The Choice of the Melting Glacier

The ice bridge across the melting glacier is an hour's walk; the stone ridge around takes until sunset. While the dripwater counts the time, Alice chooses the worse of the two paths and explains aloud why: the bridge weakens with every crossing, and the risk would not be her own.

High in the mountains the glacier is melting, and three are heading down from the snow station: Alice, the snow-leopard cub Irbi and the glacier warden Selma. At the fork lie two paths: a shining ice bridge — short and beautiful, and a grey stone ridge around — long, windy, lasting until sunset. Selma says only one thing: "Today you lead the rope" — and offers not a word more. Time drips in the literal sense: the sun climbs, and meltwater eats the bridge's pillars. Irbi trots across the bridge with ease and calls the others on, and it even sounds sensible — one at a time, quickly. But Alice sees the main thing: every crossing leaves the bridge weaker, and the heaviest of the three is Selma. Alice chooses the worse path and explains it aloud. The ridge greets them with scree and wind, the bridge glitters below all the way to the pass — and at sunset it sags and falls. The three reach the station after dark, legs humming, with a tired contentment: everyone made it, everyone is whole.