[ IP ] Glacier

They say the northern most isles of the Empire lay covered in mist three quarters of the year. According to the common folk, this fog lists for only a few months a year and it is during that time that all commerce with the rest of the Empire occurs. For the rest of the year the poor souls live in perpetual isolation from the rest of the Empire's wealth. 
 
 This view is nothing more than a wives' tale borne out of the misunderstandings than mainlanders are so adept at. It is true that for nearly half of year our contact with the rest of the Empire is limited, but this has little to do with the presence of fog and everything to do with the way our waters freeze over. 
 
 Yet our isolation is hardly a reason for despair, for Alta Gelum's beauty far outstrips any material comforts the Empire could ever provide and we stay far apart from the petty squabbling of the Kingdoms. At the dawn of each spring the ice begins to part and our boats set sail. The glistening snow and glimmering ice reflect vestiges of light upon the mighty glaciers. The ice disappears into the fog, as though they were the boats of the ancients. The gentle ambers illuminate the cold blue like the blushing of a spring maiden. 
 
 Our boats nip in the small passages left behind, little more than wakes in the whale's trail with us as the minnows. All around only the gentle cascades of our oars and the cracking of ice reach our ears. Sometimes the kids seeking out adventure can be heard from the top of the glaciers, while other time the oarsmen will be left to supply their own melody to the ice's harmony. Every oar creates its own beats and rhythms throughout these precious six months. 
 
 I have spent many of my days sitting upon the gentle banks of snow allowing the crisp air to tousle my hair. The mainlanders may prefer the harsh biting of their own foul tongues, but I enjoy the bite of cool breeze above all else. Every gust of wind carries fresh salt to my nose as I find myself immersed in all the beauties our little isles. Echoing laughs and voice cracks sometimes precede the presence of little angels in the snow around me. Their is a beauty and a magic in the ability of the snow to bring out our inner children as I often find myself tossing balls of snow at the little scoundrels running around the snowbank. Every now and again a little splash followed by the chiding of elders signifies my small victories. 
 
 Yet the laughter never ceases in the mornings and at a night gentle cooing replaces it as the owls return from the mainland. To me the birds seem a fickle race, creatures unwilling to take the harder months with the pleasant ones, but elders seem to hold the birds in high regard. Once when I was younger I asked my grandmother about this odd arrangement, I spent the next night laying in the snow watching those creatures fly back and forth. My annoyance with those creatures only grew that day. 
 
 However while I may not know the beauty of the birds, the seas are another matter entirely. On a few beautiful evenings I have watched the boats part as a blowhole rose to the surface. Sometimes these magnificent creatures would leap as though they sought to steal the domain of the owls, while other evenings they would simply assert their dominance over the seas and shrink beneath the surface. I remember a few years back when a foolish mainlander approached the elders with a business proposition, his claim was that the meat of the whales could make as one of the richest islands in all of the Empire. 
 
 He spent the night lying upon a raft praying the whales did not hear his silly idea. 
 
 In the morning of course the elders asked him if he had learned anything, and us kids merely snickered as he hastily bowed and packed his things. I suppose in hindsight it was lucky that I hated the birds and not the whales. A runny nose was after all not the most attractive of features, and that sneeze seemed so disconcerting amongst the rest of nature's symphony. 
 
 Yet for all its beauty, I suppose the elders did illustrate that the oceans were not always gentle. Every spring shards of wood mar the mighty glaciers as the carcasses of foolish expeditions are revealed. Sometimes it is the ocean's way of exacting its status quo, while other days the responsibility falls solely on the shoulders of fools that failed to pay heed to the elders' warnings. Whatever the case, some nights it looks like the ships of the ancients decided to stomp out the foolish minnows nipping at their heels. The morning after is often a quiet affair, the few times when the laughter ceases and only somber oars remain. 
 
 Those days memories of my father unwillingly reappear. 
 
 Yet our little island, no matter how quaint it may appear to the mainlanders, will always be my home. The annoying birds will always mix with the magnificent whales, just as the ambers mix with cool blue, the pale mist with mighty glaciers and crushing melancholy with everlasting joy. 
 
 Alta Gelum is my home. 
 
 ******** 
 
 *Well that's another story for this sub, here's hoping I can start writing a little more regularly here. As always please let me know your thoughts and any feedback you might have, I'd really appreciate it. *
