by H. S. Norup
“You can’t lie in front of the hotel entrance.”
Wasn’t he the big brother of someone in her class? A trainee waiter?
He glanced inside, then back at Tessa before he opened the door. Bells tinkled. “Harry! Hey, Harry!”
Her head hurt. Perhaps she’d bumped it when she tumbled into that hole. But how did she get to the village? She remembered being trapped in the snow, desperate to escape, then misty fumes, like dry-ice, surrounding her, and now she lay here as if by magic.
“Harry,” the waiter called through the open door. “You know all the ski kids, right?”
Why had he asked if she whistled? The barbegazi had whistled, long before she landed in the hole. The barbegazi. She’d seen one, hadn’t she? It was real, wasn’t it? How else had she escaped? She closed her eyes, recalling the details. The beady eyes, set deep in the thick fur. The tangled beard snaking round one of the three-fingered hands. If only she’d seen the feet. The barbegazi had said something. Something she understood…
“Tessa!” Someone in white, with a floor-length black apron, squatted and shook her. “Are you all right? What happened?” Uncle Harry propped her up.
Her head spun. “I crashed…”
“Tell Mick to mind the mushroom soup. I’ll take Tessa home. Won’t be more than ten minutes.”
“Yes, chef.” The waiter disappeared, to the jingle of bells.
“Is Susi or Aunt Gertrude home?” Uncle Harry tugged at the goggles and pulled them up onto her helmet.
The dense fog in her brain cleared.
“Oma’s always home,” she said.
Where was the barbegazi? Did something move among the fir trees at the far side of the parking lot just now? Falling lumps of wet snow obstructed her view.
“What are you looking for?” Uncle Harry was following her gaze.
“The… My skis.” It wasn’t even a lie. Where were her skis? The poles, her new World Cup Lekis, stood in the snow below the porch.
“I can see something.” Uncle Harry ran across the parking lot and came back carrying her skis, or rather, what used to be her skis. “What on earth did you do to them?”
Tessa blinked. Was she seeing double? No, both skis had been broken almost in half behind the binding. Only the metal edges held the halves together. Ragged wood splinters peeked out between the waxed black bottom and the enamelled top. Her new Atomic skis, ruined.
She slumped, sliding sideways.
In a haze, Uncle Harry drove her home. Afterwards, he helped Oma upstairs so she could watch Tessa until Mum came. He thought Tessa might have a concussion. Tessa thought he might be right.
She lay on the sofa all evening, dozing and humming a song that was stuck in her head, while Oma sat in the armchair with her crossword puzzle. Every time Tessa fell asleep, Oma woke her, just in case, like you’re supposed to with concussions.
“I should be taking care of you,” Tessa mumbled, but Oma just smiled and fetched water and cool cloths. Perhaps she was better at fussing over someone than being made a fuss of.
“The barbegazi must’ve carried me,” Tessa said, when she began to feel less woozy, and asked if Oma believed she’d seen one.
“Of course, dear,” Oma replied.
But would anyone else? They hadn’t believed Opa. Not even Mum, who’d been away at hotelier school at the time. “Why didn’t Opa care that no one believed him?”
Oma shrugged. “He’d have been just as sceptical if he hadn’t seen the barbegazi with his own eyes.”
Later, Mum rushed in the door, calling, “How is she? How are you, Mum? Are you both okay?”
She ran to the sofa, seizing Tessa, saying how sorry she was, how she would’ve come earlier—the restaurant wasn’t even busy—but she’d forgotten her phone in the car and only seen Harry’s message when she was on her way home.
“My darling girl,” Mum said, over and over again. Her fussing was frantic compared to Oma’s, but Tessa leant into the hard embrace.
Oma and Mum whispered for a long time in the hallway before Mum helped Oma downstairs.
“Could I have some hot chocolate, Mum?” Tessa sat up, discarding the wool blanket. The song in her head had stopped and the red digits on the oven, 23:41, didn’t wiggle any more. Everything seemed normal, except her journey from the snow, which remained a blur. And, of course, the barbegazi.
Mum brought her a steaming cup with a thick layer of whipped cream on top. She still wore her ankle-length dirndl costume—the waitress uniform—and she sat at the other end of the sofa, kneading her temples, without speaking for a while.
“So you fell into a hole in Schöngraben, got rescued by a fairy who delivered you to Hotel Lawinenfang, but ruined your brand new skis. That about right?” Mum finally said, in a matter-of-fact tone.
Tessa stirred her drink and nodded. “Barbegazi are actually not fairies—”
“I don’t know where to start, Tessa…” Mum snatched the blanket from the floor and began folding it. “This obsession of yours has to stop. In what fantasy world would you ever be allowed to ski through Schöngraben alone? If that’s what you did. And how could you ruin your skis? Your father sent money for those, and you know I can’t afford—” She scrunched the blanket into a ball and threw it back onto the floor. “Perhaps I shouldn’t let you ski at all, if you can’t keep even the simplest rules. You never ski off-piste alone. Never.”
Mum’s voice had changed from shrill to choked, and she leant forward, placing her face in her hands.
“I’m sorry,” Tessa mumbled. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Promise me…” Mum straightened and turned to look Tessa in the eyes. “I want you to promise to never ski off-piste without adult supervision again.”
Tessa hesitated. She had found a barbegazi. It wasn’t something she’d imagined. But how would she ever find it again without skiing off-piste on her own?
In a tiny voice, she said, “I promise.”
—11—
Gawion drew a breath of relief. The tall human who had fetched the broken wooden feet had looked so much like the berry-human that he had almost shown himself. At the last moment, he wondered at its lack of beard and noticed how it resembled the berry-human of decades ago, not the berry-human he had seen last winter.
The two humans disappeared in a vehicle, with a loud roar. All human mechanical inventions polluted the mountain silence: the wheeled vehicles, the contraptions for transportating humans up the snow-covered slopes, and, worst of all, the flying vehicles topped with rotating metal blades.
Sometimes, after avalanches, those machines flew above Schöngraben, close to the cave, making a whirlwind of powder snow. They scared Gawion. Maeg too, although she liked it when they dropped explosive devices to blast snow cornices and release avalanches. The loud bangs scared him even more, though he had not told Maeg. Life had been easier when the humans used horses and carts, and stayed away from the high mountains.
Gawion had not been so close to the village in decades, and he stared transfixed at the imposing human dwelling, while he inched backwards through the rows of fir trees. Nearby, dogs bayed.
Another vehicle arrived. Its light beams lit up the trees and millions of snowflakes. Gawion froze, standing immobile as a glacier. Two majestic firs cast long shadows beside him, but only a sapling grew between him and the vehicle. A dog barked somewhere. Turn off the lights, he prayed. Doors slammed, and human voices moved away. The lights still shone.
“You forgot the headlights again,” a deep voice said.
One human returned to the vehicle. It stared right at him and said, “What is that?”
“Rrroowff! Rrroowff!” In one fluid motion, Gawion turned, got down on all fours, pretending to be a dog, barked and bolted. He kicked and shoved with his legs, sweeping piles of snow over the imprints of his long feet.
Howls and baying answered him, but he did not stop until pine branches slapped against him, blurring his vision, in the forest.
“Rooooowf,�
�� a bark greeted him from not far behind. It translated into: “What’s up, mate?”, and a large dog slunk towards him.
Gawion panted, trying to catch his breath. He wanted to hide—dogs were as bad as humans—but he could not run any more. His own barks had been a survival instinct, born by the background noise of baying dogs. He realized now that he had barked, “Help. The humans are after me.” Or something like that. He was uncertain of the local dialect, and, though elves spoke all languages, Dog was a whole new snowball game. Intonation played a key role. Meaning changed depending on where in the throat the sounds were initiated. Barbegazi necks are nearly invisible, so Gawion had little to work with. As did many dog races. Not this one though. Its long, broad neck rippled with thick folds of short-haired, tree-trunk-coloured fur.
“You okay?” the dog asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Rraaooooo.” The dog howled from deep in its throat. “Situation under control. Relax,” rang out across the valley.
A chorus of distant yaps answered.
“Call me Brownie,” the dog barked. It sat next to Gawion, stuck its pink tongue out and panted.
“Gawion.”
“Are you one of those fancy dog types? I’m a Labrador myself.” Brownie studied him with kind, starless-night eyes. They were glazed over, and Gawion got the distinct feeling Brownie’s eyesight was poor. “Haven’t seen anyone quite like you before.” The neck stretched, growing even longer. A wet nose nuzzled him. Brownie sniffed. “Hmmm. Your scent is odd.”
The wet dog stench overpowered Gawion, who leant away. He only knew the names of two dog types: Rottweilers and bloodhounds. The dogs that hunted innocent creatures. Maman’s recollections of those horrifying monsters, chasing them as they escaped the zoological garden at Schönbrunn, gave him daymares, and he hoped he would never meet either.
“Have you no humans?” he asked, to distract Brownie. The village dogs he had seen from a distance were tied up or fenced in by their humans.
“Yeah, but I’m a free spirit. I go home when I need food and a warm hearth.”
Gawion sighed. He longed for the morning, when he might curl up in front of the ice cooler. His sigh must have meant more in Dog, because Brownie turned his half-blind eyes towards him again, and said, “What’s the problem, mate?”
“I fear humans have abducted my sister. I am searching for her.”
“Does she smell anything like you?” Brownie snuffled again.
“I suppose so.” Gawion did not know how to describe that sweet scent of thawing spring snow, in any language except his own.
“I’ll have a sniff around. Ask my mates.”
“Thanks.”
“Meet you here tomorrow night,” Brownie barked, and he padded off back towards the village.
No matter what Maman said about dogs, Gawion was not afraid of this creature. Perhaps he had even found a friend in the village. Someone he could trust.
He lifted his beard and sniffed where Brownie’s nose had nuzzled him. Yuck! After rubbing it clean and rolling in the snow, he still stank of wet dog. If he did not get rid of the odour before morning, he would be in an avalanche of trouble.
FROM HABITS & HABITATS: A HISTORIC ACCOUNT OF ALPINE ELVES BY PROFES SOR, DR EBERHART LUDWIG FRITZ BAHNE
Hardly any information exists about the barbegazi’s diet, but snow and ice doubtless feature high on their dietary plan.
However, when captured barbegazi were given ice cubes, it rarely sustained them for more than a few weeks. Experiments with feeding them moss, pine needles and cooked or raw alpine meats were equally unsuccessful in keeping the barbegazi alive.
WEDNESDAY, 28TH DECEMBER
—12—
Tessa dreamt about skiing and snow and barbegazi, waking often to untangle her sheets. Once, she woke with a pounding heart and vivid dream images.
In the dream, she had skied through a hole into an upside-down world, where loud music blasted from invisible speakers. A giant furry creature had taken her skis and bent them into circles. “Round as a berry,” it said, and smacked its unseen lips. Then it shrank—or she grew—and the creature, now clearly a barbegazi, said, “Have a blueberry, Tessa.” It threw a turquoise berry the size of a watermelon towards her. Tessa opened her mouth, which expanded, to catch the berry. When she swallowed, the world spun again, the music stopped, and she stood in the hole in Schöngraben, looking up at the barbegazi. It said, “Have you brought the berry gift?”
The berry gift. That’s what the barbegazi had said. She remembered now.
The wooden beams of the roof creaked. She tried to imagine herself back in the hole, the barbegazi above her, instead of the ceiling, asking, “Have you brought the berry gift?” The words had been spoken in a clear, high-pitched voice. Definitely real, she thought, before she slipped into another dream.
When Tessa woke, bright winter light shone through a gap in the curtains. Mum had let her sleep in. The ski club would be training now. She wished she were there, racing, cold air prickling her skin. Then she remembered her ruined skis and pulled the duvet over her head, shutting out the light.
The berry gift! She jumped out of bed and grabbed the black book on top of her piled-up school books. Opening it, she flipped to the barbegazi chapter and skimmed the pages. The book contained interesting information about barbegazi fur and feet and iron cages, but no references to berries or gifts.
While she ate a late breakfast, she mulled over the mysterious berry gift. Mum was at home, folding laundry. She scolded Tessa for skiing off-piste alone, and nagged her about remembering to “live in the real world”. Tessa only half-listened and nodded whenever Mum paused.
“Oma’s dusting her cupboards and bookcases this afternoon,” Mum said. “I offered to do it, now that I’m taking the day off anyway, but she wants to do it herself.”
Tessa looked up. “That’s good, right?”
Mum shrugged. “I just hope it’s not too much for her. Perhaps she’ll let you help.”
“Okay,” Tessa said. “She can’t do the top shelves herself.” She didn’t need to add that Opa used to do those—Mum’s eyes became glassy before she turned away, nodding.
Later, standing on the ladder, she wiped dust from Opa’s trophies. On the biggest, a prize from the Austrian downhill championships more than forty years ago, an inset of shiny, red crystals—Tessa used to think they were rubies—sparkled like redcurrants after rain. Her thoughts wandered to the barbegazi dream.
Oma swept the duster over the grandfather clock. She appeared to have even more energy than last night. It seemed safe to ask.
“Did Opa ever mention a berry gift?”
“Him and his berries. The freezer’s so full of berries, I could hardly find room for the Tupperware of leftover goulash soup.” Oma dusted the long pendulum of the clock, and it skipped a few beats. “For years I suspected he gave them to Mrs Huber. The Hubers never had much, and after she was widowed… She was his childhood sweetheart, you know.”
In a flash, Tessa thought of old Mrs Huber—brandishing her walking stick, her mouth tugged down in a constant look of disapproval.
Sniffing, Oma pulled an embroidered handkerchief out of her sleeve. After drying her eyes, she muttered, “I didn’t speak to her for decades.”
“But he gave them to the barbegazi?”
“Of course he did. And to the very last he spoke about it. ‘Remember the berries on the twenty-first of December’ he said, ‘Remember to tell Tessa—’” Oma let her hand with the duster fall. “What date is it, dear?”
“It’s after Christmas.”
“Oh, Ohhhh…” Oma drew the sigh out. Like a balloon leaking air, she deflated and sank into the squishy armchair.
Alarmed, Tessa jumped down from the ladder.
Oma’s face had turned quite white. Tiny beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. “I promised him,” she whispered, clutching her chest, her breathing becoming ragged.
“Oma! Shall I get Mum? Your pills? Call t
he doctor?”
“Fe- fetch. Su- Susi. Pills,” Oma stuttered, and Tessa ran up the stairs, calling for her mother.
Tessa helped Mum get Oma wrapped in her coat and out into the car. Before she closed the passenger door, she hugged Oma and whispered in her ear, “Don’t worry. I’ll bring the berries to the barbegazi,” but she wasn’t sure Oma heard.
—13—
The moment Gawion slid into the cave, on his belly, he regretted coming home. Maman screeched, Papa bellowed his name and Liel, scared of the noise, wailed, her nose turning glacier-blue. Papa whistled one of those whistles that is audible ten kilometres away in the right wind conditions. Gawion rose, edging back, until he stood against the snow wall.
“THE VILLAGE!” Papa bellowed. “HAVE I NOT TOLD YOU”—he paused to inhale—“under no circumstances, to get within a hundred barbegazi feet of the human dwellings?”
Gawion opened his mouth to speak, but Maman beat him to it.
“How could you? We are already worried sick about Maeg.”
“But—”
“What is this?” Maman sniffed, then she pushed Papa aside—no mean feat—and strode towards Gawion. He forced himself not to duck. She snuffled with her large nose. “Your stench. That is not dog, is it?”
“DOG?” In one leap, Papa had landed on his other side, thrusting his boulder of a nose into Gawion’s beard. Both of them sniffed at him as if they were dogs themselves, reminding him of Brownie. Gawion pressed his lips together to stop an improper urge to laugh.
“For the love of snow, tell me you have not been consorting with dogs.” Maman spoke softly, her tone pleading. It wiped his sense of amusement away. He would have preferred it if she had screeched.
