The pass is blanketed by snow, buffeted by wind. Lost are the slabs of golden rock I sunbake on in the summer. I’m glad for the clouds that hide the sun, everything is blinding enough already.
When I turn around, my world is arrayed below me. White bleeding to icy brown under the heavy snow-clouds. My eyes follow the weave of the stream down until it knits with the smear of our village. Very far away. Too far to make it back before nightfall.
I sigh and face forward again. A different world lies ahead. Pristine. Glistening. Patches of brilliant blue sky. Our summer pasture nestles below, dwarfed by the mountains that contain it. It looks nothing like it does in actual summer. I can discern the white lump that must mark the hut. The centre of the pasture is a dirtier white, hinting at some forage, but it doesn’t look like the sort of place I’d choose to birth and nurture my offspring if I were a gotal.
Beyond the summer pasture is another pass, and then a vast alpine valley stretches on forever. The mythical lands of the Ice-People.
We never set foot there, even in summer.
The cloud breaks completely near the horizon, and the spreading valley glows. Mera loves to tell tales of a great city in the centre of a plateau, with a palace of greenstone and gold, where when the sun shines everything glows like a forest.
I haven’t seen those forests. But even though I know the forests are real and the green city isn’t, Mera’s tales still sparkle for me. The only reason I’m so good at weaving is because I love to sit by her and listen. I sit and I weave and I dream. Now I wish I hadn’t dreamed quite so vividly, because the moment I choose to step off this pass towards our summer pasture, I’ll break an unwritten law. Mera used to talk about it often. Always in her ‘spooky story’ voice. I grimace. If I take one step forward, I cross our winter border. I invade the lands of the Ice-People.
Father derides those stories, berates Mera if he hears her telling them, but even he has never broken the winter border.
I shudder. My sweaty underclothes are freezing against my skin. I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.
I’m letting fairytales spook me. There are no Ice-People. No winter borders. No summer borders. The Ice-People were probably invented to explain something that is simply common sense: people don’t come up here in winter because it is too cold and too dangerous. The end.
I hope Father is enjoying his seat by the fire.
A tug at my leg brings me back to the now. It’s ZuZu, and she thinks my pants are her meal. I tickle her ears, catching a whiff of my own odour. Ugh. I can’t understand how she thinks anything of mine would be good to eat.
Back in our perpetually muddy village, I don’t have the opportunity to compare my filth with anything pure. Up here, everything is pure. Everything except us.
A hacking cough sounds from just below the pass. Uncle. I stiffen. He will be hungry. And I’ve let my mind drift. I drop my pack in the lee of a boulder, cold fingers fumbling to release the rope tie and fold out the rough sacking. Push past the pots. No chance of a fire in this wind, even if we could find fuel. I reach for the roasted barley, quickly mixing it with a little water from the flask I keep in my inner pocket to stop it freezing. Then I spoon it into balls. I could use my hands, but, well, I know what my hands look like.
Uncle has arrived. I hear him stomping around and complaining at the cold and the climb and my tardiness, swearing on the Dragon and his father’s ashes that this is a fool’s mission.
I bow my head and ball the mix faster. Pull out the vinegared cloth that holds my precious dried gotal strips. I assemble a plateful of barley balls and four strips and take it to where Uncle fumes. I watch the snow beneath my boots as I approach him. It was pristine when I arrived, now it is churned and sullied.
He grimaces as he takes the plate. I bow, heart beating, turn to retreat. His stick whistles as he swings it. Ouch. I deserved that. Too tardy. I’ll have a bruise on my leg, but not so bad. He is probably too hungry and cold to bother hitting any harder.
When I return to my pack, Danam’s there. Reddened fingers hovering over the barley balls. ‘Are some of these for me?’
I’m his aunt, he should be making my lunch. But he is also the elder, so I should be making his. I grin, because we’ve never quite worked out which of us is senior. ‘Half each? Let’s make more while we eat.’
Danam nods and stuffs two barley balls in his mouth at once. ‘How’s Grouchy?’
I whip a glance in Uncle’s direction, but he’s absorbed in perfecting a frown while eating. ‘Shhhh.’
Danam rolls his eyes. ‘He won’t hear me, he’s chewing those gotal strips too hard. Any of those for us?’ As he speaks, he mixes more barley.
‘Not if we want any peace for the next moon.’ I hand him my spoon.
‘I’m starving! Who cares about peace?’
I rub my still-smarting leg. ‘I do.’
He shivers. ‘It’s as cold as a winter pantry up here. How is it you’re not shivering?’ He offers me a barley ball. Not as perfect as mine, but this is the highest pass in our village’s domain, I’m hungry, and I’m not First Uncle. So I guess I’m saying I don’t care. I take it gratefully, then use the spoon to roll one for him.
‘You did well getting up here,’ Danam says through a mouthful of barley.
I shrug. ‘Anyone could have.’
‘Himself couldn’t.’ Danam gestures to where Uncle sits. His lack of respect makes my guts panic. ‘You’ve got a knack for finding the path. How do you do it?’
‘I just feel my way. Don’t you?’
He shrugs. ‘I suppose.’
There’s a tickling kind of sensation down my face and I swat at it. I’m expecting to see one of the gotals studying me, but none are. All I see are expansive, empty Skylands. The chill I feel has nothing to do with the weather.
It’s like I’m being watched again.
When I next see Mera, I’m going to tell her to keep her stories to herself. How she’ll laugh at me.
‘Hurry up and finish your food,’ Uncle growls. ‘We need to keep going.’
I get up and refold my bag, tying it securely. Dragon Mountain is just visible beyond the smaller peak that rises above our pass, clouds pluming from its blackened nostrils. I gasp as the side of it shimmers.
‘What is it?’ Danam asks.
I point. ‘Avalanche. On Dragon Mountain.’
Danam laughs and play-punches my arm. ‘You don’t believe that superstitious dung, do you?’
I poke my tongue out at him, though it almost freezes in the chill air. I don’t want him to see the avalanche has freaked me out. It’s one of the baddest bad signs of bad bad luck we have. On top of all the premonitions tickling the back of my neck like hungry lice, it doesn’t bode well. I’m jittery before I even step off the pass. Before I even cross the winter border.
I don’t want to take that next step. Not onto the untouched snow of the other side. But Uncle will be annoyed if I delay. I make my boot rise. I force myself to go forward. Breathe stupidly fast. Ease my boot down on the snow. Shoulders hunched, ready for whatever I may unleash.
ZuZu bleats behind me and I jump high enough to touch the peaks. Danam smothers a cough. Except honestly? Probably not a cough.
I glare at him and his eyes dance. At least I don’t have my sleeping rug draped all around me. I straighten my shoulders and stride off the pass.