GLACIER’S EDGE — Nobody knows precisely why the permafrost melted in 1587. Some say it was the death of Quv Daizo, while others say the Elemental simply changed her mind. Either way, the town named Glacier’s Edge (as best I can translate from Snow Goblin) does not look like a place that was underwater seventeen years ago. The buildings are newer than they appear, the streets were laid by those still living, and if you know where to look you can still find a faint grey stain on the older foundation stones that survived the flood.
I have lived here for eleven of those seventeen years. I did not choose to come, and I did not choose to stay. But I have helped this place rebuild itself from mud and debris, and I find I do not mind being here.
The minor houses moved here first when the farmable land appeared. The great clans were slower to stake their claim, as they had more to lose by acting rashly. The house I serve has claimed a modest parcel to the east of town, but whether they will keep it is another matter. The Bitter Mikado has offered no ruling, which is itself a kind of ruling.
But what I find myself thinking about on the mornings when the work takes me outside is how alive the land is. Things are growing here now. Imperfectly, yes, and in ways that still confuse people learning what to do with the new crops we can grow, but growing all the same. Birds have come, singing their morning songs. New animals have been spotted in their burrows and dens, bringing with them new pelts to wear, meat to eat, and a sense that not all is lost.
I do not know if the Elemental is watching. I do not know if her thaw is forgiveness. But I find myself filled with the hope that something is being given another chance here, in this rebuilt town on ground that used to be glacier.
Whether Gersh deserves it is not my question to answer.