Holes in the Ice: When Dreams Come True

[Prodigy Child]

Solo introductory quest.

Men’s voices murmured above the sound of lazily creaking iron. Heller Rythadine awoke the same way as every other day; overtired, but wearing a determined grin. He kept his eyes sealed shut for a few moments, trying to remember the dream that slipped from his mind like sand through the spout of an hourglass. The boy sighed, and elbowed his fur lined straw stuffed mattress in frustration. He could read and memorize a book of Common verb conjugations in an hour, but couldn’t recall more than a fleeting image of his dreams.

There was a warm, sun washed beach, with glistening waves…

Iron groaned like arthritic bones as men climbed and jumped off the bunk beds all around him. The sleeping chamber of the Fish Depot’s Dormitories contained little more than rows of footlockers and three-tiered beds, all made from the same age-worn black metal. The smell of sweat and fatigue hung thick in the air, a necessity that the residents endured easily. Without the body heat of the dozens of men that lived there, the rectangular building would have been as cold as the seas of Salvar.

Heller buried his head in the heavy blankets to shut out the rustling sounds of his roommates dressing. He clasped his bronze medallion unconsciously in one hand. The simple accessory, hanging from a leather cord around his neck, was the only memento of his mysterious birthplace. It read Rythadine in intricate letters, perhaps a family heirloom from the parents he never met. The boy often fiddled with it when something escaped his eidetic memory.

There was a tall man on the beach, he wore heavy black boots. But the sand barely whispered when he walked…

The time on the hourglass expired; the image had slipped from his conscious. Heller sighed then sat up, unveiled his head and opened his eyes. Bizarre shadows played across his woolen pajama shirt as men moved between him and the various oil lamps that lit the room. The boy rotated so his head was closer to the nearest lamp, and cast about in the blankets till he found a book. He had fallen asleep reading it the night before after finishing only half the story. He thumbed through the pages and found his spot, enjoying the familiar feel of coarse parchment on his calloused skin. The protagonist, a Champion Knight in the far-off land of Scara Brae, was attempting to slay a dragon high up in the Mountains of Mist. Heller blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes and angled the page to catch the light. On the verge of diving into the story, he heard a rough voice call to him in the native Salvic tongue.

“Hey, Heller! No time to read this morning lad, you’re late as it is. Up and get your warm clothes on, or you’ll be pulling guts all day!” Heller obediently stowed the leather bound book and swung down off his middle-tier bunk. He would have preferred to finish the story and do dirty work all day as a result, but he appreciated the paternal way many of the older workers looked out for him. Imagining himself about to dive into a sapphire ocean, he pulled his pajamas off and donned two layers of clothing: linen undergarments then heavy denim pants and a slim cotton sweater. He buckled sealskin boots over scratchy woolen socks and tossed his bulky wolf pelt coat over one shoulder.

With one last longing glance at his warm bed and the novel within, he followed the flow of stragglers out of the bed chamber and into the mess hall.

[Prodigy Child]

Moving from the bedchamber to the mess hall was like travelling from Salvar to Corone in a single step. The former smelled rank but stayed clandestinely tidy. The latter was stained by food and drink but delicious tastes always danced in the air. Heller joined the line of bleary-eyed men in clothing similar to his own, shuffling forwards a few paces at a time towards wooden trays filled with fried fish and beans. The warm meal’s inviting aroma awoke his teenage hunger, which until then had slept in. The boy licked his lips and swallowed in anticipation as he approached the end of the line and reached for a tray.

“Not so fast lad!” A thick hairy forearm appeared between Heller and his meal, a wide hand gripping his wrist. “Lazy risers need to earn their tuck. No food till you can outwrestle me!” It was the same rough-voiced man who had roused the boy minutes earlier. Everything about him was rough, in fact, from his bushy facial hair to the clipped ends of his fingernails that dug into Heller’s arm through layers of clothing.

“We’ll be late…” the boy wheedled, but realized it was futile. The bearded wrestling instructor was famous for his impromptu lessons, and being the youngest and smallest fisherman, Heller was his favorite pupil. Some men passed Heller in the line, claiming their trays and searching for a seat, while the less hungry ones stopped to watch the show.

Inhaling through his nose, the boy let the scrumptious smells motivate him. He feinted a few times then batted the larger man’s hand away and ducked swiftly, wrapping his arms around one tree trunk leg. A loose circle of chuckling observers formed as Heller strained like a pack mule pulling an impossible burden. He managed to get the single leg off the ground, but the harder he bulled forward the harder his opponent leaned against him. He tried changing angles, turning the corner as he had been taught, but his teacher knew all the tricks and hopped merrily in circles, laughing as the crowd called out advice.

“Pull up hard lad, he ‘aint that flexible!”
“Give ‘im heck, Heller!”
“Use your head boy, hit him in the balls!”

The slim savant panted with exertion, trying to siphon the good advice from the jokes and general laughter. The concept of wrestling never seemed terribly logical to him; with force against force, the stronger man invariably won.

I should be using his strength against him, instead of my own, he realized in a sudden moment of clarity. He pushed hard, then moved suddenly backwards, pulling the instructor’s leg with him. His effort earned a shout of surprise and an awkward stumble, but his opponent stayed upright.

“Berevar’s Blanket,” the boy cursed between clenched teeth. His energy waned quickly, his stomach an angry fire that burned to be fed. As his resolve weakened his eyes fell to the polished pine floor.

Each week the town carpenter dropped off a portion of sawdust, which the cooks scattered daily across the mess hall floor. It absorbed spilled food and drink so that they only had to sweep up at the end of each day. The sawdust hadn’t been spread evenly that morning though, and Heller spotted a slippery patch of carelessly sloshed ale a few inches from his opponent’s one grounded foot. He felt a burst of optimism, and re-tried the same reversal of momentum that had failed him moments before. Only this time he added a sweep kick, which the more experienced wrestler hopped over easily. Right onto the wet spot.

Heller heaved on the leg, his opponent slipped, and with a bellow of barrel-chested laughter, the big man crashed flat on his back, floored.

[Prodigy Child]

A smattering of amused applause washed over Heller as he panted, hands on his knees. He had forgotten to breathe in the final moments of the battle, and the fire had spread temporarily from his stomach to his chest. With the entertainment over the watchers dispersed, many clapping a hand on Heller’s shoulder or shouting congratulations. Laughing, the bearded wrestling instructor picked himself up and brushed matted sawdust from his shirt.

“Well done lad, although for my own vanity, I’d say you got lucky. Eat your breakfast quick now; I’ll see you on the ice.” Still chuckling to himself, he disappeared into the crowd of workers exiting the mess hall.

At long last Heller claimed a tray of fried fish and beans. He selected a seat on a long pine bench next to a matching table and managed to return his breathing to normal. He wolfed down the steaming food, conscious of the fact that he was one of the last workers in the mess hall. By the time he had donned his bulky coat and walked halfway to the door, the cooks were already circulating with wet rags, wiping down the tables.

The mess hall’s door, made from the same brown pine as everything else, led into a long hallway lined with oaken hooks, racks, and tables. A single torch illuminated the area, and Heller slowed down to avoid tripping on the assortment of boots and tools that littered the floor. He grabbed his favorite orange scarf and wrapped the long garment around and around his neck, tucking the ends into the collar of his coat. Judging by the amount of clothing left on the hooks, it was not a particularly cold day, and in haste he decided to forgo a toque or mittens. He paused at the door which led outside, just long enough to examine his reflection in the large brass hinges and fluff his hair a bit, then lifeted his trusty trident from a rack to his right.

It was a simple tool that doubled as a weapon, a wooden pole just taller than he crowned by three triangular spearheads. The wicked-looking bronze barbs could serve to trap weapons and inflict serious damage in a fight, but Heller regarded it more like a fishing rod without reel or line. Imagining a fat bass wriggling on the middle prong, he grinned at his reflection one last time then opened the door and practically skipped outside.

The past few weeks the temperature had been well below freezing, but overnight the air had warmed and the bloated clouds covered the land in a blanket of snow. That was all Heller had a chance to see before the mirror effect of sunlight on never ending whiteness blinded him. It’s like mother nature tucked the world in, he thought blissfully, then tripped and fell flat on his face.

He laid full length in the downy flakes for a moment, laughing at his own foolishness and swallowing crisp, sweet mouthfuls of powder. Water beaded on his face as snow melted against his body heat. He felt a chilly bite on his palms as he pushed himself upright and examined his folly. As always with heavy snowfalls, one of the workers had risen before the sun, hitched plow to horse and cleared a long path from the dormitories to the docks. Heller spotted the deep dent his boot made when he missed the path completely, stubbed his toe on a rounded snow bank and face planted a perfect human outline.

I love the snow, he thought, bending over to draw a dragon’s tail on the featureless figure. I just hope the ice is still solid. It thaws a little when the water warms suddenly. He added heroic bulging muscles to the arms and legs, then froze on the brink of designing himself a pair of demon horns.

I’m late for work!

Accidental art forgotten, Heller snatched his trident from the snow and sprinted towards the river.

[Prodigy Child]

The nameless village which Heller habituated lay just south of the nation’s capital. It was technically a part of Knife’s Edge, and as such needed no formal title. To the hardy folk that worked and lived there, it was just The Cluster. Sturdy houses built by many hands served as residences for the fishermen who had families. The houses surrounded the Cluster’s core buildings in fragmented fashion, as if someone had thrown a giant ball from the walls of Knife’s Edge, and it exploded into a small town. The citizens existed in ubiquitous peace, never having need for a police force due to the sense of duty which drove them all.

The center of the Cluster contained a small infirmary and an indoor market, as well as a handful of shoemakers, tailors, and other such useful folk. Droplets plummeted from the shale-shingled buildings as the sun imposed its will on winter. They made the mucky roads muddier as a lone worker followed his horse around, guiding the wide metal blade. He moved slowly, frequently stopping to stack shingles that late-night winds had torn from the buildings. He was content with the sluggish pace, knowing that his primary task was complete. The other workers had a clear path to get to the riverside Fishery.

Heller raced along the only path which led out of the Cluster, his squinted eyes fixed on the ramshackle buildings at the river’s edge. Although the sky shone a clear crisp blue, he saw a moody grey cloud mass in the distance, meandering towards the town like a ghostly schooner riding celestial currents. Could be another storm tonight, he determined as his pattering footsteps delivered him to the Fishery.

The Fishery had a character of determination and evolving perseverance. Originally constructed from a lumber order delivered by Knife’s Edge, the three humble buildings had been renovated and repaired over the years with driftwood that washed up on the bank of the Testhan River. The two larger constructions, which had been identical once upon a time, were a smokehouse and a salting chamber. The third served as a warm-up shack where chilled workers could regain body heat next to a small pot bellied stove, or brew herbal tea for energy and hydration. All three buildings billowed smoke from stubby iron chimneys, grey dancing fog that sashayed in all directions on the whimsical wind. The whole area reeked of raw fish, but Heller was so habituated to it that he barely noticed: to him, it was the smell of hard work.

The boy slowed to a trot as he passed the buildings and stepped onto the ice. His heart pounded, pumping blood to the tips of his fingers and toes, warming him against the suddenly increased air flow. It was always windier on the ice. In defense against the omnipresent elements, the workers had stacked chunks of ice and snow in crude walls which lined long rectangular holes in the ice. They stood all around these portals, tridents and spears held in ready hands, jabbing at the shadows of slippery creatures beneath the frigid water’s surface. Each caught fish was tossed into one of many sled-like bins which could be pulled easily to the bank.

Heller arrived on the border between solid and liquid and let his young eyes rove freely, trident tingling in his grip. As much as he pretended he had been there all along, the Foreman quickly turned from a failed stab and addressed him in a thick, curt voice.

“Late again, heaven-head. Should I send you to work with the women stacking groceries, or are you going to behave with the responsibility of a man?” The Foreman’s glare could have cut holes in the ice unaided, and he gave Heller its full intensity as breath steamed from beneath his moustaches. The boy withered beneath the negative energy, almost keeling over as he searched for something to say that wouldn’t sound like an excuse.