THE ICE WALLChapter Three — Fire Behind the Warmth
The sentence was complete.
DON'T OPEN THE WINDOW.
Silence fell.
Ice could no longer hear anything, not even his own breathing, as though the room had suddenly grown larger and swallowed him in the middle of it. He remained standing with the notebook in his hands, his eyes fixed on the new words that had not been there moments ago, as though something had been waiting for him to finish reading before it began.
He slowly raised his head.
Daylight flooded the room, spilling through the window and settling across the wooden floor. The bed was to his right, the door behind him, and everything was exactly where it had always been. So ordinary that the sentence felt even stranger.
Then...
Knock.
He froze.
Knock...
A second knock.
Slower.
Heavier.
Closer.
His eyes lifted toward the window.
He could see nothing but thick vapor covering the glass, and beyond it the harsh whiteness of Jafa, which gave the eye no room to see very far. He tried looking from where he stood first, then pressed his heel against the floor, careful not to make a sound, and placed his other foot in front of him.
One step.
Then another.
He stopped.
He approached the window and pressed his ear against the glass.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
His heartbeat was slow, but clear enough that he could no longer tell whether the sound was coming from his own chest or from the other side of the glass.
He pulled his ear away at once.
He wiped the frost from the glass with his right palm and tried to look through the small space he had cleared, but the vapor still blocked his view.
Nothing.
He gave up.
He raised his eyes, slapped his hands against his thigh, then sighed.
"Why...?"
He stared at the window for a moment, then turned his eyes toward what he believed was the cause of it all: the notebook.
He glanced at it with a look in which despair mixed with pity, and perhaps with something small he refused to call hope. Then he went to it, picked it up, and examined its worn cover once more.
The name appeared.
Naz Bix.
It was written in faded white letters, blending into the black that the years had eaten away at, until the name seemed like the last thing inside that cover to have resisted time.
As usual, Ice closed the notebook.
Nothing new.
He placed it in the drawer and shut it, then left the room and blew out the candle.
Darkness filled the room.
A little while later, Ice was outside in the snow, his face turned toward the sky and his eyes shining. He liked the weather. There was something about that endless white, about the wind whining through the trees, that gave him a peace he could find nowhere else.
He bent down and gathered several large balls of snow, then began building a small wall with them, followed by another wall and then a simple roof, until a tiny snow house stood before him.
It was his daily dream.
He crawled inside for a while and stretched himself out on the floor with a huge smile. Then he looked up at the roof and felt the thrill of victory, as though he had built a real palace rather than something that might collapse before morning.
Silence settled for a while.
Then came the voice that ruined his enjoyment every day.
"Ice! Come inside, it's almost dark!"
He closed his eyes.
"Tsk."
He stood, his eyelids nearly closing from sleep, brushed the snow from his knees, then stepped out of his little house and gave it one last farewell glance before heading toward home.
He opened the door.
Warmth rushed against his face.
He felt it wrap around his body, and the moment he stepped inside, he could no longer fight the exhaustion. He fell asleep again on the doorstep.
But his mother did not let him stay there for long.
She came over and shook him roughly.
"Get up! Don't you have any responsibility? Didn't I call you, boy? Are you not listening anymore?"
He opened his eyes with difficulty, shook his head, and raised his eyebrows.
"Yes... yes."
At dinner, the candlelight grew brighter with every candle his mother placed on the table, until she brought the third. Ice sat eating fish, moving his jaw lazily. Every now and then he glanced at the spoon before him with boredom, then raised his eyes to his mother and found her eating hungrily. He smiled without realizing it and continued his meal.
His mother cut through his thoughts.
"We're out of fish. You need to bring back a big catch this time."
Ice looked at her with his mouth full, then winked at her.
His mother continued staring at him, her eyebrows drawn together strangely.
He swallowed, struggling with the last bite, and said, "Aren't you going to cook meat?"
Her answer came immediately.
"No. Bring fish and listen to me."
He puffed out his cheek and nodded, then continued eating.
When they finished, his mother began gathering the dishes and stacking them together. She carried them away quickly, returned with a cloth, and began wiping the table. As she wiped its edge, she said without looking up:
"I found a ring in your father's coat pocket."
Ice raised his head at once, still sitting in the chair.
"Really?"
She continued wiping the edge of the table.
"Yes. It's silver, but unfortunately it doesn't fit me."
She set the cloth down, smoothly pulled the ring from her pocket, and handed it to him.
It gleamed with a frosted silver sheen, streaked with a few brown spots tinged with red, as though it had spent a long time untouched.
His mother continued, "Luckily for me, it tightens instead of loosening."
Her words brought a spark of delight to Ice's face.
His mother watched him with an unguarded smile as he took the ring and hurried to his room.
He closed the door slowly, as though he did not want anyone watching him, then sat on the bed and lit the candle.
He held the ring.
He studied its details.
A bear rose from the ring, its mouth open, its neck forming part of the ring itself. It was silver all around, and beneath the band was a small mechanism that allowed it to be tightened.
He slipped it onto his ring finger.
It slid down.
It was too large.
He moved the part meant for tightening.
It stopped.
The ring settled perfectly around his finger.
As though it had been made for him.
He stared at his finger for a few moments, then rose from the bed with surprising agility and dropped to his knees before the table, his knees striking the floor with a dull thud.
He opened the drawer.
He took out the notebook.
He looked at it thoughtfully.
No words came to his lips.
Then he said:
"Ah..."
His tongue felt numb, and his eyes were filled with only two words:
Naz Bix.
Driven by curiosity, he decided to open the notebook and see whether anything had changed.
He squeezed his left eye shut, like a child playing hide-and-seek, and looked through the blank pages with the other. Then he hurried to the line he already knew.
Be as you are.
He glanced at it.
Pushed out his lower lip.
And made a few quiet sounds under his breath as he searched through the rest of the notebook.
He remained focused on it, page after page, until his eyes suddenly lit up.
Ink.
It had appeared across the pages as though it had just been spilled there. Then it began spreading slowly, drawing back into itself as cotton drinks in water, until it left behind words that were barely distinguishable from a child's handwriting.
Ice stared with all his concentration.
The words began to form before his eyes:
If I do not respond, there is a mistake.
Ice let out a startled sound edged with irritation.
"Huh? A mistake? What's wrong? What are you talking about?"
He slowly clenched his teeth.
"No need for this."
He steadied himself.
"I shouldn't be so emotional."
He took a slow breath.
Then let it out just as slowly.
He remained silent for a few moments.
Then he opened his eyes and continued reading with a forced smile.
This time, his eyes lit up.
He found:
Follow everything that leads you to Thirn.
Your mind. Your heart.
Ice raised one cheek in confusion.
"Huh... your mind and your heart? Then where's my brain?"
He sighed.
He slammed the notebook shut.
He tossed it aside as though it were garbage.
Then closed the drawer.
He left his room and carried the candle with him into the living room, where he sat at the table while his mother lay beneath a thick woolen blanket.
She looked at him.
"How are you?"
"Nothing."
She paused.
"It fits me."
His mother asked, "Are you sad?"
"No."
She answered in a mocking tone, like a world bullying a student:
"Fine. You're free to do as you please."
Silence lingered for quite some time.
There was nothing but the burning candle and the sound of the wind beyond the walls.
Then Ice finally spoke, cautiously.
"What does Thirn mean?"
His mother sat up from where she had been resting, and her expression changed.
"Where did you learn that word?"
"I heard it."
"Where?"
"At my father's funeral."
Her eyebrows drew together.
"Where? We don't even have a neighbor."
Ice lowered his eyes.
His mother sighed.
"I know you went into the library."
Ice remained silent.
Her voice gradually rose with every word.
"Didn't I tell you more than once not to go near it?"
Ice looked at the floor, his expression uncertain and confused.
His mother's voice kept burning through the room even as the candle began to fade. She drew a breath and released it as quickly as she could through her mouth, then said, almost angrily:
"Thirn is an old word meaning guidance."
She paused for a moment.
"And there is also a village on the edge of the continent of Jafa called Thirn."
Ice raised his eyes.
They gleamed.
"Thank you."
She looked at him in confusion.
"Why are you thanking me?"
Ice fell silent despite himself.
A few minutes later...
The wolves howled.
The candles went out.
Night fell.
Outside, the sun's rays soon began piercing the darkness like a fighter cutting his way through an enemy, until light finally overcame the dark. All the creatures greeted it with loud cries, and the noise was enough to wake Ice.
He rose quickly.
He opened the window.
And shouted at the wolves:
"Damn you! Go to sleep, you animals! All you do is eat!"
The wolves looked at Ice and stared back at him. Then they lowered their heads onto their paws again, hiding from the cold that even daylight could not drive away.
Ice slammed the window shut in anger, just as quickly as he had opened it.
He returned to bed.
Turned over twice.
Then got up.
With every step he took, the sound of his feet against the floor was like a hammer striking beneath it.
He opened his bedroom door and cast another glance toward the morning light, the sight he loved most, then walked through the halls of their house until he found the fishing rod and basin waiting for him, already prepared.
He smiled at the care that had gone into it.
He took them.
And began walking through the whining wind.
Five minutes later, he reached a clear, frozen pond, so transparent that it was impossible to distinguish from the surrounding ice until you came close.
He placed his things on the ground, took the shovel, and began striking the ice repeatedly in a circle, with complete concentration and practiced ease.
One strike.
Then another.
Then another.
Until the cold blue water appeared.
Its sound was soothing.
Ice sat down.
He baited his hook.
He cast it into the water with his right hand.
Then held the rod and fell asleep.
He raised his eyes toward the sky, and his whistling began to fill the air.
He remained like that for half an hour.
Then he opened his eyes.
He had caught nothing.
He stood, bewildered.
He had never sat this long to fish before.
This pond was one of his treasures. He would cast the bait for five minutes, then pull it up with plenty of fish.
He raised his rod.
He dug another hole.
Cast the line.
Waited.
Nothing.
He drew his lips and eyebrows together.
Soon, his lips began to freeze.
He looked at the rod.
Then said to himself:
"Maybe the fish can hear me and get scared."
He listened to his own nonsense.
He set the rod in place, moved five meters away, and lay flat on the ground like a soldier waiting for the enemy.
Five minutes.
That was all it took before he heard the first tug on his line.
He stood.
He ran like a horse.
He seized the rod.
He pulled it upward.
A fish flew through the air, carrying Ice's hope with it.
It fell.
Drops of water scattered around it.
It kept thrashing and fighting.
Ice approached it.
He was stunned.
It was a rare catch.
A fish nearly sixty centimeters long, pink in color, with beautiful pink gills.
He placed it in the basin.
He continued like this until he caught five more fish, the largest of them no more than twenty centimeters long.
He gathered his things.
And returned home.
But one question stayed with him the entire way:
Why didn't I catch anything while I was holding the rod?
He reached the house.
He opened the door.
The house was almost dark.
He sighed in disappointment.
He had thought his mother would be awake.
He set down the basin, then walked toward the bed with longing.
He jumped onto it.
And stretched himself out completely.
Three hours were enough to satisfy his sleep.
He woke to the searing rays of sunlight that gave no warmth.
He opened his eyes.
The house was filled with smoke.
He got up and immediately opened the windows.
"Mother!"
He heard her turning the fish in the oven.
"What do you want?"
Ice answered with pride and a broad smile that showed his teeth.
"What do you think of the catch?"
His mother gave a small laugh.
"Well done. Good work. That's quite a catch."
Ice smiled.
As the sunlight descended, his mother began gathering the dishes and started washing them. As she walked toward the kitchen, she heard a distant knocking.
Slow.
Heavy.
She stopped.
A sudden gasp escaped her.
"Ice!"
He came running toward her after rising from his warm bed.
"What is it?"
She said:
"Look at the window."
Ice needed no time to become familiar with the sight.
Hands pressed against the window.
Breaths struck the glass.
The view was blurred.
The candlelight flickered under the pounding and began to weaken.
Ice moved at once.
He pushed the tables toward the door.
Closed the curtains.
Then shut the inner panels of the windows.
Then said to his mother in a firm voice:
"Go into the room. Don't move."
She did not move.
She placed both hands on his shoulders.
"Ice..."
"Leave me."
"Ice, listen to me..."
He shouted:
"Why won't you go?!"
She looked at him with pity.
Ice sighed.
And sat with her.
The sound grew louder.
It was no longer coming from the window alone.
It came from every part of the house.
From the right.
From the left.
From behind.
From the door.
The windows shook like a phone vibrating in someone's hand.
The door shook too.
And Ice held both daggers in his weak hands.
His eyes moved with every blow.
His heart was on the verge of falling silent.
The pounding continued.
Ice was torn.
Should he go outside?
Or stay until sunrise?
He decided.
He blew out the candle.
And waited.
As soon as the sunlight strengthened and pierced through the walls of the house, Ice rose with a pale face, unsure of what awaited him, wishing for life and death at the same time.
The two daggers felt like hot cups in his hands.
He could not let them go.
He walked on a child's legs.
Then looked back.
His mother was asleep, her eyebrows drawn together, resting against the chair.
He screamed inside himself so he would not wake her.
He wanted to wake himself fully.
He took a large piece of firewood.
Pushed it into the fireplace.
It caught.
Red appeared amid the weak sunlight and the darkness that still dominated the room.
Ice grabbed his black bandana and wrapped it around his face.
He pushed the tables.
The pounding grew louder.
This time...
The knocks carried the promise that whatever was outside might get in.
He moved the last chair aside.
The lock opened.
A small monster leaped inside.
It had only two ears.
And in the middle of the darkness was something called a face.
Ice kicked it.
He forced the monster back outside.
He raised the burning piece of firewood in his right hand.
The monster stopped.
It retreated.
Fire.
Ice shut the door.
And ran.
Before his eyes were whole hordes of monsters.
Shapes.
Deformities.
Voices.
The least that could be said about them was that they sounded like a den of jinn.
He raised the torch.
The monsters recoiled.
He ran.
He raised it like a flag that would save him.
He reached the top of the cliff.
With his left hand, he broke the dark branches of the trees.
He tore them away violently.
He lit them from the burning wood he carried.
He raised them.
The flames rose.
The monsters fell still.
Ice stopped.
He looked toward the house.
Smoke was still rising from its fireplace.
His eyes began to darken.
"No..."
His breathing broke apart.
"No... the house..."
Only a few minutes had been enough to leave him suspended between life and death.
The fire began to die down.
Ice gave it no time.
He fed it more wood.
Again.
And again.
Then he curled himself around the fire like a turtle retreating into its shell.
He looked toward the smoke rising from his home's chimney with darkened eyes, like a child afraid of a ghost who knows that the ghost is waiting in the next room.
He heard movement.
A branch shifted.
His ear twitched.
A hum.
He rose to his feet.
He looked around.
He moved the hand holding the fire.
Shadows.
Swarms.
Monsters.
Running.
Not walking.
Running.
Ice turned.
And ran with all his strength.
Darkness wrestled with the flickers of fire that could not illuminate themselves.
Sparks flew from the burning wood.
One landed on his hand.
It burned.
Ice cried out.
But he covered his mouth.
He kept running.
He swung the torch.
A monster.
Two meters away.
Ice jumped.
The torch fell.
The flame went out.
Then...
A howl.
The wolves.
His feet stopped.
"No..."
Tears fell from his eyes.
He cried out like a child.
The fire fell.
His leg burned.
The monster lunged.
It reached him.
Its hands tore into Ice's shoulder.
Blood.
It sprayed through the air.
The mark spread across his shoulder, close to the shape of the letter A.
The monster raised its other hand.
Ice did not move.
Then...
The sound of running.
Loud.
Fast.
Very close.
Sounds like the cries of wounded horses filled the air.
The wolves howled.
Closer.
Closer.
Blood scattered across Ice's face.
He raised his eyes.
He saw something rushing toward him.
He could not think.
He could not scream.
Darkness began to fill his eyes.
And in the final moment...
He recognized the sound.
His wolves.
Then...
He surrendered.
And the world disappeared.