Ice: The Climate Fiction Saga

by Wendeberg, A.

  ‘No. Too dangerous,’ Katvar signs.

  ‘Sorry to break the news, but you are not a warrior. I’ll be walking straight into what the BSA considers of highest value. If I take you with me, I might as well put a bullet in your head right now. Same difference.’ I cross my arms over my chest.

  He smirks, crosses his arms over his chest, too, but has to uncross them to retort with both hands and an angry face, ‘Go ahead and walk. You might reach the coast in six months, maybe seven. Then you can swim the remaining one thousand kilometres. Fine with me.’

  ‘Katvar, my friend, you are getting ahead of yourself,’ Birket says and places a hand on his shoulder. ‘As are you, Mickaela. Tonight, we’ll move you to a hunting shed a three days’ walk from here. You can reach it by morning on sled. Sari, go and get her things. Kioshi, you make sure she has provisions for three days. Katvar, pack your stuff, get a sled and a dog team ready. You will take her there. Teach her how to handle dogs. We’ll pretend Micka took Katvar against his will, stole a sled and the dogs. After all, you stole an aircraft from the BSA, so this should be believable even to Javier.’

  ‘How do you know I stole an aircraft?’

  ‘You told Katvar you fell from the sky. The fabric you used to bandage your ankle looked like it came from a parachute. We might seem a primitive people and we are often underestimated because of it.’ He grins and bends down to whisper in my ear, ‘I jumped from a helicopter once.’

  The man is positively beaming, as if falling from great heights is the best thing one could possibly do.

  ‘Time to leave,’ he says, and punctuates his statement with a rap of staff to floor.

  Only moments later, I’m strapped to a sled, with Katvar behind me and eleven dogs in front of me. He’s a wizard with these animals. They are bursting with energy and joy, they seem to love to run, and yet, they know to keep quiet. Ten seconds and we are out of the village, sixty seconds and we are in the woods. Katvar is racing them and I can hear from his huffs that he loves this, too.

  What a turn of events. Before I know it, I’m already on my way to shove humanity back into the Iron Age.

  Life is and will ever remain an equation incapable of solution...

  Nicola Tesla

  I sit under a snow-covered fir, freezing my ass off and watching the sun rise. I chew my nails, wondering how to get out of this shit.

  There’s a crunching sound behind me, giving away his approach long before he clears his throat to announce himself. ‘What do you want, Katvar?’

  He squats down next to me, lifts his hands, and signs, ‘You have nightmares. Want to talk?’

  ‘You see me asleep for what, one night, and you conclude I have dreams that need discussing?’

  He signs some more and I don’t understand, so I shrug. He writes it into the snow. ‘Uma told me you have them every night.’

  ‘Is no secret safe with you people?’

  ‘You didn’t tell her it was a secret.’

  I huff. ‘Can’t you just leave me alone?’

  He raises his hands in front of his chin and pulls them down across his chest in a “peace” gesture. It looks very much like the word “quiet.” Then he lets me know he’s going out to hunt, and walks away.

  Okay, Micka, breathe. He’s only a hunter boy. You escaped a whole bunch of trained soldiers. You bonk him on the head, tie him up, and next time someone from the Lume comes by, they can take him back home. Ego bruised, life saved.

  I nod at myself and start walking back to the hut. The wind combs through the trees, flicking clumps of snow off their branches and onto the hut’s roof that reaches all the way to the ground. The shelter looks like a black and white “A,” half dug into the earth. When you approach it from the side, you can barely see it. The hut blends nicely into the surroundings.

  Little feet have trodden here and there, small birds, foxes, martens. The snow reveals where they came from and where they went, and what they’ve eaten. A drop of blood, a ripped-out feather. Despite the life teeming in this forest, it’s eerily quiet now. The snow muffles all footfalls too light to sink deep. Birds have learned to shut up to conserve energy.

  A sudden creaking makes my neck tingle. I duck, pull my pistol, and hide behind a tree. Someone approaches on two legs and it can’t be Katvar, because he left in the other direction not long ago.

  ‘Katvar, Mickaela; it’s Birket.’

  I stand and lift my hand in greeting.

  ‘I see your fire is burning.’ He nods at the smoke curling up from the chimney of our hut. ‘Invite me in for tea?’

  ‘Did you leave your winter quarters?’

  ‘Of course we did. We left in groups of four to six, with no more than two sleds per group. I let Javier know that I am worried about the BSA locating his SatPad. He said you lied and that my people are safe, but he understood that he is not the chief.’ Birket smiles. ‘The safety of my people is my responsibility, not his. He is now part of my group — all men, no women and children. He’ll leave us in a few days.’ He nods toward the hut. ‘Tea?’

  We enter and I heat a pot of snow in the hearth, add a handful of blackberry leaves I found in the woods — old and dry and shrivelled, but enough to add taste to my brew.

  I pour tea and say, ‘I had no time to say goodbye to Uma, Seema, and all the others. Will you send them my greetings?’

  ‘I will. Uma misses you. She asked me to bring you this.’

  I accept the longbow from his hand, then shake my head. ‘I was supposed to give this to your wife.’

  ‘No. You were supposed to make it for yourself. To heal.’

  ‘Oh.’ I don’t know what else to say to so much naiveté.

  ‘It needs to be oiled and you need arrows. Katvar can help you with the oiling, but you won’t have the time to make arrows.’ He extracts a package from his large bag and holds it out to me.

  I unwrap the leather and find a dozen arrows. ‘Thank you, but I’m…more of a rifle girl.’

  Birket chuckles, gazes into his steaming mug, and puts on a somber expression. ‘I have three questions. One: is the BSA commander your father? Two: Did you murder your friends? Three: Are you a spy?’

  So Javier talked even more. I was wondering why Birket never asked if I had sent the BSA to kill my friends. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to ask while everyone was listening.

  ‘Yes,’ I answer.

  ‘Yes what? Which question did you answer?’

  ‘All three.’ I sigh and rub my scalp. ‘When Erik Vandemeer was an apprentice, he and my mother had sex, she got herself knocked up, they broke up, she had me. I learned about him two years ago when we fought the BSA in Taiwan. His face showed up on our aerial photographs, and we found him in the files.’

  Before I can say another word, Birket asks, ‘That’s why he wanted you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nods gravely. ‘The Sequencers believe you must have worked for Erik before that. Not only do they think you betrayed your friends, but that you also killed your mentor.’

  ‘I wish Runner were still alive. I wish they all were. I miss them.’ My hands are wrapped tightly around the hot mug. My palms feel as if my skin is blistering. I’ve always preferred physical pain to the pain of the soul.

  ‘I did not work for Erik while we were in Taiwan or before that. I didn’t even know he existed until he showed himself. I cooperated to a certain degree while I was at headquarters. Question three: Yes, I’m a spy. Or was. That’s why I went with Erik. He has control over all satellites and, obviously, the Sequencers haven’t got a clue. He feeds them fake imagery to conceal his plans, the location of his headquarters, and movements of his forces. The Sequencers believe that the BSA might succeed in eradicating humanity in ten or maybe fifteen years. They calculated that based on the data they had available. But Erik has the power to do it now.’

  Steam rises from my cup, swirls around and forms small eddies. I think of the Taiwanese forest, the fog rising there, concealing me. I am the Fog. Or was. ‘
The Sequencers don’t trust me because Erik planted false information about me. In Taiwan, he made the emergency call, pretending he was me. He drew our forces to that location days before they were due. He killed my friends and he’s set to keep doing it. He…hates. Simple as that. But he’s also betraying the BSA. The one goal all BSA factions have in common is to eradicate humanity, to help the Creator get rid of us. Erik doesn’t want that. He wants to control, to rule. He wants to be god.’

  Birket gives me a sharp nod and takes a sip of his tea. ‘You gave birth to a child before you escaped. He married you to one of his men?’

  ‘Not just one,’ I say and look up at the ceiling, wondering if Erik has seen me with the Lume. But all he would have been able to see was a well-insulated, well-covered person. I made sure that no face-recognition software would be able to tease apart my facial features — my eyes, cheeks, and mouth have been concealed by a thick fur hood whenever the sky was clear.

  ‘Why did you come to us?’

  ‘I needed to speak to a Sequencer. In winter, your clan collects dog lung samples and freezes them until a Sequencer picks them up — to me that was a good enough chance to run into one of them.’

  ‘That plan failed. Javier is furious and he suspects we helped you escape,’ Birket says.

  ‘Are you in danger now? I mean, from the Sequencers?’

  ‘I doubt it. They might interrogate a few of us, but we’ve always cooperated with them and they have no proof for their allegations.’

  I frown and empty my cup. ‘Whenever Javier switches on his SatPad, Erik knows where you are. He’s a liability to you. Get rid of him.’

  Birket’s expression darkens. Twin lines form between his eyebrows.

  ‘Have someone find Katvar. Pretend he’s injured and dying,’ I continue. ‘Use a piece of bark, here, over the heart, fasten a knife handle to it and let it stick out of his shirt. Pour blood over him and show him to Javier, but only for a glimpse. Tell him he has to breathe his last in his own yurt, because that’s how the ancestors want it. Javier will use his SatPad to tell the others I’m a murderer. That should make abundantly clear that you had no idea who I really am. However…’ I rub my face and groan. ‘I’m pretty sure Erik will send someone to torture your wives or children to extract information from you. Hide your people. Without Javier and his damn SatPad.’

  Birket stares into his mug, eyes narrowed, brain ticking. ‘I’ll make sure I find Katvar myself. I’ll not tell anyone of this plan. People will be shocked. It will be believable.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We will make camp in the hills north of Nisipitu. Katvar knows the location, he’s been there before. Close to our camp, there’ll be a small group of trees shaped like a circle around a large, grey rock. Bring him there at nightfall. Prepare him as you suggested, then leave.’ Birket rises to his feet. ‘We’ll meet again in two days’ time. Then, the first leg of your journey will begin. We sent out messengers to other clans. They’ll help you. Did you ever hear of The Bringer of Good Tidings?’

  Something tugs at the back of my mind. I’ve heard this name before, but when? ‘It sounds religious. Something to do with the BSA.’

  ‘It’s a tale that has been told among the people of the North for two years now. You were abducted two years ago. Coincidence?’

  I stand and hold his gaze. ‘I don’t know who that person is.’

  ‘The short version of the story is this: The Bringer of Good Tidings sent a woman with hair the colour of flames and skin as scarred as a battlefield to free humanity. She is the spark. The people are the force.’

  My view tilts and I have to sit so as not to sway. I think of Runner’s last day. How he took my hand into his and called my skin a battlefield.

  Did Erik listen to us then and make up his own version? Could he have spread this tale to…to…I don’t even know what his aim might have been.

  My eyes burn. I haven’t cried in many months and now is not the time to start. I rub my face and tell my lungs to breathe.

  Birket’s analytic gaze drills right through me. ‘What does this tale mean to you, Mickaela?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think it’s all bullshit. Meaningless.’ I try to make my voice strong, but it’s close to warbling.

  ‘To me it looks as if it means a lot to you. We will speak in two days.’ With that, he walks out the door and leaves me panting with unshed tears.

  ———

  The night is moonless and I have to trust the dogs to find their way back to the hut. I whisper their names, ‘Balto, Nenana, Nome, Sami, Togo, Chinook, Anca, Cesar, Ionut, Nicu, Raluca.’

  Katvar wrote them in the snow and showed me the signs for them. It’s important to address each animal by its name, he’d said. Since he doesn’t have words, he uses a long whip and taps each individual with it to signal the animal should go faster or slower. They are not afraid of the whip; he never hits them. All of his other commands are limited to huffs, grunts, whistles, and hand and body signals.

  Now, he’s lying in the snow where I left him — close to the clan’s temporary camp, a knife handle sticking out of his slashed shirt and coat, and the entire blood of a hare drained on his chest, face, and hair. He looks awful. People will be shocked.

  The dogs slow down, come to a halt, and plop into the snow. I can’t see the hut. I can’t see anything but pitch black forest. I push the snow anchor in deep, so the dogs don’t chase after whatever traipses around in the woods. I stomp through the night in search of the hut and almost run into its roof.

  The few embers in the hearth provide enough light for me to find the oil lamp. Time to pack my things. I’ll leave at sunrise.

  I spread out all my belongings plus what Katvar brought along. All too soon, I realise that I’ll need to barter for a lot of things — oil for the lamp (where the hell is my own petroleum burner?), fishing equipment, an axe, and most important of all: ammunition. I shouldn’t have trusted Sari to pack my stuff. But then, I had no choice. The next problem is that I don’t have anything to barter with. Katvar’s furs aren’t that pretty and I doubt anyone would offer me more than a moist handshake for them. I guess I could steal things, but that would mean I wouldn’t be able to go back the same route, else I’d be lynched or something.

  Maybe I won’t come back at all? I scratch my head. My scalp has been itching for two days. Now the back of my hand itches, too. I hold my hand closer to the flame and see a few small, pale bugs scuttling away. Shit. The last thing I need is lice.

  ‘You guys aren’t supposed to be here. It’s winter,’ I mutter and heat a pot of water, grab a piece of brittle soap, and scrub my head until my scalp burns. Then I pick up all the furs and throw them out into the cold, beat them against a tree trunk, rub them in snow and beat them again. I give the dogs pieces of frozen deer meat, and, too tired to prepare a meal for myself, I go to bed hungry and cold.

  The next morning, my scalp is still itching and the lice are still crawling around on me. I throw out the furs once more, planning to leave them in the freezing cold for at least one hour. I cut meat into slices and drop them into a pot with boiling water to cook breakfast for myself, then feed the dogs raw meat. I still don’t let them off their lines for fear they might run away to find Katvar.

  After breakfast, I throw all my clothes, my bags, Katvar’s furs, and anything that might provide a hiding place to the tiny critters out into the snow. I rub the pot clean, fill it and put it back over the fire. I’m still puzzled over the lack of an axe. Katvar took the time to pack firewood, so why not an axe?

  When steam rises from the hot water, I strip naked, throw my clothes out into the cold, wash myself with snow and run back inside, trembling like a poplar leaf in the wind.

  I pick up Katvar’s shaving knife, knowing he’ll be pissed he didn’t think of taking it with him. He’ll have to grow a beard, like most Lume men. I douse my head with warm water, lather well and begin scraping away at my hair. Screw that “woman with hair the colour of fire” bullshit
. Screw Erik and his propaganda. I’ll be the woman with hair the shade of nothing.

  The dogs are yapping. I drop the knife, grab my pistol, and aim it at the door just as it opens.

  ‘Kioshi! What are you doing here?’

  He gapes and points at me. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting rid of my lice.’

  ‘And you do that how? By getting naked and wielding a knife and a pistol at them? Why don’t you use the lamp oil?’

  Because I don’t want to waste the few dregs I have. I wrap my arms around my chest. I can’t even snatch a fur and cover myself. ‘Close the fucking door. It’s cold.’

  Kioshi slams the door shut, scans the room for the lamp and picks it up. ‘Let’s do this quick. I’ll cut the other side of your funny hair and you rub the oil onto your scalp. Yeah, keep that pistol. God knows who might break in.’ He grins.

  ‘Close the door from the outside,’ I snarl.

  He shrugs and turns to leave, but not before calling over his shoulder, ‘Make sure you treat all your hair.’

  I’m not an idiot. I shave the rest of my head, ignoring his suggestion about the lamp oil, and proceed with armpits and pubic hair, taking great care to drop all the fuzz into the pot with soapy water and not litter the floor with hair and lice. Several long and cold moments later, I’m as smooth as a piglet. It’s a bit gross, really.

  I wash my skin and then call for Kioshi to toss in my second set of clothes. The stuff comes flying through the cracked open door. The freezing cold fabric bites my skin as I get dressed.

  By noon, swift Kioshi has killed a moose, skinned and dressed it, and fed the dogs that are now dozing fat-bellied in the tiny snow holes they’ve dug for themselves. I make a stew using the last of my firewood, faintly wondering how I can make him go back to his camp and fetch all the things I need without bringing Katvar back or offering to join me on my journey.

  ‘Shit haircut, by the way,’ Kioshi says, waving a spoon at me and shovelling the rest of the stew down his throat. The man eats like a bottomless hole. Bits of meat have found a new home in his beard. I don’t point it out to him. His wife will tell him when he tries to kiss her. Which reminds me…