The Trellis

The Steward tells the valley the ice will go out a little after sunrise, so the whole village is on the riverbank in the dark, waiting for it.

Ash can’t see much yet. He can hear it. The river has been talking under the ice for three days, a low working sound like a stomach, and this morning there’s a new note in it, a long creak that starts upstream and runs past them and keeps going, as if something enormous is turning over in its sleep.

People stand in twos and threes along the bank with blankets around their shoulders. Someone has brought a pot of tea, and it’s going hand to hand. Nobody talks much. The children are the only ones who can’t keep still, and their parents hold on to them by the backs of their coats.

Ash’s feet are wet. The Steward told him to wear the tall boots this morning and he wore the short ones, because the tall ones pinch at the heel. He’s decided not to think about it.