Chapter Three

 

    Long ago a series of violent earthquakes wrenched at the hills that separated Eoin's and Freya's valley from the lava fields and left them cracked and broken, like marzipan that's been pulled and bent too far. Most of the cracks could be jumped over, or even stepped over, and in peaceful times Eoin and Freya had dropped many stones down the openings to hear them rattle away into the darkness below. 

    One of the fissures was much wider, though, wide enough that you would need to call out to speak to someone on the other side. Its sides dropped down sheer to the ground below, as deep as it was wide, as though a whole ribbon of land had slumped down into the earth. This was not the bottom, however; between one wall and this ledge was a deeper chasm, a split that fell away to darkness but stretched away on either side as far as the eye could see. Occasionally, on windy days, gasps of air would emanate from the darkness below, and although Eoin and Freya knew in their hearts that this was only a trick of the wind, they'd heard enough stories to shrink back from dropping stones down this particular crevasse.

    The Gasping Gorge cut through the hills diagonally from the south of the valley northwards into the lava fields and Eoin knew they would have to get across it or be caught by the Ice. There was, he knew, only one place to cross, and that was the nomad's bridge.

    The path up to the bridge was steep, and Eoin had tucked the book into his waistband to use his hand for balance. His left arm was still wrapped around Willow, who looked up into his face or round at the landscape with indifference. He could no longer hear the iceotaurs - in fact, he could no longer hear anything out of the ordinary. Dawn had broken and it suddenly occurred to Eoin that maybe with the daylight his nightmares had disappeared, blown away like the early morning mist. As the path he and Freya were following rose above the tree line he stopped and searched the valley below.

    There was nothing there. Nothing out of the ordinary. The spear of ice that had skewered their little hut was gone, and might never have been there if it weren't for the flooded fields on their side of the stream, the water dark and rippling over the land they'd walked across themselves not long before. There were no heavy footsteps, no frost-fingers creeping along the stems of the ferns that grew sparsely around the path. The danger seemed to have passed.

      Freya breathed a sigh of relief. "It's gone," she panted. "They're gone. We're safe."

    But Eoin was shaking his head. "The valley has flooded before," he said. "Do you remember the year it swamped our turnip crop? And we had to rummage about on our knees in the water trying to find the stalks to pull them up?"

     Freya shrugged. "Vaguely. So?"

    "So our turnip crop was over there." Eoin pointed to the far side of the valley. "It flooded there because that side's lower."

    Freya frowned. "But then why is the water...?" 

    Her eyes suddenly went wide as Eoin nodded. "That's not a flood. That's the Ice. Melted."

    They looked in horror at the floodwater which they could now see was moving, coursing across the land. Pouring uphill. Towards them.

     "But..." Freya stamped her foot, a mixture of frustration and despair. "But why?"

   "You melted the iceotaur," said Eoin. "You can't melt water. It's adapted. We've got to get to the Gorge more than ever."

    They tore their gaze away from the surging water and hurried back uphill, leaping the smaller fissures, almost tripping in their haste, until they could see the gorge ahead and the tall wooden posts that marked the nomad's bridge.

    They called it a bridge, but really it was little better than a rope ladder. Two strong ropes, each as thick as Eoin's wrist, spanned the gorge. The end of each rope was secured around a thick wooden post driven into the ground a short way back from the edge. Thin wooden planks were tied across the length of this double line, but there was no handrail, and although they'd both been across the bridge a few times before with their parents, they had always held their breath and stared fixedly at their feet, their hearts pounding, until they were safe on the other side.

    There was no time for nervousness now, though, and no room in their thoughts for fear of falling when Fear was surging upwards through the woods behind them, outpacing them, even now clearing the tree line and roiling upwards towards them, an incoming tide at a ghastly speed. The bridge would only take one at a time and Freya sprinted across at a speed she would never have even contemplated before this day. 

    The first three planks she trod on began smouldering, wisps of smoke leaking out of them as soon as her foot had cleared them. The fourth plank burst into flames, gentle blue flames in the shape of her foot. Smoke began to rise from the next planks as she sprang off them and by the time she was halfway across several of the planks were well on fire. Oblivious, she carried on to the other side while Eoin looked in horror at the burning bridge, his and Willow's only lifeline away from the meltwater.

    The water was almost up to him now, not a calm, forceful surge but a white furious rush, jets of foam leaping ahead as though the whole mass of water were fighting itself to get to him.

    There was no time for doubting. He turned and stepped onto the bridge, thinking only of getting across as quickly as possible before it gave way.

    The ropes parted on his very first step, and the plank he had stepped on plummeted down towards the darkness below. Wildly, he lurched forwards with his free right hand and caught one rope as it swung downwards, feeling it pulling him inwards for a fraction of a second before the rope took his weight and snapped clean away and he was falling uncontrollably towards the rocky ground below.

    The fall lasted only a few seconds, but to Eoin it seemed to take forever. He spun as he fell, and the sideways motion wrenched Willow loose from his grasp. Before he realised it she was gone beyond his reach and as he turned full circle and saw the rock rushing up towards his face, he thought only of Willow and how he had not managed to save her.

    The impact with the ground was not as he had imagined it. Instead of a hard, brutal shock, it felt like he'd been tossed onto a feather bed. The rock gave way gently, smoothly, bringing him delicately to a halt, and for a fraction of a second he didn't move because he was convinced that he was dead and therefore wouldn't be able to. As soon as the thought passed he scrambled heavily to his feet and looked around for Willow.

    He couldn't see her on the ground anywhere around him. He was at the very edge of the chasm, the sharp drop that led to nowhere at all and he refused to believe that she'd fallen down there. She couldn't have fallen down there.

    "Eoin."

    It was her voice, somewhere above him, and as he looked up she was there, still falling, slower than a snowflake, drifting downwards with all the rush of a turnip growing. She giggled, excited, and he reached out and collected her as she came past like catching a balloon.

    The relief washed through him and he felt his legs tremble, then remembered he was on the edge of a very long drop and tensed up again. He looked down at where he'd fallen, and there, carved in solid rock, was the perfect imprint of his fallen body, down to the minute detail of his face. If the rock were made of butter it wouldn't have left a more faithful image.

    Eoin was still staring at the impression he'd left in the rock when he became aware of Freya screaming his name. It took him a few seconds to find her, just a head and that mane of wild red hair sticking out over the edge of the gorge, high up above him.

     He waved to her. "We're fine!" he said. "Just fine!"

     But Freya was shouting something else and pointing back across the gorge.

     He turned to see the meltwater pouring over the edge of the gorge, a wild cascade jetting forwards and arcing gracefully downwards towards the abyss. He jumped backwards as the leading edge of the waterfall missed the ledge by inches and fell on down into the depths. Then the waterfall abruptly froze solid, and more water gushed down over the top of the newly frozen arch, now nearer to Eoin's feet. This water froze too and the next torrent poured down from above and dropped directly onto the edge of the ledge of ground and started to form a pool. Eoin leapt backwards as more and more water accumulated in the impression of his body, and suddenly the meltwater was there again, a moving body of water, advancing towards him.

     He turned and ran.

    The wall of the gorge ahead was sheer. There was no climbing that. He swerved left and pounded along the sunken ribbon of land, heading away from his valley. Freya was fine, he told himself, she would be watching, she would see why, but even so it was a wrench to feel he was running away from his twin sister.

    The ground here was full of sudden rises and hidden hollows, and he had to watch his step for fear of tripping or twisting his ankle. One fall and the meltwater would be upon them. Smaller fissures had opened up within this ribbon of land, and he jumped them, one after the other, faster and higher than ever before. He glanced behind, hoping these cracks would swallow up the meltwater, but it merely froze in layers until it had formed an ice bridge and surged onwards. He sprinted on, faster than ever, no care now for falling. The meltwater was flowing faster than he could run, and this was a race he suddenly knew he wouldn't win.

     A new chasm, larger than the others, as wide as his hut, opened up ahead of him so unexpectedly he barely had time to take one more leaping stride and launch himself across, knowing as he did that he had never jumped this far before and was very unlikely to make it, but for a brief moment he seemed to be floating, a fleeting moment of weightlessness before gravity took him back and brought him down to land on the far side of the chasm.

    The meltwater flowed out over the chasm behind him, forming ice as it went, but less than halfway across the ice ledge broke off and fell out of sight. More water poured out, instantly freezing, but again the ice broke and fell away.

     Abruptly the water surged to a halt. It was dense, dark water, an intense blue colour as though on the point of turning to ice. Eoin stared at it for a moment longer then wondered if it were looking back at him. The thought made him shudder, and he turned his back and jogged on down the ribbon of land.

   Ahead, the gorge widened. The chasm on the left continued straight, as though the land had been cleaved in two. The ribbon of land he was on stopped in a mass of boulders and a solid rock face, but there was a hole above the boulders that he could easily fit through. He could climb up there, he thought, but no higher.

    "Eoin!" came a voice, closer than before, and there was Freya, panting wildly, leaning over the edge above him again. She'd followed him stride for stride all the way along the gorge, leaning dangerously over the edge at times to keep her twin in sight. "Eoin, can you climb up here? It's not so smooth here, there are handholds."

    Eoin shook his head. "If I had two hands, maybe," he said. "But not with Willow." He pointed out the hole in the rock ahead. "We can make it into there. If that's what I think it is, it's our best bet out of here."

     Freya nodded. "Lava tubes. I thought so too. Eoin, we're already in the lava fields. I'm standing in the lava fields. Are you sure you can't make it up here?"

    When Eoin shook his head, she nodded, then swung her legs over the edge and started to grope her way down. It took her several minutes and a few nervous moments, but they were so happy to be reunited that they almost hugged. Eoin could feel the heat coming off of his twin as she came close and stepped back in alarm. "Freya..." he began, but she shook her head.

    "Not here. The Ice has been held up, but maybe not for long. We've got to keep moving."

    They climbed together up the boulders, through the hole and into the lava tubes.

    Back down the gorge, where the remains of the nomad's bridge still smouldered over a sheet of ice, there was a sudden cracking around the spot where Eoin had fallen. More cracks, a screeching of ice, and a figure raised itself up from the ground. Its back was flat, a smooth sheet of ice, but its front was the perfect recreation of Eoin.