by H. S. Norup
Similar to other species of elves, barbegazi have pointed ears, iron intolerance and limited magical abilities.
—6—
Tessa dismounted the chairlift on the crest of Kapall, next to the barrier nets she’d slipped through yesterday. The ski route was open today, and the nets rolled back. On her way up, she’d thought about Professor Bahne. His email address was listed on the Institute of Zoology website. It was perfect. After she found a barbegazi, she’d write to him, then he could mention her in one of his books, and everyone would believe her.
Dark clouds swelled over the Arlberg pass, and snow fell in big fluffy lumps. The cold lift had frozen her bum. Tessa shivered. To get warm, she started out with short, quick turns—Coach would’ve been pleased. She sped past the deserted training area in tuck position, taking advantage of the empty piste, and stopped by the edge of the traverse path that led back to the chairlift. The place Opa had shown her, where he’d been rescued, was below the Törli couloir, near the mountain stream. At least, that’s how she remembered it.
Half-erased tracks snaked their way down the white surface, disappearing into the clouds above Schöngraben. The off-piste skiers from this morning were gone—probably finishing their days with après-ski drinks and music, in mountain huts. That was both good—the barbegazi wouldn’t need to hide—and bad: no one would be near to help if anything happened to her. No one even knew where she was, and, on its own, her avalanche transceiver was pointless.
Tessa hesitated. She searched the contacts on her phone for someone to tell where she was headed. Lisa: no, Felix: no, Coach: definitely no, Dad—he lived thousands of kilometres away—no, no, no. She wasn’t allowed to ski off-piste alone. Mum would be livid, if she ever found out. Felix was a better option than the other contacts, and his dad, Uncle Harry, was a rescue patrol volunteer.
She tapped with her frozen fingers: I ski Schöngraben now:-).
After pressing send, she donned her gloves, and left the prepared slopes. The ski route began easy and flat, following the forest, above the treeline. Her phone beeped, but she didn’t stop. She only paused to catch her breath, where the landscape changed and the slope steepened.
Every season, the first time she stood on the edge of this near-vertical drop, it unnerved her. Only the knowledge that she’d survived the descent in earlier years assured her she could do it again. Normally, the bottom of Schöngraben was visible, but today it was snowing so much the view was greyed-out.
Turning back was still possible. She only needed to backtrack up to the trail through the forest. A route she’d often taken last year with Lisa.
After a long look at the whirling snow above the shrouded gorge, she made up her mind. The barbegazi would still be there tomorrow. She turned and shuffled sideways, up towards the trail. The soft snow made it hard work, and she soon became warm and sweaty inside her ski jacket.
A piercing whistle resonated between the mountainsides.
Tessa stopped dead. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. The strange whistle sounded again, from high up on the opposite ridge. A similar peculiar whistle answered, from deep below in Schöngraben. The penetrating whistles didn’t sound like rescue whistles, or referee whistles, or the shrill tone from blowing hard in the top part of the wooden recorders in the music room, or anything else she’d ever heard.
In an instant, she changed her decision and skied back down the slope. After five turns, she’d passed the spot where she’d begun backtracking, and, on the steep drop, there was no turning back. The barbegazi would save her if she was caught in an avalanche, wouldn’t they?
They didn’t whistle again. Silence cushioned her, like cotton wool. The only sounds were the clanks of her skis, whenever they grazed each other, and her wheezing breaths. The ground flattened out. Her turns became effortless. She floated across the white blanket, almost without touching it, until something blocked her skis. They stopped abruptly and Tessa flew in a low arc, landing face down in soft, wet snow.
Both skis remained attached—the bindings were tightened for race practice. She got up and brushed the snow away. Huge, boulder-sized snow heaps surrounded her. The remains of yesterday’s avalanche. It had come down through the narrow Törli couloir, the other ski route in Schöngraben. The only route Opa had forbidden her to ski. The route where an avalanche had once buried him.
Somewhere nearby, he’d met the barbegazi.
Tessa edged forward, taking care to avoid the snow-covered rocks, while she searched for something resembling a barbegazi cave entrance. Snow stuck to her goggles, blocking her vision, although she kept wiping it away. She couldn’t see the end of Schöngraben, where two massive man-made earth mounds protected the village from avalanches. The place where she should cross the mountain stream must be close by. Was she too far to the right? Or had she crossed already? This was so stupid. What did she think she was doing, following the sound of whistles? They could’ve been anything. Anywhere. Echoes in the mountains often made sound appear to be coming from a completely different direction. Perhaps it had been the whistle from a train down in the valley. How silly to think she’d heard a barbegazi!
She’d lost her speed, and she had to push herself through the deep snow. Her sweaty thermal underwear turned cold, making her shudder. The falling fluff swallowed the sound of her hiccupping sobs. Tears gathered inside her goggles. She could see even less while crying.
Suddenly, the ground below her caved in, revealing a hidden hollow under the new snow. Tessa tried to scramble back, but it was too late.
The tips of her skis rose, while her weight tilted her back. Something in her stomach somersaulted. She screamed. Windmilling her arms and the ski poles, she seemed to hover, suspended for an instant. Then the tails of her skis hit the ground. Both ski bindings released, catapulting her backwards, and she landed, with a crunch, on her back protector. Her helmet touched down, bouncing once. She tried to breathe, but the air had been knocked out of her.
A quiet, “Help,” escaped her. And then she just lay at the bottom of the hole.
Far above, snow whirled out of the dark grey sky.
—7—
They crawled outside before the noisy metal things stopped. A snowstorm was coming. Papa said none of the humans would be foolish enough to journey through Schöngraben with so poor visibility. Even Maman and Liel came out to search near the cave.
Gawion surfed over to the western forest. He bounded up the steep scarp, between two rows of fir trees. Bending his toes so his claws gripped, and bouncing his heels off the ground, he propelled himself upwards. Then he slid downhill between the next two rows. All the while, searching for signs of his sister. But he found nothing.
Papa wanted them to comb the forests on both flanks of the gorge, although the avalanche trail ran straight between them.
“If she is injured, she might not be able to dig herself out of the snow,” Papa had said, as if that was what he really believed. “Perhaps she has even gone into deep sleep to preserve energy, and cannot hear us.”
Gawion had tried to tell Papa that Maeg must be below the avalanche tongue, because it was clear from her first whistle that she had been surfing the avalanche. But Papa refused to see sense.
Despite the emergency whistle, the lump of her fur and Gawion having smelt iron, Papa refused to believe Maeg had been abducted. Which was like someone denying winter was ending when the mountain streams overflowed and patches of bright grass appeared in the snow.
They ought to search much nearer to the human habitats, but Papa had forbidden Gawion to pass through the human-made earth mounds at the end of the narrow valley. Perhaps he could sneak around them to the village instead.
Almost as if he knew what Gawion was considering, Papa whistled from somewhere above, in the eastern forest. A second check-up whistle sounded, before Gawion answered.
He zigzagged up and down, trawling the forest. The snowfall covered his tracks, so at least he need not worry about that. His stomach growled agai
n and again. Might he find a few late blackberries under the snow on a north-facing stretch?
The mere thought of berries made his mouth water. He grabbed a handful of snow and sucked on it, hoping to satisfy his hunger. It was no good. The powdery snow lacked taste and density. It disappeared on his tongue without even cooling his mouth.
He reached the bottom again, close to the mountain stream. It gurgled deep below the snow. The pit he had dug was nearby. If only the berry-human had finally delivered the gift.
He was gliding towards the hole when he heard a scream. A scream, not a whistle. And a very soft, human “Help”.
Helping humans did not interest him, right now. But if a human had captured Maeg, perhaps he should capture a human.
The idea was ridiculous. Humans could not survive in the snow half as long as barbegazi could survive non-freezing temperatures. Which was not very long.
When the deep hole he had dug for the berries came into view, he hurried towards it, then stopped. What if Maeg’s abductor was down there? Perhaps it had set a barbegazi trap. Should he run and hide? Or let himself be captured to find out where it had taken Maeg?
Gawion inched closer to the hole.
—8—
Tessa swallowed gulps of air. She had stopped crying. Her situation was simply too scary for tears. Instead, she pushed her goggles up and wiped her eyes. She wasn’t buried under the snow, but this was the next worst thing.
The deep, cave-like hole was roundish and several metres across. The gap in the overhanging snow above her was much smaller—Tessa-sized, plus the bit her floundering poles and skis had torn down. Rounded rocks broke through the bumpy ground. This place wasn’t cosy, not like the barbegazi caves in her imagination.
Standing and stretching, she thrust one ski pole upwards. It barely reached the opening. Climbing up the soft snow wall seemed impossible. A gap in the wall, a sort of tunnel, led into the snow. It was dark and narrow. Perhaps she could worm her way through it. But where would it end?
She took her phone out. No connection. Not even a single little dot. Mum’s old phone, and it was useless. The cracked screen showed two texts. One was from Mum: Home with Oma. Off to work soon. Have fun with Lisa. Mum xxx. The other was from Felix. U r crazy:-( :-0, it read. He’d sent it two minutes after she’d texted him.
A sob escaped her. Mum wouldn’t worry, if she thought Tessa was at Lisa’s. She’d just think the girls were having one of their sleepovers. Like they used to. When would Felix begin to worry and tell Uncle Harry? Would Felix worry at all? He’d probably be lost in a computer game and only wonder where she was when she didn’t turn up for ski training tomorrow. She stifled another sob. No one would be looking for her!
She had to do something. Find a way out, or make some kind of sign. The piste patrol only supervised the prepared slopes, but if, against all odds, someone came this way, they would not detect the signal from her avalanche transceiver unless they searched for it. She picked up one of her skis, held it with both hands, over her shoulder, and threw it. The ski flew out of the hole and disappeared. She crossed her gloved fingers, hoping it had landed upright, sticking out of the snow like a signpost.
The other ski, when she tried throwing it, landed on the edge, ripping more snow down, before it crashed to the ground. That gave her an idea. Using the ski, she hacked her way round the rim, enlarging the opening. After a few minutes, she’d torn the overhanging snow down completely. With her ski boot, she kicked into the wall of snow, at the height of her knee, making a step. Then she dug other steps with her gloved hands, getting warm as she laboured over her task.
It didn’t work. She could get up onto the first step, but she couldn’t get any grip with her hands, to hold herself against the wall and advance farther. Her ski and poles were no use as supports either. In frustration, she threw the other ski out of the opening, and then she heard a high-pitched squeal.
Tessa held her breath. It had definitely not been a human sound. She whistled.
Nothing. Had she imagined it?
No. It had to be one of them.
“Please, barbegazi. I can’t get out,” she called.
Although she had wished for and almost expected it, the next thing that happened surprised Tessa: six fingers and a furry head appeared at the top of the hole. Two pointed ears and a rather large potato-like nose stuck out of the shaggy whitish fur. Beneath bushy eyebrows, a pair of ice-blue, beady eyes were staring at her.
FROM HABITS & HABITATS: A HISTORIC ACCOUNT OF ALPINE ELVES BY PROFES SOR, DR EBERHART LUDWIG FRITZ BAHNE
According to Foubergé’s 1781 written account,* barbegazi have forty-two words for snow. This number most likely included repetition of several words in a variety of French and Swiss local dialects.
Barbegazi classify snow based on wetness, smell, taste, colour, season, the size of the individual crystals and avalanche risk factor.
Their love of avalanches prompted Foubergé to adopt the collective noun “avalanche” and hence describe an “avalanche of barbegazi”.
* Foubergé, A.S. 1781: Elves of the Central Alps. Paris: Éditions Féerique, 24–26.
—9—
Gawion lay on his stomach and looked down into the hole, rubbing his arm where the wooden foot had grazed it. A numbing tingle spread from his shoulder to his fingertips. Beyond a doubt, those long pretend feet contained other materials than wood.
A human child, a baby, younger than Liel, peered up at him, without swooning or shrieking. It smiled. Had it said “barbegazi”? Was this a trap? The elf hunters of his daymares were grown and menacing, nothing like this.
He jumped up, sniffing and scanning the surroundings, but found nothing except a faint whiff of metal from the sticks in its hand and those unnatural feet.
“Help me, barbegazi! Please!” it screamed.
Good. It sounded frightened, and it was trapped. Gawion shoved his toes into the snow as anchors, lay down again, and stared at the human.
He had never observed a conscious one up close before. Two funny plaited beards poked out from under the raspberry-like shell on its head. The tree-trunk-coloured plaits hung under its ears, not, as beards normally did, under the nose. Did these side-beards have any special function?
“Please help me,” the human said. Eyes the colour of ragged peaks stared up at him, while springs flowed from them and dripped onto the floor.
If Maeg was imprisoned somewhere, perhaps an exchange could take place. If he found Maeg and her abductor… Perhaps Papa could guard this human while he searched the village? But, no, that might take too long. It would catch its death in the cold. Bringing it home was no solution either—the glacier block cooled the cave, not to mention Maman’s reaction.
“Please, barbegazi.”
Should he help it out? No others would travel this route so late. Without an avalanche, a search party’s appearance was very unlikely. The reckless creature was alone. And it had nothing to do with Maeg’s disappearance, or he would have caught a trace of his sister’s thawing-spring-snow scent.
The streams from the human’s eyes dried up. Its mouth, unhidden by a beard or fur, formed a tilted new moon, exposing single rows of odd, square teeth. It looked so friendly.
Gawion’s stomach grumbled.
“Have you brought the berry gift?” The words, spoken in the human tongue, flew out of his mouth. He wanted to stuff his whole beard down his throat to stop them.
“Berry gift? What’s that?”
Oh, why had he spoken? This was not the right human. Gawion withdrew from the rim.
“Hey! Come back.” The voice turned panicky again. “Please, barbegazi! I… I need your help. I won’t tell anyone.”
Humans were deceptive. He mistrusted it, but he had to help. That was what they did, when they found living humans buried in the snow. After marching ten paces away from the hole, he began shovelling with his enormous feet. The top layer of snow was light and fluffy powder, and the soundless digging required no effort. The crie
s of help behind him continued. When his claws hit a crusty layer of old snow, the scraping drowned out the screams. He took a moment to savour the chill and harvest an icy lump to suck on. Then his feet let loose again, cutting a horizontal tunnel.
Just before he broke through the thin snow wall, he paused to prepare himself. The shell on this one’s fragile head troubled him, and he had not rescued anyone conscious in a long time. After considering the size of this human, he revised Papa’s lessons about their anatomy and the best walloping spots.
Gawion shot out of the tunnel. Swirling in the air, he oriented himself towards it, his walloping arm outstretched.
“Tha—” The impact cut off its voice, and it sank to the ground, lifeless as an aestivating barbegazi.
Yes! Gawion pumped his fist in triumph. Now he just had to get rid of it, and prevent it from ever returning.
—10—
“Hey, kid, wake up.”
Tessa opened one eye and saw a pair of heavy brown shoes, dark green socks and hairy legs below leather knickerbockers. She groaned.
“Take me home…” she mumbled, and hummed a few notes.
“What’s that? You okay?”
With a huge effort, she rolled onto her back. A pimpled boy stood bent over her. His expression wavered between concern and irritation. A chequered shirt and a green felt waistcoat completed his outfit. Formal wear.
“Was that you whistling?” he asked.
The back protector riding up her neck, or something under her ski helmet, blocked her from shaking her head. The goggles. They had slid down in front and almost choked her. She groaned again. Warm light shone out of a glass door onto the porch where she lay. A wreath of holly and red berries hung above gold-etched text and a row of stars. Tessa knew she recognized the door, but the letters kept slipping out of focus, and the four, or maybe five, golden stars danced. Where had the hole in the snow gone?
