Chapter Fifteen

Icy Reception

There are lots of wonderful places that most of us might like to visit someday. The beaches of Costa del Sol seem like a good place to go. Maybe you’d like to see the Grand Canyon or the pyramids of Egypt or the world’s biggest ball of yarn.

Then, there are the places you would rather not go—a tax collectors’ convention, a sewage treatment plant, or maybe the home of someone who keeps spiders as pets and insists on taking them out of their cages and making you hold them.

You could also add the ice caves in the Mediania Mountains of Foo to that list of undesirable destinations.

At the moment, those ice caves were home to Winter Frore, who was being held captive there, encased in an icy coffin. After Geth had escaped, the room had gradually grown smaller until Winter was lying on her back, not even able to lie entirely flat, and her whole body was screaming out in pain.

Winter’s stomach growled. Her throat was parched, and her body was running out of energy. She had no idea how long Geth had been gone or if it was morning or night. She missed Leven and Clover and Amelia and Geth. She wanted desperately for Leven to appear and tell her everything was going to be all right.

Winter didn’t know how much longer she could last. In her cramped condition, she felt like a seed that desperately wanted to grow but was wrapped in cellophane.

She was also confused. When she had stepped back into Foo, her head had begun to fill with memories and images of the life she had known before going to Reality. Now, however, those memories were beginning to fade. They were like a wave that had pushed onto shore, but the ocean was now receding. All she could clearly remember was her life in Reality. She also remembered Leven, but what they were fighting for was fuzzy. If they had some cause, she could not remember what it was.

“Hello?” she hollered out in a panic, as if she might forget who she was if she didn’t act quickly. “Hello!”

Through the narrow slits in her mask, she stared at the icy ceiling above her.

“Please, Jamoon,” she yelled. “I’m ready to talk.”

There was no reply.

“Please!”

A loud click sounded, followed by the creaking of breaking ice. The ceiling and walls began to slowly move outward.

Winter’s heart beat with hope.

After a few moments, Winter actually had enough room to stretch out. Her legs and back and neck rejoiced in the movement. There was some ferocious tingling as her blood rushed back into veins and muscles, but the pain was almost glorious.

The ice continued to groan and creak, and in a few minutes the room was back to the size it had once been.

A tall, narrow door opened, revealing a short rant standing in the doorway. He wore a dark blue cloak and a hood that covered everything but his right eye. Winter could tell from his height that he was not Jamoon. She couldn’t see all of him at once because of her mask, but she could see from his stance that his left side was that of a model. Somewhere in Reality some young girl was dreaming of becoming a runway model.

“If you freeze me, we will draw the walls in even tighter,” the rant warned her.

“I won’t freeze you,” Winter promised.

“Follow me,” he commanded. “But remember there are eyes watching.”

Winter tried to roll over and stand, but the shroud held her down, and she was too weak.

“I can’t get up,” she said. “My legs . . .”

The rant grunted irritably. He stepped into the room and lifted the shroud off Winter but left the hood in place and her hands tied. He took hold of her left shoulder with his right hand in a grip so strong that Winter feared he might break her collarbone. But despite the pain, she kept quiet, not willing to acknowledge his strength.

He yanked her to her feet, and she wobbled like a newborn colt. Her right leg was okay, but her left one gave out, and she found herself back on the floor.

“Is this a trick?” the rant barked.

“I can’t walk,” Winter insisted. “My legs have been cramped up.”

The rant seized her by the shoulder again and hauled her up. “Prisoners like you are more trouble than they’re worth,” he growled.

“I’m . . .”

“Sorry,” he finished for her. “Very sorry, indeed. I know all about you, nit. And a weak apology is not going to make right all the trouble you’ve caused. Jamoon will finish Sabine’s work, and you will be nothing but a memory a few misguided souls will be forced to recall.”

Winter held her tongue. She was not used to rants talking so boldly to her. Despite her loss of memory, she knew that in the social order of Foo, rants certainly had no place talking down to nits. Rants were of less importance than cogs, and cogs were looked down upon by most nits. The only reason rants were so loyal to Sabine was that they were weak and easy to control. It always baffled Winter that not a single rant could see the truth—the truth being that a merger of Foo with Reality would be an end to every rant. In Reality their dream-halves would die and they would cease to exist. Sabine had filled their heads with the lie that their bodies would be restored.

“What’s my motivation for this photo shoot?” the model half of the rant asked. “Be quiet,” its other side ordered.

It was difficult, but Winter followed the rant down an icy hallway. The hood obscured her vision, and she felt pain with each step. But there was also a better range of motion and movement for her legs and arms, and as they went along, she tried to see and memorize as much as she could of the layout of the caves.

There were portraits on the frozen walls—some beautiful, some ugly—all of them coated with patterns of frost. They passed a picture of a man standing over something, a jagged metal sword in his hand. Winter looked away. The floor was also frozen, and there were no windows anywhere.

The hallway made a turn, and Winter slipped on the uneven floor. With her hands still bound, she had no way to stop herself from falling.

“Get up,” the rant ordered.

Winter tried to stand but lost her footing again.

“I think I hurt my shoulder when—”

The rant grabbed her by the sore shoulder and pulled her up with one quick jerk. Winter saw stars.

“In here,” the rant directed, pushing Winter through a low doorway into a warm room.

Through the slits of her mask, Winter could see Jamoon seated behind a large wooden desk at the far end of the room. There was a fire humming in the fireplace behind him, and the floor was covered with thick, furry animal hides.

Jamoon looked up, his right eye glaring at Winter.

“She said she wants to talk,” the rant informed Jamoon.

“Good,” Jamoon replied, laying aside a thick scroll he had been looking at. “It doesn’t take long for the ice rooms to break a soul.”

Winter commanded her mind to stop being so jumpy and confused, but it only halfway obeyed. The rant pushed her farther into the room, hurting her sore shoulder again.

Winter winced and couldn’t help whimpering.

“The lighting in here is awful,” the model half of the rant complained. “If I come off looking pale . . .”

“Leave us!” Jamoon ordered, annoyed.

The rant bowed and backed out of the room, his model half whining about the shoes she was forced to wear.

Jamoon stepped over to Winter and lifted his hand toward her.

“Get away from me,” Winter demanded, shrinking from his touch.

Jamoon ignored her and unhooked her hood, pulling it off to expose Winter’s head.

Winter looked around. The room was filled with heavy pieces of furniture, and its walls were mossy. The fireplace and mantel were large and ornate, and thick patches of black nihils clung to the ceiling, fluttering like bats.

“Why am I here?” Winter challenged. A long strand of her blonde hair stuck to her lip, and she spat it out.

“Winter,” Jamoon said, walking around her. “You don’t look like the Winter I used to know. Do you remember me?”

“I know you’re Jamoon,” Winter answered.

“And?”

“That’s all I can remember,” Winter replied honestly. “My visions of Foo are fading. I can only remember Reality.”

Winter felt odd being so truthful, but she couldn’t see any advantage in creating lies. She had lived such a solitary existence in Reality—few friends and only the coldest communication from her fake mother, Janet.

Jamoon stepped closer to Winter and leaned down so that his mouth was only inches away from her face. She could smell the bad breath coming from whoever was currently occupying his left side.

“You remember nothing of the . . . plan?” he whispered, withdrawing just a bit.

The dead nihils on the ceiling screeched.

“Plan?” Winter whispered back, feeling as if discretion were needed.

She could see only Jamoon’s right eye, but he used that eye to stare deeply into both of hers. He was looking for something, but Winter’s green eyes were too hard to read.

“Morfit holds the answer for you,” Jamoon growled softly.

Jamoon straightened. His right side was under control, but the left side of his body flailed about wildly. Somewhere in Reality, someone was beginning a new dream. There was a sucking noise, like a big wad of wet clay being expelled from a glass tube. The noise was followed by deep breathing, and Jamoon’s left side collapsed beneath his robe. He now looked like half a person standing on just one leg with a deflated left half. He hopped over and sat down behind his wooden desk.

Winter tried hard not to stare.

There was a faint croaking sound, and Winter made the assumption that half of Jamoon was a frog at the moment. She was glad he was robed; the uneven matchup would have been almost impossible not to laugh at.

Jamoon leaned back in his furry chair, trying hard to balance his unequal self. He now smelled wet and mossy. On his desk was a mug of hot liquid. He picked it up and took a sip.

“What of Morfit?” Winter asked.

“Morfit was necessary to the plan,” Jamoon said hoarsely.

“And I was a part of it?” Winter asked. “How could that be?”

“You don’t understand,” Jamoon snapped. He paused and lifted his right hand, pulling the hood of his cloak even tighter. Only his right eye showed. “We were in this together. You implemented it. Don’t you remember?”

The pain in Winter’s shoulder was mild compared to the sock in the gut she felt on hearing Jamoon’s words. “In this together?” she whispered. “How could that be? Who am I?”

There was a sharp knock on the door, and Jamoon quickly stood. The wide wooden door opened, and a hooded messenger announced, “The Sochemists have sent word.”

Jamoon glanced at Winter. With his right hand he quickly pulled her mask back over her head and sealed it.

“I have a few things I need to take care of in Morfit,” he said. “You’ll be returned to your cell.”

Winter stared as Jamoon left the room. “Who am I?” she whispered again.