I pause on the edge of a large, snow-covered rock before I make the final descent, breathing in the crisp, pine-scented air and gazing down the mountainside. The first part is covered in a winter blanket of white, smooth and unmarked except for the handful of trails where the snowshoes of treejackers and miners have trod a deep path in the high crests of powdery snow. But eventually, beyond the snowy slopes, the mountain turns brown, dotted with heavy boulders and spindly, leafless trees. Further down still, heavy oaks rise tall and majestic, all the way to the edge of ice country, where it seems to collide with fire country. The desert, they call it, bare and lifeless. Even the sky seems to recognize the difference, as the moment the forest gives way to sand and dirt, the clouds stop, as if running up against an invisible barrier that ends their unceasing march across the night sky.
For a moment, as I have many times before, I wonder what’s out there, in fire country, beyond the borders. From what the men at Fro-Yo’s say, there are the Heaters, a peaceful tribe of desert-dwellers. Then there are the Glassies, who I like to call the Pasties, on account of how eerily white their skin is, even whiter than most of ours. No one really knows where they came from, but they’re our friends, too, apparently. According to King Goff’s shouters, who come down from the palace a few times a year to present us with news from the crown, we have trade agreements with both the Heaters and the Pasties. We give them wood, bear meat, and a few other odds and ends, and the Heaters give us what they call tug and ’zard meat, which have become something of a delicacy. I don’t know what either a tug or a ’zard is, but the few times I’ve been lucky enough to eat their meat, I’ve been impressed—it’s much better than bear or rabbit. The Heaters also help guard our borders, although I’m not sure who they’re guarding against. The Pasties, on the other hand, are something of an enigma. No one seems to know what we get from them in exchange for the provisions we provide them with.
I’ve never seen a Heater before, but the men at the pub say they have brown skin and are scared of being cold, whatever that means. That’s why they never come up the mountain. The Pasties, however, appear from time to time in the White District, on their way to the palace. They never stop at any of the local businesses, nor do they speak to anyone but each other. After disappearing through the palace gates, they reappear a few hours later and march right back down the mountain and toward fire country and their Glass City, which I’ve also never seen, other than in the paintings you can buy in Chiller’s Market. But as far as I’m concerned, the drawings are pure fiction—no one could build a glass structure big enough to enclose an entire town.
In fire country, there’s also the Fire, which we call the Cold, an airborne plague that kills many each year, both in fire and ice country. Only, down there, on the flatlands, it’s much worse, or so they say, killing many of them before their thirtieth year. I shudder as a burst of ice runs down my spine. If I lived in fire country, I’d be more than halfway through my life. At least up here where it snows almost every day of the year, the Cold is slowed, allowing us to live into our forties. It certainly puts things into perspective.
It’s forbidden to go to fire country, on account of the disease.
I turn to look up at the monster-like peaks rising above me to the north. Sometimes during the day, when a rare ray of sunlight manages to squeeze through the towers of clouds, one of the peaks looks like the head of a wolf, with caves for eyes and a gaping crevice with fang-like rock formations protruding from its craggy lips. But at night it just looks like a superior being, sturdy and unchanging, even when the whole world around it seems to be constantly moving in a million directions.
Under my breath I whisper a silent prayer to the Heart of the Mountain for luck tonight, and continue down the trail.
Buff’s family’s place is a dilapidated wooden structure that’s half the size of our sturdy house. Unlike our thick, full-trunked walls, their walls are constructed of thin planks with chunks of mud frozen solid between them. It does well enough to keep the cold air out, but only when there’s a fire going in a pit in the center and you’re wearing three layers of clothing. For Buff, going to Fro-Yo’s means a bit of real warmth he can’t get at home. I want to help him recover that right more than anything.
My hands are too cold to pound on another door, so I just open it.
Inside, there’s chaos.
One of Buff’s little sisters is shoveling spoons of soup into her mouth so fast that it’s dripping from her chin, while he tries to get her to eat slower. One of his younger brothers, who’s practically a clone of Buff, is running around naked as Darce tries to corral him into a melted-snow bath. Yet another little-person is painting streaks of brown on the wall with his hands. Only it’s not paint. It’s mud, which he’s collecting from a mushy pit on the dirt floor. The unmatched assortment of beds against one wall are scattered with a few more dozing children. Buff’s father isn’t there—another late night at the lumber yards.
When Buff sees me, he shoots me a thank-the-Heart-of-the-Mountain look, grabs his heaviest coat, and pushes me out the door, shouting, “Darce, I’m going out—be back late.” He slams the door behind him. “What took you so freezin’ long,” he snaps, his eyes darting around as if more of his maniac siblings might be hiding outside somewhere.
Smirking, I lay down my trump card. “Joles,” I say, not admitting to the five minutes of peace I spent on the mountainside.
His face softens and his eyes focus on me for the first time. “Alright, alright, you got me. C’mon.”
We make our way through his neighborhood, catching a few glances from the lucky few who happen to have windows in their huts, giving us looks and shaking their heads as if we’re no more than common hooligans. Don’t they know we have an almost perfect pub-fighting record? I stare right back at them, give them a growl, and a few of them shrink back and out of sight. I laugh.
“Do you have to do that?” Buff says.
“Yah,” I say. “What’s eating you, man? You’re acting all uptight tonight.”
Buff’s steps are more like stomps beside my easy footfalls. “I am not uptight!” he snaps, proving my point. He realizes it, shakes his head, and says, “I don’t know, I’m just nervous and frustrated about…” His voice fades into the night breeze.
“About Fro-Yo’s?”
Stomp, stomp, stomp. I stop him, put both hands on his shoulders. “It’ll be fine, all right? We’ll get the money, get our pub rights back, maybe even get real jobs afterwards. Then we’ll start our climb to the top, where it’ll be full of White District ladies dying to take us home to meet their parents. But we’ll reject every last one of them.”
Buff snorts. Finally my easygoing best friend is back. He slaps my arms away. “You can reject them all you want, but that doesn’t mean I have to.”
“Whatever pulls your sled,” I say.
We trudge along in silence for a few minutes. “Hey,” I say, remembering Looza’s pouch. “Want to share my stew?”
Buff flashes me a do-you-really-have-to-ask look, so I hand him the pouch. He slurps at it, groaning in delight. “You made this?” he says between his slurp-chews.
“Naw. It’s Looza’s.” I grab it back after he sucks in another mouthful. “Leave me some, man.” I ease some of the chunky liquid past my lips, relishing the perfectly balanced combination of flavors. Looza may not trust me to do the right thing by my sister, but she sure can whip up a good stew. I finish it off, wishing I’d asked for two servings, and then tuck the empty pouch in my pocket to return to her tomorrow.
We fight our way back up the same hill I just descended, and with each slipping, sliding step I wish we’d agreed to meet at my place. After a lot of heavy breathing and near falls, we reach the path to the Red District. It’s not really the kind of place most people would want to go at night, but we know our way around better than most.
As we pass a two-storied wooden structure on our left, a dark-eyed, silky-haired head pops out of a doorway, spilling soft reddish-orange light on the snow. “Hi, boys,” a lustrous voice drawls.