zards I understand. Fire country delicacies. No big deal. The king probably gets them delivered all the time. But the other stuff—huh?

I glance at Buff, whose cheek is raised. He’s as confused as I am.





~~~





I come home in the dark with half a day’s pay and a stiff back. Although the trip to the border was fun and easy—what with the high-quality slider strapped to my feet—the jaunt back to the top of the mountain was long and grueling, especially because we were carrying huge packs of meat on our backs, along with our sliders. Hightower took about twice as much as everyone else though, so that helped quite a lot. Like Abe said, he’s handy to have around.

We dropped it off to a guy with a cart, just outside the palace walls. Abe told us good work and that the next job wouldn’t be for three days, so we should rest up and meet him back at the same place at dawn. And that was that. On account of being so icin’ exhausted, Buff and I barely said a word to each other as we walked back to the Brown District. Chill, I don’t even think I’d be in the mood to fight anyone, even if such an opportunity arose.

But still, I can’t complain. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve got the best job in the world.

Pausing a moment in front of our door, I stomp the snow off my boots and scrape the ice and muck off my shiny new slider. When I push through the door and duck inside, I feel a warm blast of heat from a healthy fire. Although it reminds me of the heat of the sun down at the border, it’s not the same. Nothing will ever be the same.

“Welcome back, Brother.” Wes is home already, having worked the dayshift, a smile plastered on his face as if he’s been like that all evening, just waiting for me. It’s a bigger smile than a new job warrants…

“What?” I say, somewhat rudely.

Wes strides over, claps me on the back. I flinch, suddenly feeling hot in my multi-layered getup. “Take a look,” he says.

“Take a look at wha—”

He cuts me off with a hand in the air, pointing.

I look at him strangely, then follow his gesture over to where—

I gasp. This has to be a joke. For weeks and weeks, months and months, when I came home from wherever I’d been, Wes would usually be out working, and Mother, well, she’d be in the same ice-powder-induced stupor, usually rocking on the floor, babbling about how the things in the walls were creeping in on her, or some such rot.

But not tonight.

Tonight she sits upright, in a chair. She’s still gazing into the fire, as if it might have beautiful pictures within the folds of its flames, but she’s not babbling. In fact, the sound coming out of her mouth brings back memories of some of the best times of my life, back when we were a family—me and Wes and Joles and Mother and Father. None of us staying with neighbors. None of us addicted to ice. None of us dead. A real family.

She’s humming.

It’s a tune she used to hum to us before sleep, when our eyelids were so heavy I swore there were boulders tied onto and hanging from them. Countless nights my last memory was of her smiling face, just hum-hum-humming us to sleep.

I can feel the smile that lights up my face, every bit as big as Wes’s, every bit as heartfelt. “What happened?” I whisper, as if raising my voice might break the spell, melt her back into the addict she became after my father died.

Wes shakes his head, claps me on the back again. “I’m not sure exactly. I was fixing to head for the mines, you know, shortly after you left. Joles had already scampered back on down the street. Mother was talking, mumbling, what sounded like her usual rubbish. But when I went to kiss her on the forehead, she looked at me.”

“She looked at you?” My words are unbelieving.