Wild Moose Chase

by Siobhan Rowden

  He began to stroke a quivering Monty. Cam’s eyes swivelled towards Bert before returning to Mr Zola.

  “Ours were fatally injured in an annual cheese-rolling competition,” she said, gently. “They were chasing a round cheese down a very steep hill. It can reach speeds of up to seventy miles per hour. Our parents were very competitive and determined to catch the cheese first. Unfortunately they collided. The coroner’s verdict was ‘death by cheese’.”

  They all stared at the floor of the balloon.

  “But our Gramps looks after us now,” said Bert. “He’s the best cheese farmer in the country and he sent us on this competition … sort of.”

  “What happened to your mum or dad?” asked Cam.

  Mr Zola pulled a lace hanky from his man-bag and dabbed his eyes. “My poor papa was also the Royal Cheesemaker – one of those who died on a moose cheese quest.”

  The twins gasped.

  “Our most royal and noble Queen has desired a moose cheese for a long time,” he sniffed. “It is the rarest of the rare; a delicacy beyond most people’s grasp. My father died trying to milk a wild moose. It turned out to be a bull and he was killed by a single kick to the head. I never knew my mother, so I was brought up in the royal household.”

  He blew his nose on the lacy hanky and stuffed it back in his man-bag. “I’m afraid it’s left me with a fear of mooses. I mean, a fear of meese. I mean, a … what do I mean?”

  Cam put her arm around him and gave him a pat on the back. “I know exactly what you mean – moose,” she said. “How are you going to cope in Siberia? What if you bump into one?”

  “I plan to watch from afar,” he said, holding up the telescope. “I can still let Her Majesty know what’s going on without going near one of the beasts.”

  “We could help you if you like,” said Bert. “We’re always happy to help out a fellow cheese-orphan, aren’t we, Cam?”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  “I work alone,” said Mr Zola. “Apart from Monty, of course.”

  “Monty’s looking a lot calmer now,” said Cam. “I think he’s getting used to us… Please can we register, Mr Zola? Here’s the letter of consent from our grandpa.”

  She handed him the golden leaflet. Mr Zola frowned and read the fake note written on the back. He hesitated for a moment before pulling out a rolled-up scroll from his man-bag.

  “This is highly irregular,” he said, “but your story has moved me. I suppose I could make an exception for those who have also suffered at the hands of cheese. Besides, I can’t afford to waste any more time.”

  Mr Zola scanned the note again.

  “So, just to double check – as legal guardian, your grandfather gives his permission for you to take part in the Great Moose Cheese Chase – correct?”

  “He does,” murmured Cam, glancing anxiously at Bert.

  “He will,” he whispered.

  Mr Zola ticked a box. “Sign here, please.”

  He unrolled the scroll of paper. It had a long list of names. The twins looked at each other with a mix of terror and excitement before signing their names at the bottom.

  “I’m logging you in the Cheesemaker-Locator under CT for ‘Curd Twins’,” he said, tapping the screen of the tracking device attached to his wrist. “Here is your transmitter.”

  He handed Cam a tiny moose-shaped locator. “These allow me to keep tabs on everyone’s progress. I plan to keep abreast with the leaders and report back to the Queen.”

  “Where’s mine?” asked Bert. “We want to enter as separate competitors. How do you even know we’re twins?”

  Mr Zola raised his eyebrows. “It’s quite obvious,” he sighed. “You look just like each other.”

  Cam and Bert both gasped in horror.

  “There’s no need to be rude,” spluttered Bert.

  Mr Zola shook his head and continued tapping the Cheesemaker-locator. “I can enter you separately if you wish,” he said. “BC for Bert and CC for Camilla.”

  Bert nodded and accepted his transmitter.

  “Why aren’t you making a moose cheese?” he asked, clipping it to his pocket. “After all, you’re the Royal Cheesemaker.”

  “Nobody from the royal household is allowed to take part,” he explained. “It would be unfair. Besides, I have the most important job of all. The Queen has entrusted me to return home with the first person who gets all the ingredients. Then I will make sure that the moose cheese is made to Her Highness’s exact requirements. Ultimately, I am the only cheesemaker she trusts.”

  “You don’t get much of the glory, though, do you?” said Bert. “Don’t you want to be a lord? And what about the prize money?”

  “Some things are worth more than money, young man. The look on my beloved sovereign’s face when she bites into that moose cheese will be reward enough for me.”

  Cam took a deep breath as the balloon dipped in the wind. She looked over the basket for the first time. There were clouds below and she couldn’t see the ground. She felt the butterflies rise in her stomach and shivered.

  “I’ve got a feeling I’m going to win,” she sighed. “I’m good at making cheese. Last year I was runner-up in the Junior Cheddar Championships.”

  “Yes, runner-up!” cried Bert. “You didn’t win then and you’re not going to win now. I am.”

  “I am!”

  “I am!”

  “I—”

  “Stop that!” interrupted Mr Zola. “Monty’s bristles are extremely noise-sensitive. He gets very agitated, and believe me, you don’t want to see him when he’s angry.”

  He got to his feet and opened the big wooden chest.

  “Here,” he said, throwing them two fur-lined jackets. “You’ll need coats where we’re going.”

  They were too big, but lovely and warm. Mr Zola pulled a long black coat around his own shoulders.

  “Now, I have to report back to the Queen, so keep quiet. I don’t want her knowing that I’ve acquired a couple of stowaways.”

  He produced a red mobile phone from his man-bag and pushed a button.

  “Your Majesty,” he simpered. “May I say how glorious and radiant you are sounding this evening? I trust you had a good helicopter flight back to the palace?” There was a pause as he listened to the reply. “…And your parachute opened OK? … Did your corgi enjoy the tandem jump? … Jolly good show, ma’am… Well, there’s not much to report as yet. Several groups of cheesemakers have set off already and I should make Russia by tomorrow morning.”

  The twins pulled their coats around them and looked up at the sky.

  “I’ve got butterflies in my tummy,” whispered Cam.

  Bert nodded. “I’ve got golden eagles in mine,” he muttered.

  It was hard to believe, but they were going to Siberia. They were officially part of the Great Moose Cheese Chase.

  St Basil’s Cathedral

  After spending the night floating across the north European sky under the fur rug, the twins were jolted awake by a loud crash. Their blanket was thrown off and they toppled over each other, landing on top of a sleepy Mr Zola.

  “Watch the whiskers,” he grunted, pushing the twins off.

  The basket was tilting at a worrying angle. They all looked up into the dawn sky to see the flame above the gas canister had gone out and the huge Crown Balloon was slowly deflating.

  “The fire’s out!” screamed Mr Zola. “We’re going to crash!”

  “But we’re not moving,” said Bert, getting to his feet. “And look, we’re surrounded by other hot air balloons.”

  Right beside the basket were the tops of several large domes. They looked like giant onions, each with a bulbous middle tapering smoothly to a point. They were beautifully ornate. Some were dotted with gold, green and crimson, and others were striped yellow and green, or blue and white.

&nb
sp; “Why aren’t we plummeting to our deaths?” asked Mr Zola, clutching his smelling salts in one hand and Monty in the other.

  Cam peeped over the edge of the basket. “These aren’t balloons,” she gasped. “They’re the tops of towers. We’ve crashed into an enormous building.”

  Bert and Mr Zola joined Cam and looked down at the city below.

  “I do believe that we have landed in Red Square, Moscow,” announced Mr Zola, inhaling deeply from his smelling salts. “And we are dangling precariously from St Basil’s Cathedral. We must have blown off course last night.”

  “Where’s Moscow?” asked Bert.

  “It’s the capital of Russia,” said Cam.

  “Know-it-all,” muttered Bert.

  “And St Basil’s Cathedral is the jewel in Moscow’s crown,” continued Cam. “It was built on the city’s geometric centre, four hundred and fifty years ago, by Ivan the Terrible.”

  “Well, he wasn’t terrible at building cathedrals,” said Bert. “It’s amazing.”

  “B-beautiful it may be,” stuttered Mr Zola. “But how are we going to get down? We must be at least fifty metres off the ground.”

  Bert felt his stomach tighten as he looked over the edge. He wasn’t scared of heights and he knew Cam wasn’t either. But if anything happened to them, then Gramps would be left on his own and the farm could be lost. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

  “How many ties has this balloon got?” he asked, picking up one of the red satin ropes that secured the balloon to the ground.

  “Four,” replied Mr Zola. “But please don’t tell me you’re thinking of climbing down St Basil’s on a rope.”

  “No, not climb.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  “Abseil!”

  Mr Zola’s eyes widened and his hands flew up to his moustache.

  “Monty doesn’t like heights,” he said in a small voice.

  Cam looked down at the ground below, a small gasp escaping from her diagonal mouth.

  “OK,” she said slowly. “We’ve got to get down somehow. I’ll need some of that rope to make harnesses.”

  Bert began to cut the other three ropes and tie them securely together.

  “It’s all right, Mr Zola,” he said. “Once we’ve got the ropes all fitted, there should only be about a seven-metre drop to the ground – about the same as the first storey of a house.”

  There was a thump as Mr Zola’s legs buckled.

  “He needs those smelling salts tied around his neck,” whispered Cam.

  Eventually the long single rope was lowered over the basket and the three of them stood with their makeshift harnesses around their waists.

  “Don’t be scared, Mr Zola,” said Cam, patting him encouragingly on the back. “Bert and I do lots of climbing and abseiling where we live in Cheddar Gorge.”

  “I’m f-fine,” stammered Mr Zola. “It’s M-Monty I’m worried about.”

  The twins exchanged a look before Bert climbed out of the basket.

  “We’re going to have to use an old-fashioned method of abseiling,” he said. “You have to wrap your harness around the top of your legs and waist to make a seat and firmly tie it to the main rope. The friction between the two ropes should stop you falling. Then, lean back and gently ease yourself down, using your legs to bounce off the walls. I’ll go first as I’m the best abseiler.”

  “You are not!” snapped Cam. “I’m best, I should go first.”

  She tried to climb over Bert but he wouldn’t let her pass.

  “I’m going first! This was my idea,” yelled Bert.

  There was an awkward scuffle and the basket lurched dangerously to one side, knocking Mr Zola off his feet.

  “Stop fighting!” he screamed. “Camilla, you must go last. I need to be in the middle of you both. Now, let’s get going before Monty changes his mind!”

  They set off down the rope, Bert first, followed by Mr Zola and Cam last. The wind whistled through their hair. Nobody dared to look down. The rope swayed from side to side, knocking them against the cathedral wall. It was hard work and their hands were sore. About halfway along, the basket above them jolted and slipped down. Cam lost her grip and slid down the rope, bumping against the top of Mr Zola’s head.

  “You clumsy oaf,” he squawked. “The situation is bad enough without you squashing my cheese hat.”

  Just then, the red phone in Mr Zola’s man-bag started to play “God Save the Queen”.

  “I don’t believe it,” he spluttered. “It’s her!”

  He carefully pulled out the phone with one hand while gripping tightly to the rope with the other.

  “Your Majesty… Yes, everything is fine,” he said, looking down at the lethal drop below him. “I’m just … hanging around in Moscow… The Crown Balloon, ma’am? … Erm, I need to talk to you about that… Yes, of course… I will be there as soon as possible … no more delays … goodbye, ma’am.”

  He replaced the phone. “I’ve got to get to Siberia immediately,” he said. “But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the Crown Balloon just yet. She’s going to be furious.”

  “There’s nothing you can do about it now,” said Cam. “Let’s just get to the ground. I can feel the basket wobbling above us. It doesn’t feel very safe.”

  Mr Zola closed his eyes and clung tightly to his rope. “You’re scaring Monty,” he whimpered.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” called Bert from below. “Only twenty-five per cent of all climbing deaths happen while abseiling.”

  “THAT’S NOT HELPING!” screamed Mr Zola.

  After spending several minutes urging Mr Zola to loosen his grip, they slowly continued their descent of St Basil’s Cathedral. The twins marvelled at the intricate patterns made by the red brickwork and the shiny globes that topped the numerous domes like golden cherries. They caught glimpses of bright mosaics through the narrow windows and called to Mr Zola to open his eyes and look. But he kept them tightly shut the whole way.

  “We’re nearly at the bottom,” shouted Bert, after several minutes. “And it looks like we’ve got a welcoming committee.”

  Cam looked down to see that a small crowd had gathered below. She could hear them chattering in Russian. Suddenly, one of the crowd screamed and pointed up at the cathedral. Cam heard a rumble and felt the rope go slack. She looked up to see the golden basket slip from its mooring. But before she could gather her thoughts, she dropped like a sack of potatoes.

  Moose Fleas

  Cam opened her eyes. It was pitch black. A dull ache drifted up her legs, but luckily it felt like she had landed on something soft. She reached beneath her to see what it was. Her hand touched something warm and hairy.

  “Lay off the lip warmer,” said a voice.

  “Mr Zola! Are you all right?”

  The basket that covered them began to tip up and light came streaming in. Cam found herself sitting on top of Mr Zola, who was laid out flat on his back. Bert, helped by several people, was pushing the basket over.

  “Cam!” he shouted. “You’re OK!”

  “Yes,” she said, “but I’m not sure about Mr Zola. What happened?”

  “We were closer to the ground than I thought,” said Bert. “I managed to dive out of the way when the basket fell on top of you two. Thank goodness it landed upside down.”

  Mr Zola groaned and sat up. “I’m OK,” he moaned. “But I think Monty might have broken a bristle. Someone call an ambulance.”

  “Monty looks fine,” said Cam. “But listen. I can hear sirens. Someone must have called an ambulance already.”

  The wailing of the siren got louder and the excited crowd opened up to let the vehicle through. But it wasn’t an ambulance. It was a car with the white, blue and red flag of Russia emblazoned on the bonnet and the word POLITSIYA underneath. A blue and orange li
ght flashed on the roof.

  “It’s the police,” said Mr Zola, staggering to his feet. “Let me handle this; my Russian is pretty good.”

  Two officers got out of the car dressed in light blue shirts and large caps with red bands round the middle. A woman from the crowd stepped forward. She was talking quickly in Russian, pointing up at St Basil’s Cathedral and then at the twins and the basket. Mr Zola stepped between them and cleared his throat. He was still wearing his cheese hat, although it was crumpled and covered in dust. He started speaking Russian. There were lots of pauses and “um”s and “er”s but the twins thought he was doing very well. The police officers were frowning as they listened and occasionally glanced over at the twins and then at each other. One of them held his hand up for Mr Zola to stop talking and approached the children.

  “Are you OK?” he asked, in a thick Russian accent.

  “Yes,” said the twins together.

  “My name is Officer Sergei and I speak a little English.”

  He gestured to Mr Zola. “Your father is mad, no?”

  “He isn’t our father,” said Cam.

  “But he is mad,” added Bert.

  “He tell us he make fleas for the Queen of England and she has sent him on a mission to find a moose flea. Is this correct?”

  “No,” cried Bert. “It’s cheese – moose cheese.”

  “Ah,” said Officer Sergei, looking Mr Zola up and down. “He also claims to have pet moustache.”

  “I’m afraid that’s correct,” sighed Cam.

  “I did not say ‘pet’,” gasped Mr Zola. “He is my friend and loyal companion.”

  Officer Sergei shook his head and pulled out some handcuffs.

  “OK, I have heard enough about moose fleas and friendly moustaches,” he said. “I take you to police station for questioning. You enter my country illegally and may have damaged our precious cathedral. The children will come too.”

  “What?” screeched Mr Zola. “But I’m telling the truth! We are part of the Great Moose Cheese Chase. The Queen has cleared our arrival in Siberia with your president.”

  “This is not Siberia,” stated Officer Sergei, fastening a handcuff to Mr Zola’s wrist.