Chapter Eight: The Barren Beauty
George pushed tentatively at the ice with his foot.
“I heard a crack”, said Anthony, who stood a few feet away on the river bank.
“Maybe it was just taking the strain?” offered George, not taking his eyes from the foot which he'd stepped onto the frozen river with.
“Maybe you are too much of an optimist”, responded Anthony.
“Ah”, said George, “so is the river half-frozen or half-thawed then, Anthony?” stepping back and turning to his companion.
“Either way I don't think the best way to find out is walking across. Are you certain there are no bridges?” asked Anthony.
“This is not Lon-don, Anthony. We are far from anywhere that might be called civilised. These are beautiful but harsh lands. I am certain that this is where I crossed the ice when I came this way but days ago.”
“Maybe it was colder then, the ice thicker”, said Anthony, not really believing the words himself. If anything it felt like the temperature dropped with every passing hour. He glanced back at the tree line about fifty yards away, the river bank was clear all the way along and the wind raced over them with reckless icy-cold abandon.
George pushed at a few more patches of ice cautiously and said, “I am sorry I cannot impress you again but ice is not quite the same as snow. One day, perhaps I will master it.”
“Don’t apologise, please. I can’t do any better, can I?” offered Anthony.
They'd travelled through the forest for about a week. During that time Anthony had learnt much of Avalen and its peoples. He learned about Fenn, the infinite city, about the first Great Fenn, revered by all, and about his descendants who now ruled, revered only by some it seemed. Though none of George's answers to Anthony's many questions had solved the riddle of his own purpose here, and what the absent Kannis had intended to do with him, they did at least give him a much needed background on the world in which he now found himself.
Thoughts of dreams, madness and comas had receded to the back of Anthony's mind. When he woke on frosty mornings to find a white forest bathed in snowflakes he found it more and more difficult to imagine this world to be anything other than that which it seemed to be. The wildlife became rarer and rarer too. He assumed the birds, squirrels and bears which he'd seen in his early days in Avalen had either succumbed to the cold or were hibernating.
The cold weather had brought new life with it, however. George had introduced him to several entities who had awoken due to the sudden onset of winter and seemed to be thoroughly pleased with the change of circumstances.
One such species were the snow fairies who, after a short time, Anthony discovered were responsible for the provision of the food he was eating. George told him that snow fairies were very maternal creatures who had been only too happy to help when he had told them of the outsider and his predicament.
They seemed to be just tiny globes of light whilst in motion, but when they slowed down to drop off the increasingly rare fruits Anthony was able to identify their features. The arms, legs and bodies lacked any detail; they were just white silhouettes and only the faces and wings had any definition. They had small smiling faces with little locks of pure white hair and wings which were made from snowflakes. They were charming and helpful little creatures and as well as the many fruits they also located and carried fire stones to Anthony each night, even though they complained to George that the smooth black stones burned their skin when they touched them.
After a few nights, Anthony had asked George why, if he was able to hear and understand the Snowman, he could not communicate with the fairies. George had spread his arms wide and shrugged, a gesture he was doing more and more as he ran out of easy answers and was pressed on the more complex aspects of life in the world of dreams.
'Dream-speak is not a language like that which you find in the mortal world. You and I may be speaking completely different tongues yet understand each other, why you cannot speak to the fairies, I do not know', he said.
They spent a little while walking up and down the river bank looking for a stronger point to cross but the ice looked the same all the way along. In the end they decided to bite the bullet. They picked a point and walked across with a wide gap between them, in order to spread the weight being put upon the ice. George had told Anthony that this was the Falkern River. When Anthony had asked if it was named after the person who discovered it the Snowman shook his head and told him it was named after the dreamer who dreamed it.
As Anthony walked gingerly across the icy river he looked down and was surprised to see movement, not of water but other things beneath the ice; fish of all shapes and sizes, many of which glowed with multi-coloured light. As he moved on he noticed lights beside him, and looked up to see the snow fairies had followed them out onto the ice. Several dozen of them hovered around giving encouraging smiles and whispering to each other. Anthony found their presence comforting.
Even though they'd crossed at a narrow point the river was still around a hundred yards across. They were about halfway across something happened. The snow fairies, who were dancing happily around them, suddenly looked afraid and flew at incredible speed back across the river and into the tree line. Then Anthony heard it, a low drone, in the distance but coming closer.
Anthony stopped and looked over at George who was also craning his neck and listening. Then his face took on a fearful expression and his eyes locked to Anthony's.
“Run”, he said, starting to sprint across the ice. Anthony hesitated for only a moment before following him as quickly as he could. As he moved he heard the ice cracking beneath him and the noise of rushing water as some of it disintegrated and disappeared into the flow, but over those sounds he heard the droning getting closer and closer. He jumped the last few feet onto the bank and turned to see the trail of broken ice and holes where the river water could be seen. Barely had he stopped for a second before George grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the trees. The tree line was closer to the bank on this side of the river so it didn't take long until they were into the trees and hidden in some large frosty bushes. They'd hunkered down for only a few seconds when Anthony saw the first of them come into view.
It looked like a thin squashed boat with a pointed prow. It was silver with bands of a different kind of metal running around the hull. There were no masts or sails, the vessel was high up but even so Anthony could see figures walking around on deck. It passed over them and then he saw more come into view. They were all of similar dimensions and as he studied them he saw that just below the deck what looked like cannons were sticking out.
As they passed overhead the droning noise grew so loud that Anthony was forced to cover his ears. Dozens and dozens of the vessels flew over, Anthony soon lost count. It took several minutes for the entire flotilla to pass them. The silence they left in their wake was palpable.
“What were they?” asked Anthony.
“Sky-ships from Fenn, the King's fleet”, George said sombrely.
“Looking for us?” asked Anthony.
“Looking for you”, corrected George, “but no, I don't think so. They were all together and moving at speed, if it was a search party then I would expect them to have been spread out and moving slower and closer to the ground. This was not a search party, it was an armada.”
“Headed where?” asked Anthony.
“Well, there are only two settlements of any size north of here: Snowdell, my home, and far beyond that Eredyss and the Lair of the talented jackals. Let us hope they are heading for the latter.”
“Do you want to move on?” asked Anthony, hearing the concern in his companion's voice.
“No”, said George shaking his head, “we are still some days away and night is falling, we will camp here.”
Within in a short space of time Anthony had a warm fire going and had prepared himself a springy bed of heather on which to lie. He'd also erected a screen of bushes and fallen branches to protect himself from the wind
. As usual, George sat a long way from the fire, slightly in the shadows, leaning up against a tree.
“Are you worried about your home?” asked Anthony, after a period of silence.
“Worried in general Anthony. Large fleets of sky-ships do not take to the air during times of peace and tranquillity. They facilitate worry, they are also the product of it. Worry from many perspectives causes more worry, worry becomes fear, paranoia, worry about your neighbours starts wars. As for my home, we are not a fighting people Anthony, and we have been asleep for so long. It strikes me as a sad fate that we would wake just in time for a conflict. I do not want us to get caught up in another fight between the jackal and the raven”, spoke George, his soft voice heavy with woe.
“Have I caused this?” asked Anthony. He'd spent plenty of time on the road concerned with his own fate, he was only now starting to appreciate that this was a real world with real people who might end up suffering because of something to do with his presence.
George shook his head at the question: “No, they have been doing this for aeons. You are another victim, another part of some Machiavellian plan.” It surprised Anthony to hear George use that terminology.
“You've heard of Machiavelli?” he asked incredulously.
“Of course, Machiavelli was a trickster dream. He fomented dissident activity against Lor Geddon, which eventually culminated in the Lyrilian War. Machiavelli was caught and cast into the Dream Sea and the Lyrilian Lords submitted. It was a short conflict, but notable for the way in which the trickster dream succeeded in turning otherwise loyal subjects against the King based on fruitless empty promises.”
“Did you know that there was a human called Machiavelli?” asked Anthony.
“No, though it is not surprising. There have been many cases of dreams adopting the names of humans, and reportedly also cases of humans adopting the names of their dreams. We are worlds apart yet inextricably linked, us mortals and dreams”, responded George sagely.
“Well, a philosopher Snowman, most impressive”, said Anthony with a smile, which George returned.
“There is more than meets the ice when it comes to us Snowmen”, japed George, which caused Anthony to laugh and throw some seeds in his direction.
“That was a terrible pun”, he said with mirth.
“Thank you”, responded George, “so, you have learned much about Avalen and myself. Might I ask you about Old Earth and your life there? You have mentioned children before, do they wait for you to wake at home?”
The smiles faded, the laughter died, all mirth disappeared into the fire. “No, they do not”, said Anthony in a low voice.
“I am sorry to hear that”, said George, who did not press the matter.
“The sorrow is mine”, said Anthony. Despite being a Snowman, George shivered slightly not at the cold but at the tone of Anthony's voice; a tone, a statement, which suggested a melancholy deep enough that one might never climb out of it if they fell in. The rest of the evening passed in silence. Anthony turned over, away from the fire, and fell into a dark sleep. George leaned against his tree and dozed to the sound of the crackling wood. He noted that the snow fairies had not appeared following the appearance of the sky-ships. Such timid things, he thought.