The Snowy Tower

by Belinda Murrell

  ‘The only way to find out is to keep on going,’ Lily said, with mock determination.

  ‘Onwards and upwards,’ laughed Saxon, drawing his dagger and waving it. ‘The tower awaits.’

  ‘Idiot!’ laughed Ethan, kicking Toffee into a trot.

  The path twisted through the valley, turning into a grassy cart track studded with small white daisies and waxy yellow buttercups. Pink and purple wildflowers proliferated in the knee-deep grass. The children cantered along, drinking in the cool, sweet air, the horses’ hooves kicking up clods of mossy mud.

  A glossy green and black duck with an orange beak scampered across the track, dragging its wing and squawking pitifully.

  ‘Oh look, the poor creature is wounded,’ cried Roana, sad to see the beautiful injured bird.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of that performance,’ laughed Ethan. ‘That duck could make its living entertaining in your Royal Theatre. The male duck pretends to be wounded, dragging its wing along the ground to distract predators from discovering that, a couple of metres away, his beautiful duck wife is sitting on a nest full of eggs or hatchlings.’

  Aisha spied the flapping duck, and she lifted her paw and flagged her tail in her classic hunting pose, before giving swift chase. Sure enough, the wounded duck rapidly recovered and soared away to safety, leaving Aisha barking madly in frustration.

  ‘Aisha, no!’ scolded Lily, trying to look stern. ‘You should know better than that!’ Aisha slunk back to the track, ears and tail down, looking crestfallen. A moment later she was bounding gracefully through the tall grass chasing a pheasant. Everyone laughed at her flapping ears and athletic leaps through the swathes of grass.

  ‘Did you know that ducks are very romantic?’ asked Ethan. ‘They mate for life, and there is nothing sadder than the lonely sound of a duck crying for its lost mate.’

  The horses splashed through a shallow rivulet and up the other bank. The cart track wound on through the valley, then over a dilapidated bridge. From here the cart track dwindled to a narrow path that rose steeply up a ridge into the rolling green hills, scattered with thick copses of trees. Herds of deer scattered as the horses approached. Wild, woolly sheep with chocolate faces ran in fright. Black lambs with long woolly tails leapt up rocky screes as nimbly as mountain goats. There was no sign of shepherd boys or farmers.

  The path wound steeply up the ridge, so the riders had to lean forward over their horses’ necks. Caramel complained noisily as she climbed, hurrumphing her displeasure. The horses paused at the very crest of the hill.

  ‘What an amazing view,’ breathed Lily, exhaling a misty puff of air as she gazed back the way they had come.

  Below their feet spread a misty vista of open valleys bathed in sunshine, rounded green hills and the winding grey snake of the River Bryn, growing fatter and wider as it descended. In the distance were the hazy golden turrets and rooftops of Bryn.

  To the north, the cliff crumbled away, dropping to another steep valley. These valleys and hills were swathed in shadow, with dark grey clouds and racing rain squalls. The hills rolled away for kilometres, growing ever more steep and sheer, until they grew into snow-white mountains, wreathed with cloud.

  ‘Brrrr,’ shivered Ethan, flexing his stiff fingers on the reins. ‘It’s getting chilly. Perhaps it’s time to unpack our woolly mitts.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe that it is now summer in the south,’ Lily agreed.

  They dismounted, swigging icy water from their bottles and nibbling some dry oat biscuits. They unpacked the thick cable-stitched fishermen’s sweaters, scarves, snug hats, and the thick woollen gloves that had been hurriedly knitted by Marnie and Cookie.

  It was too cold to stop for long, so they remounted and continued down the steep slope. Here the riders had to lean right back, their stirrups far forward, holding the reins firmly.

  Moonbeam slipped as a patch of gravel tumbled away, and Roana screamed as Moonbeam slithered a few metres down the slope before regaining her footing. Goats bounded away at the commotion, their bells tinkling. The horses reached the valley floor, only to clamber straight up the other side again. The horses plodded up and down, their sides heaving and sweaty, their breath laboured. Chilly fingers of mist clutched at the children as they passed. They huddled further into their cloaks, glad of their thick gloves.

  The open landscape gave way to a birch forest, with beards of golden lichen hanging from the branches and moss blanketing the fallen logs. A huge trunk had fallen right across the path, which the horses had to leap gracefully. A lone deer skittered across the trail, its white bobtail flashing. Hares and rabbits dashed through the undergrowth, but Aisha for once ignored them, tired by the endless ascending and descending.

  The smell of damp leaf mulch and rotting wood clung to their clothes and skin. Patches of dappled sunlight shattered the dark gloom of the wood. And still the path wound and climbed.

  ‘Look,’ cried Lily, pointing ahead. A fine dusting of white covered the rocks, trees and leaves. ‘Snow. Isn’t it beautiful?’

  Soon small balls of white fluff were drifting from the heavens, floating softly to the ground and landing lightly on faces, manes, shoulders, haunches, ears and hair. Snow flakes wafted against the dark green trees, shimmering with light, like thousands of soft white stars. It was enchanting, like an exquisite fairyland. Everyone snuggled deeper into their cloaks, the horses surging forward into the snow country.

  ‘The Silent Mountains,’ Saxon said softly. ‘We are in the snowlands.’

  Aisha whined, shivering as her paws sank in the soft cold carpet. She lifted one paw distastefully and flipped her left ear inside out. She paused for a moment, then trotted on after the five horses.

  Late the next afternoon, the wind had grown into a gale and the novelty of snow had long since worn off. No-one could count how many hills they had climbed up and down. The cold was bitter and endless, and still the snow grew thicker.

  The wind howled and moaned off the mountains, whipping more snow into the air and hurling flint-hard slivers of ice in their faces. It was impossible to see more than a couple of metres in front. Ethan found a rope in his pack and tied all the horses in a long line so no-one could get lost.

  The path had long since disappeared in deep drifts. Saxon checked their direction regularly using Fox’s compass and the soggy, dog-eared map, which was starting to blur and tear.

  Everyone swathed scarves around their faces to protect their skin from the stinging snow. The horses hung their heads, plodding bravely forward. Aisha whined and cried, slinking along, her tail curled between her legs and her ears drooping with dismay. Charcoal refused to leave her wicker carriage for more than a few moments at a time, preferring to stay curled, snug and warm, in a black and white ball.

  Progress was dishearteningly slow, and everyone secretly suspected they were lost. At last, Ethan spied a couple of large black boulders, with sides that were too steep to hold the snow.

  ‘Let’s shelter here,’ he called. ‘It might protect us a bit from the snow and wind.’ The others simply nodded, too cold and exhausted to speak.

  The boulders formed a small corral, with rock on two sides, and a wall of snow on the other. Ethan and Saxon scooped out a shallow cave in the snow, at the base of the boulders. The four children, Charcoal and Aisha squeezed into the cave, huddling together for warmth. The five rugged horses squeezed into the outer space, stamping and swaying and shivering.

  The body heat of the humans and animals so close together did help to make everyone warmer. Supplies were running low, so there was very little to eat, and their water bottles were nearly empty. The wind howled into a frenzy, hurling snow and ice.

  The storm raged most of the night, but when Ethan woke, it was eerily quiet. He peered out to find the world completely transformed. The storm had died, leaving the world blanketed in a thick eiderdown of white. The horses huddled together miserably. Ethan crawled out from the snow cave to explore.

  There was no sign of a tra
ck. It was impossible to see the true fall of the land, whether the snow covered grass or shrubs, rocks or logs. Ethan floundered out into the snow, sinking to his knees in soft powder. His stomach grumbled with hunger and his mouth was dry with thirst. Aisha followed him, but refused to come out past the corral, into the deep snow.

  ‘Wake up, sleepyheads,’ he called back towards the cave. ‘Come out and take a look.’

  The other three stumbled out into the open, rubbing their eyes and stretching.

  ‘Which way do we go?’ asked Lily, surveying the unfamiliar world in dismay. ‘The path’s completely disappeared.’

  Saxon pulled out the ornate silver compass Fox had given him. The arrow quivered, pointing away to the horizon.

  ‘North is that way,’ Saxon pointed. ‘We will just have to keep following the compass until we find a path or a landmark.’

  There was no point staying where they were. Everyone was anxious to be on their way again. There was no food for breakfast and no hay for the horses. So as quickly as possible, the gear was packed up, the horses saddled and bridled, the saddlebags strapped behind the saddles, Charcoal’s basket buckled onto Mischief’s pack. Then they set off, leading the horses out into the treacherous drifts.

  Despite the calmer weather, progress was still painful. The horses slipped and slid on the ice, and floundered in the deeper drifts. They decided that it was best to lead the horses, so the children could try to pick the best path. Their boots were made for riding, not for hiking, with smooth soles, treacherous on the slippery ground. They all fell frequently, bruising buttocks and knees.

  Nutmeg made a welcome discovery, pawing at the ground to uncover a fast-running rivulet, hidden under the snow. The horses and Aisha drank thirstily. The children filled their water bottles over and over, greedily swallowing the delicious stream water. The horses pawed the ground to uncover some thin blades of grass, which they could eat. There was nothing for the humans.

  By late afternoon, everyone was tired and miserable. They seemed to have covered hardly any ground all day. They were weak with hunger and exhausted from the constant slipping and falling. Their clothes were sodden and heavy, and the horses were tiring. Lily felt tears of frustration and fatigue hovering just below the surface. She sat down heavily on a rock. ‘I need a little rest,’ Lily muttered thickly. Roana sank down gratefully beside her.

  ‘Be brave. Be strong. Be clever,’ Lily heard her mother’s voice echo in her mind. She felt the cool Merrow pearl nestled against her skin, under the many layers of clothes. It always made her feel stronger.

  ‘How much further to the tower, do you think?’ begged Roana plaintively. ‘If it were not for your compass, Saxon, I would think we had been walking around in circles all day.’

  ‘We may well have been,’ Saxon complained, squatting down on his haunches. ‘It’s impossible to travel in a straight line, with snow drifts, and boulders, and crevices, and sheer cliffs. So we’ve been heading sort of north, but taken so many detours that the tower could be anywhere out there.’ Saxon swept the horizon with his arm. It was cold and bleak, with no recognisable features.

  ‘Let’s face it, we are completely lost,’ admitted Ethan dispiritedly. ‘These mountains all look the same.’

  They sat for a few minutes searching the surrounding peaks for some clue as to where the Tower of Sun and Moon could be hidden. Their sweaty bodies were warm while they were moving but quickly chilled when they rested, so Lily was soon shivering, her teeth chattering, as the cold seeped up from the rock through her whole body. She willed herself to get up and start moving again, but she was simply too tired.

  Aisha pricked her ears, then growled low and deep in her throat. She turned back the way they had come, her hackles raised, then bounded off barking sharply.

  Ethan jumped up to follow her, his bow strung and arrow nocked. Saxon drew his sword and followed. A large pale golden dog appeared around the bend in the path, barking loudly. He was a good twenty centimetres taller than Aisha, with his tail aloft and his ears pricked. Aisha sniffed him carefully, her tail cautiously wagging, then dropped down into a crouch like a puppy ready to play. The male dog sniffed her in return, then wagged happily, licking Aisha gently on the nose.

  Saxon and Ethan lowered their weapons, staring in wonder. Where had this magnificent golden dog appeared from? And if there was a dog, were there people nearby as well?

  This question was answered just a moment later when a boy stepped around the corner. He was shorter than Ethan, but looked about the same age. He was dressed in brown woollen leggings, with a suede fur-lined jacket and thick mittens, and a brightly coloured knitted hat over his black hair. His skin was tanned ruddy brown, with pale blue eyes, and a freckled snub nose. Strapped to his feet were snow shoes – an oval of netted twine with a curved wooden rim and upturned toes. In his left hand, he carried a couple of dead hares, while in his right he held a short, sharp dagger, which was currently pointed at Ethan.

  ‘Hello,’ called Ethan, in a friendly tone, his bow lowered but his muscles tensed for action. ‘Perhaps you can help us. I think we might be lost.’

  The boy snorted in laughter. ‘That’s an understatement! It’s a wonder you haven’t killed yourselves.’ The boy lowered his dagger, and whistled gently. ‘Jonte, come.’

  Jonte obediently left his doggy conversation with Aisha and came to sit by his master’s heels, his tongue lolling and his tail thumping the snow.

  ‘I was checking traps and found your tracks, back near the snow cave you stayed in during the storm,’ the boy explained, with a lilting accent. ‘The people of the snows don’t like strangers wandering in our lands, so I thought I would track you and find out what you are doing.’

  The four children looked at each other quizzically. Ethan thought about the boy. He didn’t look very dangerous, despite his dagger, and they really needed help if they were going to find the Tower of Sun and Moon. Ethan decided to take a risk.

  ‘My name is Ethan, and this is my sister, Lily, and our friends Saxon and Rowan. We are trying to find the Tower of Sun and Moon in the mountains, but we lost the trail in the snow storm.’

  The boy looked suspicious, and a trifle wary. ‘The Tower of Sun and Moon, as you call it, is that way.’ He waved away to the north-east. ‘But you can’t go there, the black ones are living there now. There were seven black crows, but now only two stay there.’

  ‘Black crows – you mean Sedahs?’ asked Lily eagerly.

  The boy looked puzzled then nodded. ‘Strangers from the south. Not strangers like you, stranger strangers.’

  ‘And a child? Is there a boy as well? A blond boy about eight years old?’ begged Roana, tears glinting in her eyes.

  The boy searched her face and nodded slowly.

  ‘Is he still there or did the Sedahs take him away again?’ demanded Roana urgently.

  ‘I have not seen a boy, but there is talk among my people that such a boy is still there in the tower.’

  ‘Thank the Moon Goddess,’ sobbed Roana, tears of relief dripping down her face. Lily came and hugged Roana.

  ‘The boy is his brother,’ explained Lily gently. ‘The Sedahs have stolen him and are keeping him prisoner. We have come to steal him back.’

  The boy nodded once more, understanding and compassion shining in his face.

  ‘My name is Wilf. My people are staying yonder by the loch, about half an hour’s walk away. Come with me and we can try to help you.’

  Wilf led the way back in the direction they had come, Jonte at his heels, and then down a narrow cleft the children had missed. The horses slid and slipped in the thick drifts of snow. Weariness was momentarily forgotten as hope sang in their hearts.

  The cleft wound down, into a narrow, sheltered valley, with sheer walls of white snow and black rock. The children quickly realised that they would never have found a way down on their own. Wilf’s snow shoes gave him much better grip, spreading his weight over the netted base.

  A wide frozen la
ke wound around much of the valley floor, its shore crusted with snow. Wilf strode along the lake’s edge, Jonte running on ahead. Soon they could smell the smoke of cooking fires, and other scents that made their stomachs grumble – roasting meat and baking bread and smoky coffee.

  In the protected lee of the cliffs, near the frozen lake, were clustered a number of round, white domes. Spirals of grey smoke wafted from the top of the domes, while other camp fires crackled in the open centre of the camp. A fenced yard to the side held a herd of reindeer, while in another yard huddled a number of shaggy, tough ponies. Wooden sleds were parked by each dome, some covered with packages and boxes.

  Tribal folk wandered out to watch the arrival of the bedraggled convoy of children and animals. One man strode out shouting furiously at Wilf in a guttural-sounding language. Wilf answered back defiantly in the same harsh tongue.

  Lily stumbled in the snow, swaying with weariness. Roana moved to help her, although Roana’s own legs were trembling with exhaustion. Ethan watched the exchange between Wilf and the man, his heart sinking to his numb, frozen toes. Saxon’s hand hovered near his sword, ready to protect them if the need arose.

  A short, round woman bustled out of one of the domes, her quick eyes assessing the situation. She hurried past the shouter, yelling at him in annoyance, to where the children were standing in the snow.

  ‘Come on in,’ she smiled welcomingly. ‘Don’t mind my husband, Jared, he is suspicious of strangers, especially since the black crows have come to the north. Come into our tent and share a meal with us. You are very welcome to share our hospitality.’

  Jared snorted in disgust and stomped off towards the reindeer yards.

  ‘Go on,’ grinned Wilf. ‘I’ll look after the horses. They’ll be fine in the yard with the ponies. I’ll make sure they get a good meal.’

  The four children shuffled into the white dome behind the woman, Lily carrying Charcoal in her arms. The dome was made of thick, white felt stretched over timber struts. Inside, a low fire glowed in the centre. The floor was strewn with woven rugs and cushions in rich reds, vibrant blues and deep forest greens.