We reach a tributary,
a smaller river
that flows into the Ymir.
Or at least, I assume it must.
Hard to tell, since it is
completely covered in ice.
Do not know the river’s name.
Have no idea where it leads,
but my heartstring vibrates
at a more desperate pace
when we reach it.
We follow the tributary
up
a
steep
slope
and hope
it leads us
to paradise.
BROB
Three Weeks Post-Banishment
I haven’t slept, and I’m guessing it’s only an hour
or two till dawn. Da’s heavy breathing and Ma’s
snorting snores announce they’re deep in
slumberland. But my garden keeps me awake.
There’s something new in the thrumming music
that threads through my brain. Something urgent.
The hum is louder, more insistent. Rattles my
insides like tree branches tossed in a storm.
I’ve been lying here fighting the urge to answer
the call for hours. (I’d be an idiot to head into
the Blight in the middle of the night.)
But with each minute that passes, the buzzing
in my chest gets stronger. I can’t fight it anymore.
Slowly oh so slowly
Quietly oh so quietly
I sit up, pull off my sleeping furs, tug on my boots
and the rest of my gear, creep to the flap of our tent …
Da flips over. I freeze, expecting
him to demand what I’m doing. But the question never
comes. I fumble with the tent’s ties. Stumble into night.
A billion blizzards!
This is pure foolishness, wandering into the Blight on my
own, but the garden’s pull won’t let me hesitate.
It’s out there. Waiting.
And if I don’t come, it will snap me
in half like the insignificant twig I am.
LYRIANA
Dawn
I know we are close now.
Can feel
the garden’s pull
thrumming
in my soul
tugging me
forward
faster
faster.
A whisper against my heartstring …
You are
almost
there.
Children’s lilting
laughter floats
on an arctic breeze.
Not cries of pain
or hardship.
Not the groans
of too-tired bones.
The sweet sound flits
across the ice to greet us
like an eager puppy
excited to see us home.
Zave looks up at the sound.
His shivering has
intensified,
tremors shaking him
like a baby’s rattle.
“Do you … hear?”
His voice is halting,
as if he thinks this
might be a trick,
a sound mirage designed
by Winter Spirits
to fool us.
Make us think we
have found the end
of our journey
only to lure us further
into their evil snares.
Part of me thinks
that might be true.
But I cannot push
down the hope
that bubbles
inside me—
Hope wants to squirm
its way up to my heart
and take root there,
spreading its sweetness
through my veins.
I stuff it down,
snuff it out.
No room for hope now.
Only strength
and courage
and sheer will—
that is how I will save my brother.
Hope never healed anyone.
Hope did not save our mother
when she played
the song that
drained her life away,
so sure
she would call enough
magic in one day
to buy our whole village
passage to a garden.
Hope did not save us,
but I will.