by L. Brown
.’ Then wondered, toes going numb, if he’d discovered a thermostat, a way to heat the pod.
Could the “O” stand for wholeness, some universal sign of well-being? A stretch, perhaps, but wasn’t this an escape pod, a raft to keep you alive?
The shiver now shaking his hands, Garth reached toward the middle switch, the one marked ‘O.’
Touch nothing! shouted a voice in his head. Dahkaa’s voice; and if memory served, that was his last command. So was this what he meant? But what was the alternative, sit here and freeze?
The far wind visited, buffeted the pod with a howling gust. A sound, to Garth, driving the temperature nowhere but down. Consumed by the symbols, what they might mean, he questioned if this accidental crash was an accident at all; had Logaht planned to put him here, did that former G’mach just want him dead? And if so, did Dahkaa know? Because really, who were these people, who could he trust?
Garth touched the middle switch with the bright glowing ‘O.’ But before he could flip it, another thought checked in, for why hide a thermostat under a blank steel plate?
Garth again pulled back. Wondering if they were covered for a reason, he replayed Dahkaa’s command, just wait.
So, he did. At least for a minute, but as the chill invaded the folds of the hide, Garth restored arterial flow by first kicking and thrashing, then cursing the switches, those indecipherable signs. His tantrum finally spent, he collapsed on bear meat, on a frozen slab that clanked.
Garth wondered at this. Frozen or not, it’s a rare cut of meat that reminds of steel, so vaguely curious, he lifted the slab and reached underneath.
His brow reacting with furrow, Garth pulled out an X-shaped sheath loaded with two knives. Dahkaa’s, by the look. But here? How—? The last moments on the V-craft flickering back, Garth recalled Dahkaa, how he opened the pod and tossed something in.
X-blades?
Apparently. But as he touched them, the straight blade and curved, he also recalled how Dahkaa used them, how he made them spark.
No plan yet, nothing concrete, but now Garth wondered if he might do it as well. Could he size the hide for a better fit, weld this loose, cold pelt into a tight, warm bag?
He first unsheathed the heavier blade, the straight. Gray and unadorned, the fourteen-inch knife looked, except for the trigger on the hilt, utterly plain. So, he pulled out its mate, a blade sleeker and curved. More eye-catching than the straight, it boasted not only filigree and swirl, but its ice-blue finish flashed with silver flecks.
Garth held both blades, compared side-by-side. Weathered and nicked, both heavily scorched, they showed their age not in years, but wars. But seeking only sparks, Garth found the triggers, then squeezed them hard.
The lightning-like blast banged tip-to-tip. Violently stronger than what he saw in the cave, Garth dropped them both and recoiled back. Not just charged, the blades were possessed, inhabited by lightning from high-voltage gods. But as the surprise wore off, the cold sunk in, and with no choice left, Garth reclaimed the blades, then gently, gingerly, tried the triggers once more.
A thin electric arc crackled between the tips. Searing but safe, this he could handle; and after steadying his hands, he heated two flaps of hide. Then just like Dahkaa, after he squeezed them together, he tested the bond.
It held?
Surprised by any and all success — “Hah!” he rejoiced — Garth nonetheless quashed further mirth. Fate tracked such things, kept score, so he resumed in silence; and using the blades to cut, heat, and bond, he formed the pelt into a sleeping bag. A large one, as it turned out, it could easily sleep two.
But sleep would came later, he now needed warmth. Yet when he burrowed inside and cinched it around, the bag’s extra room just stored more cold. Shiver getting worse, gusts shaking the pod, Garth couldn’t help it, he turned back to the switches, those three in a row. And the more he stared, the more the ‘<’ and ‘O’ and ‘>’ seemed not just harmless, but emoticons of warmth. Yet as for which symbol, what switch to click? Too addled to reason, too unlucky to guess, Garth defaulted to habit — “Whatever,” he mumbled — and smacked all three.
Switches beeping and frenzied with flash, the reaction sparked an ominous thought, because really, would an actual thermostat sound like Defcon One? Sensing calamity, fiasco in bloom, Garth ducked into the bag and curled up tight.
The nosecone blew first, the porthole hatch banged off next, and as explosive bolts jettisoned parts both fore and aft, the wild ice wind pounced upon a ragged sheet metal flap and torqued it into a sail. Propelled by gusts and furies of howl, the shell of a pod with a boy in a bag left with the wind, a departure, without destination or course, across an ocean of ice.
Burrowed in the bag, Garth squinted out. Nothing to see but stars and ice, nothing to do but try and hold on, but as the relentless wind deadened all sense, Garth succumbed to a creeping fade. Yet maybe that was lucky, for exhausted by miles of travel and hours of cold, he barely felt it, the quick-hit collision now flipping the pod.
Awakened in mid-tumble, Garth crashed and slid until his velocity died. Or perhaps it was him, but cocooned in his bag and unable to tell, Garth never moved, just dreamed of warmth.
Deep in the hide of his well-traveled bear, Garth woke to a mouthful of fur. Saliva and bristles matted his mouth, and as he spat out the tufts, he awakened to the rest of his body, a throbbing temple of pain. But as he cracked open his eyes, first one waxy seal, then the next, he only wondered, why so dark?
Befuddled by it, he then heard the wind. No longer a howl, it lingered, far off, as an ebbing moan. Maybe just a song, the opening foreboding to One of These Days; had it all been a dream, was he really just deep in his bed?
If he was, someone had turned his mattress to stone. Wincing with ache and deep tissue bruise, feeling the pain divide real from not, Garth groped for answers, why he awoke in this cold, furry womb. But as circulation returned, so did the memories, the blurring-by ice and trying to hold on, the explosion of bolts blowing open his pod.
That did it, brought him back quick. I survived? A startling result, in lieu of it all, but as the shock wore off, everything narrowed to where am I now. Peeling apart the warm, furry bag, he let in some light, a deep, murky blue. Reality waited, and though he thought about staying, just hiding inside, he needed to stretch, unlock his bones. But first, he drew a long breath.
Charged, the surprising taste, the air seemed electric, roused his nerves. Nearly optimistic, hoping for a glimpse of dawn or turf, he slowly peeked out.
Stars above, frozen ocean ahead — after uncounted miles under hellacious sail, Garth still saw neither sun nor land, nothing existed but the same brutal plain of vast, endless ice.
Hollowing, the sight. Yet slowly, nearly imperceptivity, he sensed something else. It made no sound and brought no scent, but an odd disquiet urged him to turn, to look not ahead, but behind. Not wanting to know, now knowing he must, he turned, skin prickling, for a peek.
Trying to absorb it, take it all in, he found he couldn’t, both mind and body were still cocooned. Two-hundred feet tall, a barrier to all progress and sight, a great wall stretched from the left horizon to the right. Nothing smooth, not made of brick, the wall blocked all passage by its chunks of ice, irregular boulders dusted with snow and randomly stacked — and lit, by some illumination behind, with a soft, violet glow.
Garth crawled from his pelt. Entranced by it, he noticed something at its base. Tipped on its side, the pod’s skeletal remains rested in peace a hundred yards ahead. But given the random scatter of ice, the bits and slivers clumped all about? Maybe that’s what caused the flip, maybe a chunk of ice upended the pod before it hit the wall. Fortuitous, that, but the mystery was the wall, why it blocked all passage as far as he looked.
And what, exactly, was on the other side, what made the violet light?
Alone in the dark on an alien world, bruised and cold before a Great Wall of Ice, Garth pondered his next step. He thought a moment, not very much, then trusting hi
s nature and what seemed to feel right, he dropped to a crouch and reentered the pelt.
It was warm inside, at least warmer than out. And since Dahkaa told him to wait? Well, why not. Then again, if he really was supposed to land in the Bloodlands, if crashing on the ice had just been some venting mistake, then — assuming Dahkaa and Logaht had survived, then why would they look for him here?
Garth turtled his head back out. Surveying first the ocean of ice, then the unending Great Wall, he knew he’d never be found, at least not alive. Reality chilled, and with a fresh shiver, his appetite returned and moreso his thirst, he was parched. And though water waited so close to his mouth and for thousands of miles all ’round, every drop stayed locked in ice.
He needed heat, a way to melt some chunk or shard, but with no fuel for fire? An unsolvable problem as tall as the wall, it brought visions of competing tortures, of freezing to death while dying of thirst. But then he remembered the blades.
Were they lost? Had they tumbled from the pod when its panels first blew?
Struck with panic, Garth lurched from the pelt, then slipped and fell. Boot soles were smooth and the ice was ice, so when he rose once more, then hurried toward the wall, he tried not to rush. Yet why should he? The blades were gone, no way they’d be there, so when he arrived at the pod, he held no hope.
Skidding to a stop, then clambering in, he bent back sheet metal and tossed out slabs of rock-hard meat. Then he just gasped, glared at the gray, at the gunmetal shade of the straight X-blade.
Garth grabbed the knife. Wasting no time, he chipped a chunk from an ice boulder, then clicked the trigger to summon the sparks.
Nothing came, not even a glint. He clicked again and again, but like a lighter without flint, the blade stayed dead. A life of instant-on expectation gone instantly wrong, Garth shouted and raged, mangled some curse with his cracked leather tongue. Then realized, in a semi-lucid pause, he’d never seen sparks jump from just one X-blade, they worked as a pair.
Garth dove back into the pod. Digging through mangled steel and frozen meat, he mumbled, “Where there’s one, there’s two, where’s the other blade!” But scouring the wreck inside and out, he never found the straight blade’s mate; though he did, at the end, find the sheath.
“Hah!” he cried.
Then he just stared, for it was empty, of course. Out of ideas, he finally looked back, peered at the frozen ribs and bear meat bits that marked the pod’s final approach. No sign of a knife, what did he expect, but then he glimpsed the faintest of glints.
An icicle? Had to be. But if that’s what Garth truly believed, he wouldn’t have sprinted in his slick-soled boots, wouldn’t have slipped and skidded those last ten yards.
“Yes!” he shouted, and grabbing the curved X-blade, Garth squeezed its trigger simultaneously with the straight, then hollered and whooped at the dazzling arc.
Three minutes later, he slurped his first drink, a shallow puddle of melted ice. The quench restored, but as a longer perspective returned, he knew the danger had not yet passed, he’d never survive a return of the wind. Not without shelter, so he turned to the pod, that miserable wreck, but while considering its potential, his gaze kept drifting back to the wall.
Taking its measure from bottom-to-top, Garth wished it were rock, something he could climb. But ice? Shuddering at the certain result, at losing his footing and breaking his neck, he returned to his slurp.
But the wall beckoned, refused to let go. Yet worse was the light, for those violet refractions through cracks didn’t just beckon, they teased. An enigma unguessed, the source of the light seeded hope, wild jumps of the mind. Was the glow cast by humanity, some shelter or house?
With heat?
Then again, walls were built for a reason. And recalling King Kong, that island walled between monsters and not, Garth wondered which side he was on.
Garth took a last look around. Impossible, he concluded, no creature was out there, nothing could live on an ocean of ice. But after the Wraith of his dreams had emerged from a haze, after diving into a river and popping up here, impossible lacked impact, had lost its stuff.
Garth sliced into his polar bear bag. Cutting with an X-blade, he roughed out a torso-like shape, and after searing the edges and burning some seams, he eyed his creation, a furry white vest. Or such was his plan, but — ragged and tilted, cockeyed in cut, it seemed either fit for a shredder or some runway in Milan. Regardless, it was warm, and after pulling it on over his X-blade sheath, he faced the ice wall.
No choice. Because if he was on the wrong side, wasn’t it safer to climb when you weren’t being chased? Just as important, if someplace warm produced that violet light, then he had to get there, had to try.
But maybe I should eat first, grab a quick bite? Salivating already, he retrieved a rib, then cut a thin strip and opened his mouth.
Then twitched at a noise, a far, muffled thump.
Garth listened. Didn’t move. But nothing else came, he heard only wind. Ice, he thought, some far-away mass just fell off the wall. Plausible, maybe even true, so relaxing a bit, he lifted the meat and tried a small bite.
And heard another thump.
Not ice. That didn’t say much, but not ice said enough, so ducking down low, he eyed the frozen ocean from left to right. Yet he discerned no movement, no thumpish cause stirred.
Thawing ice, some fracture far off? Reasonable, but alone at night in an alien world, reason vs fright wasn’t even close.
Something was out there, thumping his way, yet despite all squint, no giant or Kraken appeared. Every sense piqued, he chewed again — still nothing — then once more. All still quiet, he swallowed his first bite of bear, but then it got stuck, everything seized from thump number three.
It came from the left, if he trusted his ears, something big stirred a few miles out. A spot, he reckoned, quite near the wall. But which side of the wall, was it his?
Analysis was needed, a sober reflection of the evidence and facts. But to Garth, all the evidence screamed get out, so he looked at the wall, at the sharp ridges and shards of the ice boulders and chunks. Hands already aching, he knew the ice would cut.
Garth raced back to the remnants of pelt. He hacked hide into strips, then hurriedly wrapped his palms. But what about the knives, would their handles snare the ragged ice, get caught? Moving fast, as quick as cold fingers could, Garth sheathed the two X-blades under his coat, then donned his vest once more. Preparations complete, he turned again to the Great Wall of Ice, and summoning all life experience, every lesson learned from dodging homework and chores, he mapped his climb, the least resistant path.
And knew, without doubt, he would fall.
Just a bit louder, another thump shook him loose, drove his boot into the first ice wall crack. One foot up, one-hundred ninety-nine feet to go, and though adrenaline and fright seemed a potent fuel, he wished he’d packed some bear. Then another thump sounded, nearly made him slip, and shortly thereafter, he felt a third. But then, silence, he’d just heard the same three-thump pattern as before.
Garth kept climbing, what else can I do? Nothing mattered but height, and though every vertical inch increased the lethality of a fall, he couldn’t quit or go back, because whatever was coming was closing the gap, every series of thumps arrived not just with greater volume, but also more slam, just shivered the ice in his grip. Hard enough on his hands, his ability to hold, but worse was the toll on his mind, the rabid imaginings of monsters and beings.
Whatever it was, it didn’t lack for size. So, was that why it paused, took a break after every third step, did it need to rest? Ice elephants came to mind, pachyderm freaks with tripod legs. But didn’t limbs grow in pairs, hadn’t he once read about that? Or did that stray fact come from a comic; hard to say, source attribution comes slow a hundred feet up. But as monstrous musings came and went, as the madness of forms leapt higher with every louder thump, Garth knew he was fading, was losing the war against exertion and cold. He slipped more, breath never ca
ught up, and when he lost his grip and slid two feet, he had no choice, he needed help.
Bracing himself, trying to hold on, Garth reached under his coat and pulled out the blade with the best chance in ice, the curved. He jammed it into a crack, tested for purchase and hold, then wishing again he was back in his bag, he slowly inched up.
It worked, somewhat, was at least a reprieve from ice boulder crust. Stabbing and planting, slithering with grunts, Garth resumed his ascent, the last fifty feet. And though he paused for each thump — so heavy the latest impacts, they nearly shook him loose — he welcomed these rests, climbing the ice was a vertical burn that flogged his legs and racked his back and arms. And always there was thirst, the craving for water just a hot breath away.
But he couldn’t try it, couldn’t risk an unbalanced perch just to melt a few drops, so he continued until he couldn’t, until the agony of up exceeded his reach. Unmindful of his height, whatever inches or miles remained, he squirmed onto a ledge and collapsed.
He gasped a while, then peeked overhead. Stars all different, no Orion or Dipper to welcome or soothe — but then came a sight just utterly new, a celestial mirage high on the left.
A pinwheel? But pinwheels were toys, didn’t hang with the stars. And yet, there it hung, a spinning gaseous corona circled a small violet orb, a celestial mass possibly a moon. A violet moon, was that it? One of the two? Trying to remember, retrieve Dahkaa’s words about the moons of C’raggh, Garth wondered if it had been the source of the light, the violet refractions that enticed through the wall.
But if so, that meant no shelter or town awaited, he’d just been chasing the light of a moon. Deflating, the realization, Garth felt both foolish and tricked. But then, clearing his eyes, he felt only thrilled, the top of the wall was just a few feet up.
I did it? Somehow, he had, and way up here, no monster could reach him, not even a brute with a three-footed stomp. Overjoyed in the moment, this chasm between breaths, Garth lost himself in the pinwheel and stars, in the icy air so fantastically charged.