Whatever this is.
Chapter Seven
The job is freezin’ easy.
First off, Abe gives us our own sliders. Beautifully carved, sanded, and polished planks of wood that are smoother than my arse was the day I was born. “Straight from the king’s stores,” Abe said when Hightower removes them from where they’re strapped to his back and hands them to us. Compared to the homemade sliders we used to make as kids, these are perfection. And somehow they fit our feet perfectly, as if someone came and measured our feet while we were sleeping. Stepping onto them, we put one foot in front of the other, tying the ropes tight around our ankles.
On they feel even better than they looked off. Buff’s smile says he’s thinking the same thing.
With a couple of whoops and a few hollers (and at least one grunt from Hightower), we push off from the mountain, and all the hours I logged sliding as a kid seem to surround me as I feel every bump, slide into every turn, and dodge every obstacle. Buff’s never been as good at sliding as me, but he has no trouble either. Compared to Nebo we’re both sliding geniuses, and compared to the others, well, we pretty much fit right in. I’ve got no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing, but if I’m getting paid for sliding down the mountain then I figure not asking questions should be no problem at all.
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.
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.
Wes raises his eyebrows. “I know what you’re getting at, and I swear it’s true. She looked at me, not through me. Not like I wasn’t even there. We made eye contact, and then her mumbles were reasonably coherent—weak sounding, yah—but real words and phrases. Of this world.”
“What’d she say?” I can’t help but to sneak another peek at her, my mother, who looks and sounds like a different person, what with her sitting in a chair and humming an old memory.
“She said she was sorry. She said she needed help. She said she loved us.”
“And that was it?”
“Not exactly. She said if you—meaning you, Dazz—could do it, then she could too. I think you getting a job inspired her.”
Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows. If they only knew. If Mother only knew. How my gambling losses led to a job that I’d swear was a gift from the Heart of the Mountain. If she knew that, would she still have been inspired? Doesn’t matter. Not one bit. What matters is she’s clean for the first time in a long time. But there’s a long way to go.
“Any signs of the need?” I ask Wes, who’s back to smiling. His lips curl opposite and he frowns. It’s almost like he was avoiding the topic. The few times we’ve been able to get Mother clean haven’t worked out so well. The need always comes back, and with it the shakes and the sweats and the cursing and the scratching. And then she gets her hands on some ice, almost magically, and we’re right back where we started.
This is life after Father.
“Not yet,” Wes says. “I skipped work today to watch her, but I can’t miss again.”
“I’ve got it covered for the next two days,” I say.
“Don’t tell me,” Wes says, and I can see what he thinks in his narrowed eyes.
“I still got a job,” I say, not getting angry at Wes’s assumption. It was probably a fair one anyway.
Wes frowns. “Then how do you got it covered?”
“We’ve got two days off,” I say, shrugging. “It’s different than most jobs.”
“I’ll say,” Wes says. “But they’re paying you?”
He wouldn’t believe me if I told him how much. But they took half of it to repay my debts, so what’s left over seems more reasonable. I show him the silver.
He whistles, high and loud. “That’s for a day?”
I shrug again, give him half. “For food and such,” I say.
He grins. “My brother, the working man.”
~~~
Wes thinks five to six days should do the trick. So I’ll watch her for the next two, then he’ll try to get off work again for the third, and hopefully I’ll get another couple of days off to cover the end of her needing period.
But I can’t wait that long to tell Jolie, even if I’m getting her hopes up more than I should.
I’m too excited to even take the time to get washed up before heading down the road. Neither do I eat anything before I leave. Truth be told, I’m secretly hoping for more of Looza’s famous stew. Talk about a perfect ending to a perfect day. I never knew having a job could be like this; if I did, I’d have gotten one as soon as I was done with school, when I was fourteen.
I find myself whistling the same tune Mother was humming as I stroll along, stepping in deep footprints made by someone a lot bigger than me. Not a care in the world.
I almost pass the house, which I never do. Because the lights are out, which they never are. Not this late anyway.
I stop, look along the row of squat, stone houses. Every last one’s got the orange glow of firelight coming from them. But not Clint and Looza’s place. Are they out? Do they ever go out? And if they did, wouldn’t they tell me? They know I come by to visit every night, without fail, even if it’s only for a minute before I traipse on down to Fro-Yo’s.
My heart’s beating faster and I don’t know why. There’s no cause for concern just because the lights are out. It is rather late—perhaps they turned in early. But still…
I peek in the window, see only darkness. And then—
I’m blinded by the flash of something bright and sharp in my eyes. A beam of light through the window. I cry out, look away, blinking at the spots as if they’re something I can crush between my eyelids.
Something’s not right, but I can’t see well enough yet. I keep blinking, furiously, rubbing at my eyes with the backs of my hands. When I open my eyes again I can still see the ghost of the light flaring up before my vision each time I blink, clouding it, but not enough that I can’t see at all.
As I grope for the door, there’s a scream, high-pitched and small and almost animalistic, desperate, but it’s cut off only halfway through.
Jolie.
My tainted vision is nothing. My aching muscles and bones are nothing. A surge of energy rips through me and I find the door, thrust it open, right away spotting the beam of light dancing away from me with scuffles and scrapes and muffled cries.
I’m a mountain lion and Jolie’s my cub. And whoever’s got her will face my wrath. With reckless abandon I barge through the house, trying to guide my feet by memory. Quick step to the left, avoid the table. Quick step to the right, avoid the—
CRASH! I bash into something soft, toppling it over and getting my legs all knotted up, bringing me down on top of it. There’s a muffled cry, but I’m already rolling off, because I don’t need even a shred of moonlight to know that it’s Looza, wide and soft and rough with ropes, tied up. Either Clint’s
the culprit, gone off-his-mind crazy, or he’s around here somewhere, tied up too.
I move on, barely catching a glimpse of the bouncing light as it exits out the back door, taking my sister with it.
An odd numbness buzzes through my legs, but I force them forward, charging for the door, meeting it just as it’s slammed in my face. I don’t feel the impact—because it’s my sister they’ve got—just bounce off, rock on my heels, push off, tear open the door, leap out into the frozen night.
The light’s there, stopped, as if waiting for me. I can’t see past it, because it’s like a shield, glowing round and bright, blocking my vision as effectively as a stone wall. I’m unsure for a second, because up until this point, the light’s been running, so of course I had to try to catch it. But now that I’ve caught up, my bear-in-an-ice-sculpture-museum routine may not be the most effective method of getting Joles back.
Fists clenched at my sides, I take a step forward. “Give her bac—”
Just like during the fight at the pub, something wallops me in the back of the head. The light and Jolie’s muffled cries and my perfect day…all go black.
Chapter Eight
A bad dream. I know that’s what it was as soon as I open my eyes. Almost like a trick, it had good parts, like getting a job and my mother being clean and Jolie being able to come home to live with us again, before turning nightmarish with a bright light and a rock to the back of the head.
I quiver, trying to separate dream from reality. Why am I so cold?
Heavy swirls of gray and black shift overhead, spitting bits of white. Some of it lands on my face and I wipe it away.
A voice echoes hollowly from somewhere. A dream voice?
A dream inside a dream, maybe. When I wake up I won’t remember, because I never remember my dreams.