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Stephen Baxter
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SYNOPSIS |
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Silverhair, standing tall on the headland, was cupped in a land of flatness: a land of far horizons, a land of blue and grey, of fog and rain, of watery light no brighter than an English winter twilight.
It was the will of Kilukpuk, of course, that Silverhair should be the first to spot the Lost. Nobody but Silverhair — Silverhair the rebel, the Cow who behaved more like a musth Bull, as Owlheart would tell her — nobody but her would even have been standing here, alone, on this headland at the southwestern corner of the Island, looking out to sea with her trunk raised to test the air.
The dense Arctic silence was abruptly broken by the evocative calls of birds. Silverhair saw them on the cliff below her, prospecting for their colony: the first kittiwakes, arriving from the south. It was a sign of life, a sign of spring, and she felt her own spirits rise in response.
A few paces from Silverhair, in a hollow near the cliffedge, a solid bank of snow had gathered. Now a broad, claw-tipped
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