Chapter 7: Fish Drifts
Cracks spread through the ice like a flash of lightning. It caught Fish by surprise. “Drift,” she shouted. “Drift, the ice – it’s cracking.”
Around her, the water’s hands reached up through the cracks and began to pull at the ice. Up and down it surged and swayed, deepening the cracks and causing floes to appear. She struggled to keep her balance and called out. “Drift. Wake up, Drift. Help me.”
Every movement the weakened snowman made as he struggled to sit up made things worse. His weight lifted the sides of ice, knocking one large slab into another and widening gaps all around the little girl. He tried to stand but that only set the cracks going faster. “Run, Fish. Run to me.” He held out his thin arms ready to catch her, but already the distance between the ice blocks were too wide.
“I can’t, Drift. It’s too far.” Fish knelt on the ice, steadying herself for fear she might fall into the cold water.
The unsteady ice on which Drift sat crashed into the firmer snowbank, sending him spinning onto solid ground. He rolled around, pulling snow into himself and gathering his strength.
“Drift.” Fish’s voice became weaker as the ice floe on which she clung began to sail away. “Drift. Come and get me.”
She saw the snowman stand and watch her float away before he finally turned and ran.
“Drift,” she called. “Drift.”
Moments later, the sun sank below the horizon. The night split into two – one part cold and dry and filled with stars, the other cold and wet and filled with the white swans of ice moving further and further away.
Fish called again and again as she floated away on the dark water and Drift was lost from sight. “You’re supposed to be looking after me.”
It was no use. He’d gone.
“Stupid ice,” she said, risking a quick jab with one thick and furry boot.
“One might consider showing a little more respect, young lady,” said a voice, a woman’s voice. It was as crisp and precise as folded paper although, even in the bright moonlight, Fish couldn’t see anybody who might have made it.
“I’m sorry?” she said.
“Well that’s certainly a start. Now try saying hello and introducing yourself. Properly now.” Fish took a deep breath and began to talk.
“Hello. My name is–“
“Child. Stop. Shoulders back. Chin out. One cannot talk properly hunched over like that. Project
Fish knelt up straight. “I’m Fish and I–“
“You, child, are no fish. That I do know. I have frozen fish in my heart. Fish from a thousand years ago and more. I know you are not a fish.”
Fish stood up, regaining a little of her wits. She scowled around, hoping whoever it was who was talking could see her defiance. “I didn’t say I was a fish. Did I?”
“Well at least you know that much. Just look you, dressed like that at this time of year. You don’t belong here, that’s clear. You wouldn’t know a fish from a frying pan.”
Fish gave a stamp that sent the ice block rocking. “I would too. My dad taught me.”
“Your dad? Your DAD? What are you this time, a goat? Speak properly.”
Fish gritted her teeth and spoke in a posh voice, like the one her mum used when visitors called. “My father taught me. He was–“
“Harrumph. Fathers. Who on earth needs them? And where is he now? Nowhere, that’s where. Just letting you run wild in second-hand furs and a blanket. Honestly, if I’ve been woken just to see the world turn to this then I’d rather sink to the bottom of a hot spring and have done with it.”
A little sliver of ice, no bigger than a shoe, bobbed alongside Fish.
“Hmm yes. As I thought. Tilda here says your father was spotted running headlong into two hills. That stopped him. Silly snowclod. No sense at all. You’re better off without that one, my dear.”
“He’s not my father. He’s called Drift. And he’s a snowman. A very nice snowman. He’s wanted for a crime he didn’t commit.” Fish was getting a bit miffed now. Whoever was talking didn’t even have the decency to show herself. “Do I look like a snowman to you? And don’t you talk to me about kneeling properly and being polite when you are so rude. Who are you? Where are you?”
The part of the ice floe on which Fish stood, dipped suddenly and she lost her balance. She landed on her back, feeling rather bruised.
“I…” The voice spoke out like the crack of a whip. “Am called Florence. But you may call me ma’am. And you are kneeling upon me.”
Fish sat up straight, very straight. Her eyes widened and she glanced down at the silvery-white ice shelf beneath her. She fixed her blanket and bent to smooth the scuffs her boots had made in the ice. In Florence.
Fish’s dad had always told her the strongest course of action is to not make things worse. There are people always looking for a fight, he’d say, so it’s best not to give them one. This seemed to be one of those times.
She cleared her throat. “Well hello,” she said. “Ma’am. Thank you for carrying me.”
The ice levelled off again and Florence spoke a little more gently. “You’re welcome, dear. And on my part, perhaps I was a little out of sorts. I’ve only just been woken after all. And rather rudely, if I might say so.”
Florence sighed. It was the sound of frost beng scraped off glass. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? Tuck into that lovely fish of yours and settle back. You can tell me your story as we drift.”
Fish let herself relax and saw one of the fish they had caught. She had forgotten how hungry she was. How hungry, and how tired. She took a small bite out of the juicy fish. “Where are we going?” she asked.
High above the long, winding band of water Florence and Fish floated along, the sky began to ripple with green lights. They looked for all the world like the ghosts of sea creatures dancing in the dark.
“Where else? To the mountain, young lady,” said Florence. “And the Cave of Wonders.”
If you enjoyed this and would like to support my work then please…
Illustration © Carl Pugh