Jole poked the end of his gaff into the snow that now banked the river. This was his first year doing a man’s job. Old Farley had drilled pilot holes and declared the river frozen enough to start gathering ice. The cutters were out with their blades. Drovers had their sledges lined with hay and sawdust, ready to haul the blocks into the ice house.
Jole moved out onto the surface of the river. His job would be to snag the chunks as they flew into the air, pushed up by the water that filled in the gap as the blocks were released from the mass. “Hey! Watch out you kids!” Jole swung his gaff toward a group of kid who were creeping toward the men. He had, of course, done the same thing when he was a kid, seeing how close to the cut he could get. It was a dare that all kids did. But last year Mick Jakes’ little brother hadn’t dodged in time and that memory stuck.
The first knife was slid into the hole in the middle of the river. The serrated edge cut smoothly, parallel to the bank. The second side, opposite the first was finished. A team of men cut into the ice in a line perpendicular to the bank. They would finish together. Jole moved into position, his gaff ready. Mick was opposite him. They would pull the flying block forward as the cutters ducked an slid out of the way. Hale and Mose, at the cut in the middle of the river, would pull the ice forward, keeping pace with Jole and Mick. They braced to catch the ice.
When the sides of the hole were more than half finished there was a sound like the screel of the low strings on a violin played out of harmony. The ice cracked neatly along the marked lines and dropped out of sight. Thunk. Jole exchanged a glance with Mick, who shrugged. Where was the water?
The crowd on the bank murmured on the bank and Jole turned, locking eyes with his Auntie Rafe. Her scowl as she stalked onto the ice made her look less auntie-like than ever.
Jole skated on his feet with Mick and the rest of the men, up to the edge of the hole. Children dashed ahead. Inchy Foal’s sister slipped over the edge without a splash. There was a hollow sound as she seemed to hit bottom. They could hear the ice block rocking. The cutters gasped.
“There’s dead fish down here!” called Inchy Foal’s sister. “Froze solid.” Three fish, one after the other, came flying out of the hole to clunk on the ice. “And guess where Mare Fisher’s headpiece ended up!” A wedding crown came arching out of the hole and clunked on the ice as well. There at the bottom of the river, high and dry but well below the bottom of the ice, standing on the freshly cut block, was Inchy Foal’s sister. A fish, sticking out like flags, in each hand. “There’s all kinds of stuff down here,” she hollered.
A pool of bright light surrounded the girl. Mottled shadows surrounded her as the sun bounced off thickened places in the ice. Toward the ford the river floor sloped up, nearly touching the bottom of the ice. In the other direction the floor sank away into the ice-imposed dusk.
