Chapter Twelve: Sophisticated Snowmen
Anthony awoke in comfort, suitably amazed by the warm-ice he had slept in. When he'd first walked through the icy walls of Snowdell he imagined he was going to spend some uncomfortable time here with a people who did not even seem to exist unless it was below freezing. But George told him that in times past Snowdell had received guests from other lands, warm-blooded dreams who could not abide their snowy halls, so the thinkers within Snowdell had come up with warm-ice. It started cold but adjusted to the temperature of whoever touched it without defrosting.
Were a Snowman to lie upon a bed of warm-ice then it would staying frozen cold and he would be none the wiser as he slept. However, when a warm-blooded creature lay on the same bed it would change. It would turn a deeper blue and start to emit heat, not too much but enough to make the sleeper comfortable. In addition the texture of the surface would soften.
It had felt very odd when Anthony first lay upon it. He felt like he was lying in a warm puddle and expected to be soaked to the bone, but the ice did not melt and instead felt like a soft gel.
Anthony stood, covered himself with the white bear-skin rug that he'd been given and walked to the balcony. Snowdell was not a huge city, in fact he estimated that it probably held no more than between twenty or thirty thousand snowmen. Back home it would have been a mere town, but what it lacked in size and populace it more than made up for in majesty.
Considering the Snowmen only had at their disposal snow, ice and the occasional white rock, what they achieved was miraculous. The skill which George had showed back at the cave when they first met was the same ability which the people of Snowdell had used to make their home. Modest towers with interlinking bridges which criss-crossed the air were the defining structural feature. The random haphazard manner in which they were placed did nothing to detract from their beauty.
They'd only been in Snowdell for a few days and during that time George's people had made Anthony most welcome. There were no gates in the wall of ice surrounding Snowdell, but when George placed his hand upon it two portals had appeared to allow them through, promptly closing afterwards.
Curious and mostly smiling faces had greeted them as they walked through the streets. Most of Snowdell's dwellings were towers and as such most of its business seemed to be conducted on raised bridges which acted like streets between them. They'd soon found themselves walking up onto one of these bridges where Anthony could make out most of the place which George called home. There were hundreds of snow-towers and therefore thousands of icy bridges. Their winding paths made Spaghetti Junction look like a mini-roundabout on a housing estate.
Anthony was not sure what he was blown away by more, the fact that this was possible at all or the fact that George told him that this place had only been built a few weeks ago when the snow started.
The Snowmen did not have names, nor did they have personal abodes. Snowdell was always changing, new towers rose and old towers fell, new sculptures took shape and the snow-dwellers, artists all, tended to lay their caps wherever they found themselves in the town. There were no children that Anthony could see, prompting all sorts of images in his head of how the Snowmen came to be and how they reproduced, none of which he had chosen to discuss with his hosts.
George had introduced him to many Snowmen, but none of them personally due to their lack of names. Still, they were friendly enough, the Snowwomen and the Snowmen, cold handshakes and cold kisses to the cheek. It was only on his second day in Snowdell that Anthony was introduced to three Snowmen who did seem to have some form of individuality and authority over their people. George had taken him to a tower in the middle of town. George said that during their long period of hibernation the Snowmen had lived in a cave deep beneath the ground, far from the warm eyes of the light of Avalen. The tower to which they went was built directly above the cave where the people of snow had stayed compressed and asleep for centuries.
Anthony had been given a pair of boots with spikes in when he first entered Snowdell for which he had been thankful as he climbed the one hundred steps of the ice tower. There was one large chamber at the top, in which there were three thrones. The seats of the thrones had been fashioned into the shape of a lotus flower and on these lotus flowers sat three old looking snowmen.
They were pitted and cracked, with long icicle beards. George had explained that during the sleep these three alone had kept their form, within the snowball that was their people. They did this in order to maintain a vigil, to be able to wake their people should the cold ever come back to Avalen.
The three old snowmen nodded to Anthony when he entered the hall, the one to the left was introduced as Dawn-Frost, he one in the centre was called Day-Frost and the Snowman on the right was called Night-Frost.
“Greetings, Anthony”, said Dawn-Frost. When he spoke his breath formed a cloud which froze and formed tiny ice particles which fell to the floor with a tinkling noise.
“Anthony is a dreamer, revered ones, a mortal from Old Earth”, said George, though his voice held its usual soft tone his customary jovial note was gone. Anthony got the impression that the three Frosts were something akin to holy men for the Snowmen.
Day-Frost raised his eyebrows at that statement, the ice in them making a crackling noise as he did so. “And how did you come to be here mortal-man?” he asked, his voice like hissing steam.
“I was brought here by a talented jackal named Kannis. He gave me a dagger, a cup, some firestones and little else. He told me he would return for me in the forest beneath the Mercurial Chambers, but he did not. I walked up and over the mountains, I bumped into George in a cave, he saved me from wolves and we journeyed here.”
“We had hoped that your wisdom might shed some light on Anthony's predicament, he is not of our world and longs only to return to the land of the dreamers”, said George. The three Frosts mulled over that for a while.
“There is war in the air”, rasped Night-Frost, “the King's ships sail the sky, battle is not far off and I suspect the cause stands here before us.”
“The prophecy of blood”, said Day-Frost.
“The prophecy of blood”, said Dawn-Frost.
Night-Frost nodded before repeating the statement, “The prophecy of blood, aye. Are you a father Anthony?” This was a line of questioning which Anthony had not expected and did not feel comfortable with. It was George who spoke in answer.
“Anthony does not like to discuss such things, they cause him pain.”
“It's okay, George”, said Anthony, raising a placating hand. “Yes, I was a father, to children who are lost”, he continued, addressing the three Frosts.
“The Sad Father”, said Day-Frost, eliciting a nod from the other two.
“They mean to use you Anthony Hallow, they believe you to be a pivotal instrument from an old prophecy, written in blood, verified by a King on his deathbed.”
“What does this prophecy say?” asked Anthony, both intrigued and confused, "how could a prophecy written by a dream have any relevance to a mortal?"
“It says much in few words, mayhap some of it will hold meaning for you, and mayhap none of it will. Take your leave and we will see what can be done”, said Night-Frost.
So Anthony had left them and heard no word since. But he'd had plenty to do to occupy his mind. He had been watching the Snowmen go about their daily lives which consisted mainly of constructing wonderfully realistic ice sculptures, some of which even came to life. In addition he'd had the pleasure of joining in a large snowball fight and though he was hopelessly outgunned he'd smiled even whilst he was pelted relentlessly until he fell to the floor.
The dream of the tomb had not haunted him for many nights. Though his woe was still there it lived now at the back of his mind, not banished but at least on a temporary sojourn.
Today several of the Snowmen had told him that they were going to try and create a life-sized moving ice-dragon. This was something Anthony wanted very much to see so after having g
ot dressed and having drunk some of the plentiful supply of ice water he went to leave. The apartment he was in, of a type designed for hosting outsiders, had a sliding ice door unlike normal Snowman doors, which were solid and simply opened and closed for the people of the snow.
When he slid back the door he saw George standing there.
“Good morning Anthony”, he said.
“George, you could have knocked”, Anthony replied, bemused to find the Snowman waiting outside the door.
“I am unfamiliar with the rest patterns of mortals, I did not wish to disturb you until you were ready to be disturbed.”
“At which point it isn't really a disturbance?” commented Anthony.
“Quite”, said the Snowman. In his hands he held a cube of ice, about a foot along each side.
“What's that?” asked Anthony as George brought it into the room.
“This is likely why the jackals brought you here”, said George. He walked to the middle of the empty room, knelt down and put his hand on the floor. Within moments a hump appeared in the floor, a hump which grew into a lump and got higher until it reached waist height, whereupon it evened and straightened out until it had formed a flawless table of ice.
“You guys would make a fortune at ice-sculpting competitions on Earth you know”, remarked Anthony, causing George to look at him in disbelief.
“Mortals can sculpt ice?” he said with a gasp.
“Well yes”, replied Anthony, “but they use axes, chisels and chainsaws, and it takes them many days to do what you do in minutes.”
“Well well, wait until I tell everybody. Mortals sculpting ice”, said George, shaking his head and putting the ice block down on the top of his newly made table.
“The Frosts have sent this with their blessing”, said George. As he spoke he started to pull the block apart until it was in four squares lined up on the table. “We are not a people who write things down, our memories are our history. However, the Frosts have created this; the prophecy in a written format that you will hopefully understand.”
The Snowman moved away from the table and Anthony moved forward and leaned over it. Upon the squares of ice he could see hundreds of tiny symbols had been scratched. Looking at them they seemed meaningless, but as looked longer and harder he started to make out the odd letter, an R here, an E there. Soon, there were whole words, then sentences and then paragraphs until eventually the four squares only held legible English.
Anthony started to read the prophecy, he heard George clear his throat and turned to see that a chair had risen up from the ice. He smiled his thanks and sat on it to read:
That written in blood will be lived by the descendants of the words:
Lo, there will come a Sad Father who will wake into this world from another.
His woe will mark him as a man amongst the stars
For his sons were the children of the prayer
And his daughters were the children of the meadow
And all were claimed by the ocean of the ancients
And therein was his sadness writ upon his soul.
His coming will herald a time of reckoning during which all matters
Between the walls will be settled.
And in the silent aftermath the sea will reclaim the land
The Jackal, the Raven and the Lotus will sleep once more,
The children of the grey dawn will inherit the dream,
The tall men will turn to stone, the fire bellies will go out
The demons will rue their sin and the angels will walk in darkness.
Anthony read the words three times, digesting them, guessing at meanings he did not know. The initial portion could have been about him, but it could have also been about millions of other sad fathers.
“Any thoughts?” asked George.
“Many. But honestly, I'm not sure how the jackals pinpointed me for this.”
“What about the references to Prayer and Meadows and the ocean of ancients?”
“Prayer and Meadow don't ring any bells. The ocean...” Even as he said the words he thought the thoughts and heard the memories, he heard the doorbell ringing, saw the awkward smiles of the police officers as they asked to come in, told him to sit and then informed him of what had happened at the cliffs that day.
“The ocean maybe? That is where, that is the only thing which has any meaning to me, but the rest, no. And even so, I am sure I am not the only sad father who has lost loved ones to the sea.” Though he spoke to George, in front of his eyes were the images, the long drive, the hospital bed, the cuts and bruises to her face, the tears which ran from her eyes even while she was unconscious.
“Anthony”, said George, softly placing a cold hand on his shoulder causing the dreamer to snap out of his reverie.
“Sorry George, it's just... Memories.”
“Of course”, said the Snowman. “Are you up to accompanying me back to see the Frosts?” he enquired.
“Yes, let’s go and see what light they can shed.”
The two of them left Anthony's quarters and headed out across a bridge towards the Frost Tower. The Frosts were still in their thrones, looking closely Anthony mused that the Frosts and the seats on which they sat might be one and the same.
“Mr Hallow”, spoke the Day-Frost, “did you receive our tome?”
“I did, my thanks. I have read through the prophecy and interesting as it is, I am not certain the jackals have the right Sad Father in this instance”, said Anthony.
The Frosts looked at each other and Night-Frost shook his head. “I am sorry, Mr Hallow, that cannot be the case. In order to wake you the jackals would have needed to send their minions through the Brazen Gate to your world, they would not have undertaken such a risky feat unless they were certain that you were the mortal they were after. The odd inaccuracy there may be, some parts which are seemingly inexplicable, but trust us, you are who they think you are.”
Dawn-Frost spoke next: “Since you have been here in Avalen, has anything strange happened?” he asked, before heading off Anthony's smile with more words. “I know, I know, this has all been strange. But beyond the obvious, beyond the things which have happened around you, is there anything which has occurred involving you personally?” asked the Frost.
“The wolf”, said George.
“The wolf?” queried the Day-Frost.
“Yes”, said George, stepping forward. “May I?” he asked Anthony.
“Please do”, said Anthony.
“We were pursued out of the mountains of the south by wolves. One of them followed us further than the rest, an alpha I suspect. He leapt on Anthony as we came down the mountain. I heard a cry and ran to assist but before I reached them there was a flash and then the wolf was flying through the air as if catapulted. What landed was a mangled dead ruin of a wolf”, explained George.
“Do you recall that happening?” Dawn-Frost asked Anthony.
“Not really”, said Anthony, “there was heat, and panic and then darkness. Next thing I know, George is carrying me down the mountain and the wolf is dead.”
The Frosts all nodded in unison. There was a pause before Night-Frost turned to George. “You have done well, please leave the dreamer with us for a time”, he rasped.
George nodded, turned and left without question.
“A dependable snowman that one”, remarked Day-Frost.
“He saved my life”, said Anthony simply. The room seemed to get darker and Anthony saw that the arched windows around the tower were closing. Ice was freezing over them at incredible speed. Once they were frozen over, however, a blue glow infused the ice in the tower. “Come closer, Anthony”, said Day-Frost.
Anthony walked towards them until they were only a few feet apart. He looked into the eyes of the three Frosts, mazes of crystal, hundreds of tiny white threads. There was the look of age in them, they were eyes which had seen the long tides of history come and go.
It was Night-Frost who spoke, “There is a power in this world An
thony, here they call it dream-weaving. To you it might be more commonly recognised as magic, though in truth there are differences. In Avalen, to dream weave is to change the natural order of things. The Dream Sea beyond the wall is a roiling cataclysm of constant dream weaves on an unimaginable scale. But here, within the boundaries of the Laws of Fenn there is limited scope for such power, only the greatest dreams can perform the greatest feats”, Day-Frost continued.
“The talented jackals have always been some of the most proficient dream weavers, much to the consternation and jealousy of others. The dragons, the giants, the angels and the demons, they have limits to their power. But the jackals have always been adept at learning new magic. Yet they have never held any authority in Avalen, they backed the wrong side in a conflict long ago and since then they have always been considered an outcast race. This has caused them to hate, a hate focused directly at the Geddon family, the kings who rule from the Palace of Fenngaard.”
Dawn-Frost now spoke for his brothers, “Despite their abilities there has always been one thing which prevented the jackals from achieving any kind of supremacy, an object called the Hammer of Fenn, the Gods-bane, the object which Fenn infused with all his might. He used it to beat his enemies, he used it to build this world. Now it rests in the hands of his descendants and the jackals have plotted for aeons to try and find a way of countering this weapon. Now they have found you and brought you here”, he finished.
It was a lot to take in, but Anthony was still sceptical: “I have no power and I have no weapons. Again I say that the jackals must have made a mistake.”
Again the Frosts shook their head. It was the Dawn who retorted, “What surrounds you? Dreams. The ground beneath our feet, the light in the sky, the sea around our shores, just dreams, the products of mortal minds, idle mortal minds. Where mortals dream whole worlds rise and fall in the blink of an eye. Imagine what you could do here, in the place which to your peers is but a figment of their imagination?”
“But I can do nothing. I feel the cold, I feel thirst, is it not possible that your thoughts on the abilities of a mortal here are incorrect?”
They shook their collective heads and the Night-Frost dismissed such a notion. “You have the power; unrecognised, latent, but it is there. It manifested itself with the wolf and will do again. This is why the jackals want you; they will turn you into a weapon with which they will end the reign of the Palace of Fenngaard.”
No one said anything for a while before Anthony asked, “How do they know I will help them, how are they certain that I will be that weapon?” he asked quietly.
“They will offer you something Anthony, they will bargain with you.”
Anthony was reminded of what Kannis had said about mutually beneficial goals. Try as he might, however, he could not think of anything which he truly wanted, aside from returning home. There would be a certain irony if the jackals who stole him away from Earth offered him a return in exchange for helping them. Though maybe that was their plan, maybe they would blackmail him into helping them in order to go back.
There was much to think on, but it was his immediate situation which concerned him. “You spoke of something called the Brazen Gate, what is that?” he asked them.
“A door to your world, but do not think to use it. Not only would getting to it be even more difficult than climbing back up into the Mercurial Chambers, but it is likely you would not even be able to walk through it for if you did there be would two Anthony Hallows back on Earth, the sleeper and the dreamer and such a thing could not be.”
“Your knowledge of this world is great. How is it that you are so well informed when your people have been in hibernation?” asked Anthony curiously.
“They are our children Anthony”, said Night-Frost, “we have watched over them while they slept down in the cold belly of the ground, but we did not slumber. We hear much, down through the rock we have heard the history of our world, for it is sung loud and clear for those with the patience to hear it.”
Again Anthony paused whilst considering the situation. “What should I do?” he asked simply.
But they did not have the answers to this question. They spread their arms before Dawn-Frost answered, “We cannot say, Anthony. We are a meek and weak people. They will come for you, they will come in force and, though we might will so, it will not be within our might to stop them. However, you are more than welcome to stay within our icy halls for as long as you wish, and as long as we are able to keep you safe.” They smiled then, their frosty demeanour was softened.
“Thank you”, said Anthony. The ice melted from the windows and light bathed the room once more. Anthony left the chamber. George had gone so he walked alone down the ice-steps around the tower. George had been right about the wisdom of the Frosts, but despite being remarkably better informed than he was before he still had no ideas about how to get home.
He was about halfway down the staircase when he heard several cries of fright. He saw a number of Snowmen pointing to the sky. He followed their gaze and saw a line of objects in the distance. As they got closer he heard the droning noise from them, many were on fire. They were sky-ships, the same ones which had passed over him on the Falkern River, though wherever they'd been it had not gone well. There were far fewer than before and the damage to those which remained was obvious even from this distance. Much of the activity in the city stopped as the Snowmen stared at the sky-ships, fearing perhaps that they were coming in their direction.
But it was not so, the sky-ships passed far to the north of Snowdell. They were soon out of sight and the people breathed a sigh of relief and went back to their snowball fights and their ice-sculpting. Anthony could not relax, however; the presence of the ships was a reminder of what the Frosts had told him, of the implications of his presence.
Anthony walked back to his chambers. The table and chair had already disappeared. He lay back down on the warm-ice bed and closed his eyes. Sleep came swiftly, the weight of his choices pulling him deep into the slumbering sea.
When he awoke it was to screams. More fear this time, a host of screams, as if all the Snowmen were screaming. He heard running and the sounds of breaking ice. Anthony got up and pulled on his clothes and fur cloak. He ran down out of his tower and into the streets, but they were deserted. He looked here and there, in doorways, underneath the arches, up and down at the other ice-bridges.
For once the sky was clear and the night was brighter than many he'd seen so far, but even so he could not spy a silhouette of a Snowman anywhere in Snowdell. Anthony climbed up and up but even at the top of one of the tallest towers he could see no-one on the bridges of Snowdell. Then he turned, then he saw it, then he could not blame the people of the city for running. He would have run himself had he not been rooted to the spot by fascinated terror. For there, running across the snow towards the ice walls, was a giant whose shadow dwarfed the darkness of the night.
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