Winter Magic - a multi-author anthology of poetry and prose

Icy Oasis

by Joy Pixley

*

Aknar trudged atop the snow, his latticed hare-shoes barely sinking. After two days of the awkward bird-walk, his thighs screamed with each step. His cheeks burned from the wind. His eyes ached from squinting through the narrow slit of his goggles at the blinding white.

The weight on his back grew heavier every hour. Worse, it was still. He prayed silently, closed lips holding tight to what heat remained inside him.

The daylight was fading too fast. He cursed the time spent resetting the last marker, and feared again that he had lost the track.

Finally, the yellow glow appeared, farther to his right than he expected, but close enough to reach before full dark. New energy pumped through his exhausted muscles, propelling him forward.

At the threshold, Aknar steeled himself. Before him lay green grass, colorful wildflowers, trees swaying in a breeze. A perfect circle sliced through the snow like a glass knife, centered on a small wooden house, with red shutters wide open and smoke trickling from the chimney. Jumping from the snow bank to the soft ground below, he shivered as the familiar shock surged through him.

He rushed to unwrap his scarf and peel off the ice-stiffened furs, already melting. Unstrapping his harness, he laid its precious cargo on the ground, desperate for the answer, terrified to learn it. Manara's skin was pale, almost gray. Her tiny arms flopped uselessly. Her chapped lips hung open, motionless. Leaning in to press his ear to her chest, Aknar saw movement behind her thin eyelids. He sobbed with relief. There was still time.

Scooping her up, he abandoned his gear and ran to the house. As he approached, the door opened. The old woman sat by the fireplace, white hair in a loose bun, wearing long sleeves and a shawl despite the temperature. When he entered, she placed a lid over the copper pot hung over the fire, but did not turn around.

Dripping onto the thick rag rug, Aknar held his daughter out in both arms like a gift. He waited for the woman to speak first. One did not anger the Varnakta.

"I wondered if you would come."

How could he not? "She's dying."

The Varnakta looked up, yellow eyes meeting his, and shrugged. "People die. Wait long enough, your whole clan will be dead."

It sounded as close to sentimental as he'd ever heard her be, yet she held the same pleasant smile she always did. He wondered what she knew about waiting, and dying.

"You can't save them all."

She was right. He couldn't keep coming back. He had given almost all he had already. Yet how could he ask this of anyone else? "I'm here now."

He laid Manara on the rug.

The disease drew the Varnakta, like a fish to the worm. She ran her hands over the small body, barely touching, her fingers dancing, twitching.

For a moment Aknar saw something else in that movement, the fingers seeming stubbier than normal, held at the wrong angle. He rubbed his eyelids and turned away. The first few visits, he had tried watching her from the edge of his eye, hoping to penetrate the shimmer, wanting to see what she really was. He no longer wanted to know. What good would knowing do?

She pushed back to sit on her heels, her jaw stern. "You have something good? Something true?"

He could still back out. Manara lay quietly, barely breathing. She might survive this only to perish next winter, or the one after that. Still, for a year more—a month, even—he had to. Aknar kneeled beside the Varnakta, not waiting for her to tell him.