Heaven Fall

by Leonard Petracci

  “Ha! You think you can afford that? Last I checked, boy, your credit was about run dry!” said Weris when Draysky dropped it atop the sacks of resin. Draysky leaned on top of it, placing both of his hands on the head and pressing down to raise himself to the Keeper’s eye level.

  “How about half price? This one’s been hanging there for weeks. You’re not selling it any time soon.”

  “Half! Half? Ha! You’re just trying to waste my time now. That’s enough, out.”

  “The regular one, then,“ said Draysky, lifting the expensive pickaxe before the Keeper could reach it, careful to move only in a direct vertical. He dropped the extra chits on the counter, then returned to the shelf, pulling his first pickaxe out into the cold and leaving it leaning against the wall. Then he returned for the resin, and picked them up, one at a time, gingerly carrying them from the shop and settling them down with the utmost care outside the door. From there he moved his belongings two streets up, to a dark row between houses, and undid the drawstring atop one of the resin bags, removing his gloves to prevent his fingers from fumbling. Peeling back the fabric, he used his body to shield the top layer of resin from the wind, crouching low and squinting his eyes to view the surface.

  There, where he had pressed down on the pickaxe, was the indentation of the rune on its head, perfectly preserved in the powdered resin. He gathered snow into his hands, then breathed on them, melting it and drizzling the water over the resin with his fingertips. He dared not stir the power and ruin the design, and the resin would take at least two hours to solidify enough for him to move the sack home. Instead he closed the top once more, and shifted it against the siding of the house, piling snow around it until it was buried under a layer as thick as his fist. He’d return for it later that night, after he’d finished patching up his parents' doorway as well as checking over his new pickaxe for defects.

  But his work patching the house took longer than he'd expected. The hole fell in twice, and he’d had to brace it while waiting for the resin to start to cure. His muscles ached from holding the stones in place, squeezing them wherever gaps formed in the resin, his sister piling more goop into any cracks that formed. By the time they had finished, it was the middle of the night once more, and Draysky fell into a deep sleep with the hidden rune forgotten.

  The next morning he trudged bleary-eyed up the mountain, the extra water packs heavy on his back, but only one image on his mind—the rune laying in wait under the snow. As he descended into the Grinder, his pickaxe head came down twice as hard whenever Oliver came into view, the shale flying around him like a digging mole. As he returned to the ridge, his collected crystal was nowhere near his usual amount and slightly below even the lowest ridger of the group, though he breathed harder than anyone else. Burnsby’s mouth twitched when he saw the yield, but he put a hand on Draysky’s shoulder.

  “You keep your hands busy, son. Stay focused, stay working. It’s good for your mind right now.”

  Draysky nodded, and that night, took heed of Burnsby’s words. The resin was where he had left it, and he gently removed the top hardened layer, hiding it under the roof thatching. Then he set to work patching the remainder of the large cracks around the house as Aila focused on replenishing her herb supply, grinding and mixing until satisfied with the variety of pouches she kept on a belt around her waist. By the time he was finishing up, the working of Aila’s mortar and pestle had slowed to a dull whirring, pausing every few minutes as her head drooped low and resuming with an invigorated pace when it snapped back up. Two nights of half sleep had taken their toll on both her and Draysky, and when she saw him making his bed next to the heater, she stood and swept off the top of her table with a small hand broom.

  “Wouldn’t want to keep you up,” she said, though her speech was already slurring, her steps almost a stumble as she departed to their grandmother’s bedroom, leaving half her tools in a mess on the table. Typically their grandmother would make her pack and repack the entire lot five times the next morning if caught, but the last few days her hand had been far slower to react. Maybe she’d found a soft spot in her heart, after hearing his sister cry through the first night. Even with the door separating them, Draysky could still catch the occasional muffled sniffle. Tonight that was replaced by snores, and he counted a full ten of them before sneaking out of his bed and pulling the pickaxe behind him to his workshop in the yard where he used to make his lighters. His tools were still there: the drill he had used to create the hole at the center, the saw to split the wood, and the carving knife to make it smooth.

  On the workbench, he set down the pickaxe head, weighing it in place with a large piece of shale. Next to it he set the hardened resin, tracing over the rune with his finger. Then he gripped the hand drill bit, scratching the mirror image of the rune into the metal, running the tool over and over the head until an extremely shallow groove filled the metal. He tapped the top of the bit, trying to deepen it, but the tip snapped off, skipping away into the snow as he cursed. Now the drill was useless, the thin lines running along the metal nowhere near as pronounced as the one in the shop. He scanned the ground for something else to deepen the groove, and instead his eyes fell upon some of the old paint mixing tools he’d used for the lighters.

  Of course! He’d just paint the rune on, just like he had with the lighters. On those, he had one rune for normal fire, and another for cool fire. Surely, this rune would do something different, but what, exactly? Maybe it would make the pickaxe hit harder, or collect crystal, or split stone at a tap.

  Draysky crept back inside, breathing softly as he mixed the materials for the paint, consisting mainly of the raydrop flower his grandmother had shown him for lighters. He held his hand steady, the brushstroke smooth going down the axe head, leaving a trail of red behind. Then he set the axe aside. The paint didn't seep into the metal like it did wood, and it would take at least ten minutes to dry. He closed his eyes for a moment, laying his head on his hands, his breath coming shallow as a new wave of tiredness assaulted him, as if the exertion of the last two days had suddenly struck at one moment, plus another sleepless night.

  He awoke to the sound of his sister’s door opening, combined with morning, his arm asleep under his jaw. He shook his head, blinking in surprise, his eyes moving toward the ax. Dry, the lines smooth and not dripping, a perfect copy of the one in the store had it been painted instead of chiseled. Before his grandmother could awaken, he turned the axe head against the wall, hiding the rune until he had scarfed down breakfast, a task that was easier than normal with their dwindling supplies. Three large bites later, he gripped the pickaxe and strode out the door, ready for the mountain.

  Before he left the doorway, a chill ran up his gloves and bit into his fingers, so cold that the axe fell to the floor with a clatter.

  “Sorry, not really awake yet,” Draysky said, swooping it back up by the handle before they could see the rune painted on the side.

  “Better wake on up before you walk up that mountain. You on vaporweed? Come let me smell your breath.”

  Draysky was already gone before his grandmother could continue, and ten paces toward the meeting spot he chanced another look down at the ax swinging by his side. Frost already coated the metal, far more than should be on it after only a minute out in the snow, a layer of smooth ice as if he had dipped it into a wax candle. He tapped it twice on the shale, the shell cracking off like a mold, leaving two halves of ax shaped ice in the snow and revealing the rune still painted underneath.

  “What in the hells?” he said, touching the point. Still, even through the glove his fingertip felt as if it were touching ice, and he jolted it back as if stung. What exactly had the rune been supposed to accomplish? In the store, the other pickaxe had acted nothing like this. Maybe it was something that only activated when taken outside. Regardless, he could already spot the ridgers ahead lining up for morning call, shuffling to stay warm in the darkness. As usual, Draysky took his double pack of water, the minor chits more importa
nt now than ever.

  “You holdin’ in there, son?” asked Burnsby as they took off. “Looking like you’ll be needing some rest. How about you shoulder one of those off for today. I know I said to keep your mind on work, but you don’t want to overdo it, either.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Draysky grunted, swaying with each step. The air seemed thinner that morning, each breath like he had already climbed the mountain once and was returning for more. Halfway up, he stumbled, his foot kicking out from him as it stepped on an uneven piece of shale. A mistake in judgement, in letting his weight come down too hard before testing the quality of the hold, and if it weren’t for Burnsby’s strong hand catching him by the elbow he would have slid halfway down the mountain on his already burdened pack.

  “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” Burnsby said, then he pulled Erki over. “Erki, you’re to take one of these water packs. Draysky, if you stumble again I’ll be taking the second.”

  “What? But I never carry the water packs!” protested Erki.

  “Keep up the complaining, and you’ll be carrying that one until the next set of chiselers arrive. Now up! I don’t like the feel of the mountain today, it’s as if the winter has brought a friend and they’re both blowing down on us. Best to get off this slope before there are any more mistakes.”

  Erki’s labored breathing joined Draysky’s as they continued their march. But even without the second water pack, his vision swam every time he tried to increase his pace, then when they finally reached the mountaintop he wheezed with his hands on his knees, his breakfast threatening to come back up.

  “You sick, boy?” asked Burnsby, thudding him on the back. “Don’t want a sick man holding my line.”

  “I’ll be fine. Just let me get a few swings out.” Draysky rolled his shoulders, lifting his pickaxe and using it to stretch out his arm. Still, whenever the axe head came too close to him, the air chilled more than he thought possible. The day was already cold, but this was like being doused in water while naked. He glared at the rune where the paint had held fast, frowning as he saw the ice that had built up around it once more. If this axe head snapped from the cold, that would be the third time he’d have to return to the store in a week. They’d have to dip even deeper into the well, and surely at its current temperature, the pickaxe wouldn’t last more than a dozen swings.

  After a few more minutes, the lines were loosed, and the first batch of ridgers descended to the Grinder, hunting and pecking for crystal. Every time Draysky struck, he braced himself for the metal to shatter, the vibrating sensation to sting his hands and rattle his teeth. But the head held fast, lasting him all the way until the end of his shift, and he switched off with Burnsby. That shift again he had been light on crystal, matching the time before, but now, every crystal mined was no longer an advancement toward leadership of the crew. Instead it was money in the pockets of the Keepers, and he simply needed enough to keep them from becoming too suspicious. Besides, his breath still came shallow, his eyes drooping as he watched the Grinder for the signs of a shale strike, repeatedly punching himself in the leg and biting his tongue when the lids dropped too far.

  “You get some rest tonight, you understand?” Burnsby said as they departed the shift, and Draysky stumbled more than walked down the mountain. “Tired men lose focus, and that means lost ridgers. If you’re not attentive again tomorrow, I’m cutting your wages by half, and keeping them for myself. And you’ll be paired up with Erki.”

  “I mined, didn’t I? Still pulled up more than some of the men,” Draysky said. But mining no longer mattered, it was merely an obstacle to him.

  “Use that measurement and you’ll never get anywhere, boy. I know you’ve got more in you. That was the second poor day of mining in a row. I’ve seen what you can do. You could be the next crew leader. Don’t you think your father would have wanted that?”

  “You don’t know what my father wanted.”

  “I don’t think he would want this,” said Burnsby. “And I won’t have you half dead out here either if you’re sick. Already seen enough tragedies this week.”

  When Draysky arrived home, his grandmother was stirring together a stew even more watery than normal, their funds cut short for another few days until Aila declared they could once more afford full meals. He ate in silence, spooning in mouthfuls as fast as his wrist would work, as much for warmth as for the nutrition. He’d need to remove the pickaxe rune when he finished, he knew. It had been nothing short of a miracle that the axe had survived today. Losing it would mean significantly more days without full meals.

  He’d have to wait until his sister and grandmother were asleep to chip it off, however, and instead he settled for a moment by the heat, his eyes flickering shut, then staying shut as he fell into dreams.

  The noise started low, a rumble that his ears were now accustomed to—the gnashing that had always faded in and out of his dreams, but that he now recognized in real life. The sound of the Grinder on its most active days, when it chewed the shale and spit it high into the air, its center a roiling mass of anger incarnate. But while the Grinder was freezing, Draysky instead felt heat, so much that sweat poured off of him and his breathing became labored. Like he was surrounded by the glowing coals of a fire, the air swimming, almost pulsing as it strangled him. Then there was the pressure, the intense weight down upon him that turned the water packs into feathers by comparison, squeezing in at him from every angle. Crushing, pounding, compacting him until he was sure that his bones would powder to the dust that escaped from the Grinder’s top, then would disintegrate into smoke as the heat devoured them.

  In the middle of the night he snapped awake as the burning turned too much to handle, yelping as a searing sensation started on his right hand. He jerked it back, pulling it away from the side of the wood stove where it had come to rest, the hair burned away and a line of skin already discoloring to a pale white. Whether from the dreams or the heater, his clothes were now soaked with sweat, damp to the touch as the heat clung to him. He needed to move, to get out of the confines of the home, where the damage from the ritebald still stared at him from across the room, his breaths came in quick pants, and the warmth pouring off the heater was unbearable. Still, his legs were lethargic and slow to answer as he stood, his arm bracing against the wall for balance as he cracked the door and exited into the night.

  The wind was still, and his shoes insulated him from the shale—shale that had once come from the Grinder, and at an instant’s touch would drive him back to his dreams. Instead he stood atop his workbench, closing his eyes as he breathed in the frosted air, letting the cold into him, pushing away the sweltering sensation with ice. It shot through his veins, completely replacing the heat, and froze the sweat on his clothes, forming a protective shell around him. Above, the stars watched him, still as a statue in the night, colder than he had ever been in his life, yet not uncomfortable. In those moments, his weariness faded away, as if his grandmother had fed him a soup filled to the brim with meat and dumplings, and he had just awakened from a full night of sleep. His thoughts, too, became more distant. As he expanded himself, he was not simply Draysky. He was the frigid wind that danced between the mountain peaks, the layers of snow that muffled the shale, the frosty clouds in such a close relation to the stars. A surge of jealousy filled him then—a desire to float up there with those clouds, to come closer to those pinpricks.

  But before he could focus, Draysky heard crunching behind him, and his mind snapped back to its normal state, like a piece of elastic stretched and released. He leapt down from the workbench, scurrying to the side of the house and crouching among the rubble, peering through cracks in the stone just as two Keepers rounded the corner. Each carried spears, and they approached with the tips outward, sweeping them side to side.

  “I don’t like this, not one bit. Same house that ritebald demolished just a few days ago. Think he’s back for more?”

  “We’d be hearing him by now if it were so. Doubt he’d be coming ba
ck here again though, not after last time. They do have some memories—if it came back it knows it wouldn’t live.”

  “Still, I sensed something over here. Ice variety, not stone so it’s a different one. Real faint, but it’s there. Might be on the ridge? Best to keep an eye out.”

  “Best to return to the fire, and you can let me know if you sense anything else. Besides, closest place I’d expect to see an ice ritebald is what, two hundred miles to the north? No way it traveled that far from its source.”

  “Then you tell me what it is. I’ve felt it here before, too, and far as I know no one here is using ice runes. This stuck out like a sore thumb, that’s why I made you switch out your spear to the fire primed one.”

  “Could be the storm, if there is one coming.”

  “Could be,” the other Keeper mumbled, as they shuffled away, completing their walk around the perimeter. “But I’m not staying to find out.”

  Draysky gritted his teeth as they disappeared, his statement echoing in his mind. I’m not staying to find out. Had they said that the last time before the ritebald had come? Had they turned a blind eye then, too?

  Another thought pulled at him as they departed, and he retrieved his pickaxe from the side of the house, turning it over in his hands. Yet again, the head was encased in ice, and two quick blows removed the layering. If the Keepers had come to investigate ice magic, then that must be the source—the rune he had painted on the head, which gave the ax an unnatural frigidity, wicking away any heat within its vicinity.

  “About time I remove this, before you shatter,” he said, and he took up the saw he used to cut lighters. Two deep scores in an “X” across the painting should suffice, breaking the lines of the rune into enough pieces that it would no longer work at all. He lined up the serrated blade, his foot atop the axe head, then paused just as he prepared to take the first stroke.