by Susie Day
He watched him all day, as much as he could. He listened in as Michael gave a safety briefing to a group of kids, silent and agog under his strict gaze. He watched as he talked the next group through ropes and knots, harnesses and coloured routes. He lingered as Michael taught a group of women in tight Lycra bottoms to interpret the lines on a map: the grids for distance; the wavy orange lines to show height, and steepness.
It wasn’t like school. Here, Max wanted to learn.
In between, Olwen kept him busy carrying empty cups to be washed, and refilling sugar bowls.
Max was stacking steamy hot plates from the dishwasher when Michael beckoned him over, a little after five in the afternoon.
Without a word, he handed Max a pair of climbing shoes, a harness and a pocket of chalk to strap round his waist.
‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘You’ve earned it. Time you learned a thing or two.’
Max put on the flexible rubber shoes as quickly as he could.
The climbing wall was tall, much taller once you were at its foot.
Michael got him roped up to a girl named Charlotte at the top. He placed a helmet on Max’s head. Then he told him to look for the yellows, and try to climb up on those as far as he could.
The yellows were handholds, small nubby lumps of rubber jutting from the grey of the wall. Some were long and flattish, easy to step on to. Some were tiny bumps, to hang a finger or two on.
Max had watched people all day, struggling to get past the first overhang, losing their grip and swinging free, caught in the safety of the ropes. He wasn’t cocky. He knew this wouldn’t be easy.
Which was lucky, because it was harder than he’d thought.
Michael stayed with him, quietly issuing instructions. ‘Now, try to reach up there, left hand, and pull … Use your fingertips, that’s it … Trust your foot there, Max – good lad … Good boy.’
Max fell, twice. His hands ached from the effort of clinging on and holding his whole body up just with his own grip. His legs ached from stretching out, and pushing himself higher.
But when Michael called a halt, with Max almost up to the first overhang, he had a grin on his face and a glow inside.
‘Da iawn, Max,’ said Michael, taking his kit. ‘Very good.’
He’d said it to people all day. But all the way home Max buzzed with the feeling of it: of being very good. He pressed his nose to the glass all the way through the valley, peering up at the mountains, now half-lost to the darkness, and whispering, I could climb that, I could climb that inside his head.
‘You can come again tomorrow,’ said Michael, as he pulled up outside the Bevans’ house. ‘If you like.’
Max nodded.
He jumped down, and began to run down the path – then ran back.
‘Thanks, that was brilliant, yeah,’ he said all in a rush.
Michael dipped his head, acknowledging.
Max looked up, a movement catching his eye.
Tal was watching through the window upstairs, a soft dark shape framed against the yellow light.
Max waved cheerfully. I’m a mountain man, he wanted to shout; I’m learning.
Tal raised his hand, just once.
Four days till Friday, and Tal finishing school. Four days for Max to learn. And then they’d climb the mountain, and Max would be rich.
18
The next day Max ate breakfast with his nose in the guidebook for Y Ddraig Aur.
Ripley was busy drawing ash-grey sheep in charcoal from the wood burner.
Thelma was reading her Welsh book, and muttering to herself as she sounded out the unfamiliar letters. ‘Chhh. Kkcchh. Hhhur. Hhhrrrrrrrrr. Hmeh.’
Louise was, unusually, not reading a book.
‘I’ve finished them all,’ she said.
‘All?’ asked Max.
There had been half a shelf at least of the bosomy stories; more books than he’d ever read in his life.
‘They were only short,’ said Louise brightly. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ve decided I’m going to write one.’
‘About dragons?’
Louise shook her head, smiling with a spark in her eye. ‘No. A romance. Just like those ones. It’s going to be called The Welshman’s Secret Bride. Or maybe The Mountaineer’s Passion,’ she said, twirling her writer’s fountain pen in her hand.
‘Will it be sexy?’ asked Thelma, wrinkling her nose.
‘A little bit.’
‘Ach-y-fi,’ said Thelma. ‘That’s Welsh for yuck.’
Louise’s face went faintly pink. Her notebook was on the kitchen table, and she leaned over it warily so no one could see.
Max left them to it.
When he got to the Bevans’, Tal was there too, in a fleece and walking trousers.
‘Taking a group out today,’ said Michael. ‘Tal reckoned you might learn more if he came along.’
‘Nothing to do with wanting a day off school, obviously,’ shouted Bill from the porch, wrestling a lively Tiger onto her lead.
Tal smiled innocently.
‘He was going to go up Blaidd Ddrwg, but I nudged him to Y Ddraig,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll need a waterproof and another layer; there’s snow higher up. Gear’s in the store room at the centre. You can help yourself.’
‘But –’ said Max.
He didn’t know how to explain it; how he wasn’t ready yet. How going up the mountain was meant to be something sacred, special.
He didn’t have to. Tal dipped his head, checking they weren’t overheard, then fixed serious eyes on Max.
‘Practice run. Before we go for real.’
Of course. It was perfect: a chance to test out being a hero. You couldn’t just jump into dragon-slaying. It needed a bit of rehearsal.
There was a skip in Max’s step as he hurried to the minibus, a lightness in the bounce of his heels. A shiver in the air. A thrumming of possibilities; of magic.
He felt a swell of something in his chest all the way to the mountain centre.
Waiting in the car park was a group of older teenage boys: six or seven of them, all kitting up in hats and matching blue waterproofs.
Five minutes later they were back on the road, Max in his borrowed boots with a backpack at his feet, already packed with a lunch and a full water bottle. He and Tal rode on the wide bench seat up at the front beside Michael.
Before long he was sweating in his extra fleece and waterproofs. Tal’s were in his bag, ready for when they got there.
Max bunched a fist, wanting to kick. Here’s Max Kowalski, who does as he’s told and still messes up. Reflection Room Max. Southend Max. It was too familiar, and not of this place; not who he wanted to bring with him. Here among the mountains he was a boy who believed in dragons, and anything was possible.
But he soon forgot about the warmth. The road twisted along the valley and Max gazed out of the window, keeping his head low so he could see the peaks as Michael named them, like a rhyme he was starting to remember: Tryfan, Glyder Fach, Glyder Fawr, Y Garn. The lake, Llyn Ogwen.
The older boys didn’t care, though. They were fighting over one mobile phone, laughing at a selfie of the one named Harry with his woolly hat pulled down over his eyes. Max glared at them. Why weren’t they looking? Why weren’t they saying, Wow, I’ve never been anywhere like this, I’ve never seen all this green and this space – and how soon can I get out in it? There could be old high magic flowing from the mountaintops, and they’d slide right past it.
‘Their loss,’ said Michael softly, as if Max had said it out loud.
Max felt noticed, and it felt good.
They parked up beside a smattering of cars, not far from Max’s cottage.
The group of boys milled around, fussing with laces.
Max mentally mapped out the path before them: a road at first, giving way to grass and rocky clumps in the distance to carry them on.
He looked up, and up. The peak was out of sight.
With a grumble from the older boys, they struck out
. It was easy going at first, the clear path offering steps whenever it grew steeper, and Max and Tal took the lead, Max keen to reach it all first. But after ten minutes he was sweating hard, even with his waterproof now bundled into his backpack. Ahead, the path bore right, round a column of rock, and there they found it: the punishing scree.
It was steep, and unforgiving. A path of sorts had been carved out in another zigzag, but it slipped away underfoot and sent hundreds of tiny rocks scattering behind you with every step. Max’s boot kept sinking in and slipping away. It was slow, and painful, every hand he put out to steady himself catching on sharp flinty chips of rock.
‘Not far now,’ breathed Tal, nodding up at the last few zigzags. ‘It’s a pig, this path.’
Max bristled. He was struggling: he didn’t need it pointing out.
But Tal was breathing hard too, his boots sliding out from under him, his face red. At one point he slipped down onto his hands and knees, crying out.
Max helped him up with a tug of his arm. They were struggling together. At the top of the scree, the path gave way to a flat sheep track through pockets of marsh grass and spongy moss, high up enough now to be crusted with a coating of ice, which cracked satisfyingly under his boots.
Max stopped, suddenly.
There were footprints in the ice.
He glanced at Tal, wary. They weren’t alone. Someone else was up here. On his mountain, and getting to the top first.
What if they had come for the dragon? It was an old legend. Other people had to want the gold too.
‘Come on,’ he murmured, speeding up.
They walked on with a new urgency, climbing steeply up once more.
He could see them now: two bright dots in the far distance: one red coat, one yellow, and he heard a dog barking far off, though it was too small to see. Ahead, but catchable, if they hurried.
‘Rest stop,’ said Michael, as at last they reached a level section surrounded by ice-tipped grass and mud. ‘Five minutes. Drink some water; there’s tea in that flask if you want it.’
The boys all threw off their backpacks. They lay in the icy grass. Max stayed on his feet, his eyes on the two bright coats ahead as they began to tackle the rocks above. It was daylight. The dragon would be sleeping; indistinguishable from the rock itself. Hundreds of people had climbed this mountain before him, and none of them had woken the beast. But still Max couldn’t bear them beating him to it. Waiting was agony.
After what seemed like an hour, Michael relaced his boots, threw the last of his steaming tea into the grass, and recapped the flask.
‘Up now. No need to rest till the top.’
He turned – as the still cold sky was filled with a terrible howl, that came to a sudden, sickening, high-pitched halt.
Max spun, gazing up, searching the rock.
‘Did someone fall?’ asked Harry.
‘That wasn’t human,’ said Tal quietly.
Max felt a chill run from his gut right up into his throat. It was daylight. It couldn’t be – it couldn’t possibly be –
‘Follow me,’ said Michael, his voice clear but urgent. ‘Everyone. No noise, no fuss.’
Max stepped in behind Tal and matched him step for step up the gully, over the crest and on to the next rise. The path here was rockier, the stones between the mud slick with ice and treacherous underfoot. Max put his hand down twice to catch himself. His fingers were raw with the cold, but he couldn’t stop. They had to get up there, to see, to know.
The wind was picking up, but he made out snatches of voices on the wind: wordless, broken. Then, below, a painful keening noise that clutched at his heart like a fist, so lonely and helpless it was.
Tal stopped so suddenly that Max bumped right into him with a gasp. Then he looked up, and saw why.
Michael was a few metres ahead, his back to them, one hand held up to signal a halt. Before him lay a tragedy. Max’s quarry – the red coat and the yellow – were two women, one with greyish wisps of hair, one younger and darker. The older knelt beside the dog: a black-and-white springer spaniel, awkwardly on its side among the sharp rocks. Its mottled chest was pumping hard, and it whined in pain with every rise and fall. Its front legs fought with the air, trying to move, but the back legs simply trembled. Its eyes were wild and afraid, as if it knew.
‘She fell,’ said the older woman, in a dazed voice. ‘She was jumping up here like a bloody gazelle, as per, and – there was ice. I think it was ice. She slipped. Her back. She just –’
Michael put his hand on her hand, and she began to cry.
He reached out with his other, and touched the dog’s ears, very gently, crooning softly to it. He let the dog nestle her head into his big palm.
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘That’s it. Good girl.’
The woman held the dog’s head too. And, slowly, the whining grew softer, the frantic movements of the forelegs stilled, and the dog went to sleep.
Max couldn’t breathe. It was so plain and so immediate: a life, gone.
Tal made a sound beside him, and when Max looked he had tears rolling down his face.
Max looked away, embarrassed. It was sad, obviously. But you didn’t cry, just because you were sad. You put your feelings somewhere else, and got on with it. You stepped up.
Michael slowly straightened up and turned round, and Max flinched inside, waiting for Tal to get a tap or a telling-off, in front of his friend and all these strangers. But when he raised his heavy shoulders, Michael was crying too; quite openly, fat tears sliding into his beard. The two women hugged, weeping. Then Michael wrapped one broad arm round Tal, hugging him tight too as they cried together.
Max stood awkwardly to one side, his arms hanging stiffly, not knowing where to put himself.
‘What’s her name?’ asked Tal, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
‘Willow,’ said the younger woman sorrowfully.
‘Willow,’ repeated Tal.
‘We’ll get her down off the mountain for you,’ said Michael. ‘Can’t leave her here. The boys’ll help, won’t you?’
Harry and the others nodded warily, shifting from foot to foot.
‘Me too,’ whispered Max.
But Max stood off to one side as Michael unfurled a tarp and rolled the small body inside it; stayed back as Tal placed three stones upon each other, a marker, a goodbye; walked silently as Michael lifted the dog into his arms and carried it down the mountain in a solemn procession; all the while dry-eyed, and curious, and sad in a way that seemed larger than his body could fit.
19
Max and Tal waited in the cafe at the centre. Olwen pressed hot chocolate into Max’s hands, but it had a skin on top and he didn’t want it. All he could think of was the whining of the dog, and the way its body moved: such fast frantic breaths, then such stillness.
It was death, captured behind his eyes, and he didn’t know how to look at anything else the same ever again.
It wasn’t a new feeling.
That didn’t help.
He felt like crying, but he didn’t.
He held his chocolate until it went cold.
He sat still.
‘We had a dog before Tiger,’ said Tal quietly. ‘She was called Seren. She was an Irish wolfhound and she was as big as me. She had missing teeth that made her dribble, and she used to sleep on my bed even though I was meant to make her not. She got a tumour in the end, in her spine. Her back legs just stopped working. So we did the right thing.’ He sounded sure as he said it, a well-told phrase, but then he frowned. ‘It wasn’t like that, though. It was – quick. And sad. But not like that.’
Max held his cup.
Then Michael came back, and knocked the table. ‘Come,’ he said gruffly, tilting his head to the doors.
The dog and the women were gone, and the group of students were packing up their bags and heading away in a minibus of their own.
Michael drove them home in silence.
‘Come in, Max,’ said Michael when they arrived; a com
mand more than an offer.
Max nodded dimly and did as he was told.
In the kitchen, Bill was soft-faced and gentle, hugging Tal tightly and crooning to him as Tal let a few more tears come.
‘Such a shock,’ he said. ‘Such a shame. But it was good that you were there, yes? It was good that you could help them.’
Tal nodded into Bill’s stomach.
Max stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway.
‘Hug, Max? I don’t charge.’
Bill opened out one arm with a smile and a raised eyebrow.
Max shook his head.
‘Not a hugger. Fair enough. Cup of tea, then? And something to eat. You need food after a shock like that. Sit down, kids.’
They had strong tea from a pot, and thick slices of claggy carrot cake that Max’s tongue disliked but his body wanted. He picked off the icing and picked out the nuts, but the rest went down in a few bites and he liked the way it sat in his middle like a lump of kindness.
Tiger wandered into the kitchen, snuffling at the floor and clicking her claws on the slate.
‘Hey, girl,’ said Bill, ruffling her head as it rested on his knee. ‘You know what’s up, don’t you? She’s a sensitive one, this. Always knows when people need a bit of a wet-nose nudge to help them out.’
Max didn’t think that was what he needed; it was too close, and too sad. But he touched the dog’s back with a finger when she walked past to nuzzle into Tal’s waiting hands, and felt hot hair and muscle, alive and good.
‘Take her out, Tal, will you? She’s only had a quick nose outside today. Been a busy morning.’
Tal went to fetch the lead and his coat, and Max started to stand up too, but Bill shook his head. ‘No, I’ve a job for you, Max. If that’s OK.’
The job was chopping wood in the garden. It meant using an axe – a small one, but real, heavy with a sharp blade – and splitting short thick logs into smaller, quicker-to-burn ones. There was a hefty tree stump, cut flat like a table, and you placed the log upright and swung, and hit it in the centre till it split into two perfect halves.
It did when Bill hit it, at least. He made it look easy, but for Max it was hard. The axe was heavier than it seemed, and instead of coming down neatly in the centre of each log it sometimes glanced off the side, or hit the tree trunk instead. Once or twice it nearly swung all the way into Max’s leg.
