Wild Moose Chase

by Siobhan Rowden

  “Yeah, rainbow,” said Bert, bringing a huge rolling pin smashing down on top of it.

  CRASH!

  Fragments of salt flew across the table as the crystal splintered into hundreds of pieces.

  “Bert!” cried Cam. “You’re such a gorilla!”

  He gave the remaining piece of salt another big bash.

  “We haven’t got time for all this ooh isn’t it beautiful rubbish,” he said. “Once we’ve added the milk and rennet, we have to let the curds separate from the whey and then we’ve got to mature it overnight. I bet Primula Mold is nearly home. She could still beat us.”

  Cam marched past him to the range. “You do the salt then,” she muttered, getting a steel pan down from the wall. “I’ll get everything else ready.”

  An hour passed. Bert had finished breaking up the salt and was scraping every last grain off the table into a bowl. Cam anxiously fiddled with a large wooden spoon.

  “Where are they?” she said.

  “I bet Gramps is still furious,” replied Bert. “He’s going to take a lot of persuading. I’ll go and see what’s going on.”

  But just as he reached the door, Mr Zola came bursting through. He was very wet and his jacket was torn. Monty was a tangled mess and drooped sadly down his chin.

  “What’s happened?” cried Bert. “Where’s Gramps?”

  “Don’t worry, everything is fine,” panted Mr Zola. “We finally have your grandfather’s consent, so can continue making the moose cheese.”

  “Where is he?” asked Cam. “Was he angry?”

  “Yes he was,” said Mr Zola. “But when he found out that you were en route to winning the competition he soon changed his mind. He even took me down to the caves of Cheddar Gorge to show me a good place to mature the moose cheese overnight. That’s why I’m in such a state. All this rain has made everything very wet and I slipped whilst trying to climb back up, ripped my clothes and terrified poor Monty. Your grandfather is still down there arranging some of his own cave-aged cheddars. He said to meet him there when the moose cheese is finished. How’s the salt looking?”

  He walked over to the table and ran his fingers through the ground salt.

  “Doesn’t Gramps want to come and help make it?” asked Bert, his face falling.

  “No,” replied Mr Zola. “He said he would leave it to me because I know how Her Majesty likes it. Now let’s get going. We haven’t got much time. That salt is perfect, well done. We’ll need seven cups of milk to make a good-sized cheese. Have we got that much?”

  “Just,” said Cam, measuring it out into the steel pan.

  “Next, heat the moose milk very gradually to sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. It must be precise. The production of moose cheese is an exact science. Any hotter, any colder, and it will be ruined. Do you understand?”

  “Of course I do,” said Cam, stirring it gently with the wooden spoon. “I know how to make cheese. I was Junior Cheddar Champion, remember?”

  “Runner-up!” corrected Bert, grabbing a thermometer.

  “Moose cheese has to be perfect,” said Mr Zola. “There’s no room for mistakes.”

  Cam continued stirring while Bert checked the temperature.

  “OK,” he said after a couple of minutes, “we’re up to temp in five, four, three, two, one!”

  “Right, add the salt,” barked Mr Zola. “Three level teaspoons. Make sure they’re level! Keep stirring! Not too fast! Not too slow! Don’t stop!”

  Cam glanced up at Mr Zola as she stirred the milk. His face was flushed and Monty was fluttering so rapidly, there was a slight breeze.

  “Now, for the rennet,” cried Mr Zola. “I’ll do this bit.”

  A bead of sweat trickled from his forehead and fell on to the stove, narrowly missing the moose-cheese mix.

  “If you two could just leave me alone for a moment,” he said, grabbing the wooden spoon from Cam. “I need to concentrate.”

  “But you haven’t got any rennet,” said Cam. “I have.”

  Mr Zola stopped stirring for a moment and stared at her.

  “Yes … yes, of course you have,” he said. “Well, hand it over.”

  Cam reached into her inside pocket and gave him the small ceramic pot.

  “Off you go, then,” he said, slipping it into his own pocket.

  The twins hesitated at the door.

  “But I want to help you add the rennet,” said Bert.

  “It’s just a brown liquid,” replied Mr Zola. “Nothing that you haven’t seen before. Go on, you’re putting me off already. Remember, this cheese has to be made to the Queen’s exact taste and she’s very fussy about her rennet. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  Cam and Bert wandered out of the kitchen, shutting the door behind them.

  “Strange,” said Cam. “He couldn’t get rid of us quick enough.”

  She grabbed hold of Bert’s arm, making him jump in the air.

  “Bert!” she cried. “What if he’s planning to steal our cheese?”

  The Cave

  Bert clenched his fists and turned back towards the kitchen. “He’d better not,” he fumed.

  “Wait,” said Cam. “Let’s spy on him through the keyhole.”

  The twins jostled for position outside the door.

  “He’ll hear us,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you what’s happening.”

  She bent down and put her eye to the hole in the lock. Mr Zola was fumbling around in his jacket pocket. He had his back to them so Cam couldn’t see his face. Eventually he pulled out two pots, stared at them and returned one to his pocket.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s getting the rennet out of his pocket,” said Cam. “Now he’s adding one, two, three teaspoons. He’s stirring the pan—”

  Bert nudged Cam out of the way. “Let me see,” he said, bending his head to the keyhole. “He’s turned around. He’s laughing. He’s walking towards us – quick!”

  The twins jumped away from the door just as it was flung open.

  “All done!” said Mr Zola, a huge smile still spread across his face. “Now all we have to do is let it cool, separate the curds from the whey, press the curd into a round mould and leave to settle in a cold dark place… Is everything all right?”

  The twins looked guiltily up at him.

  “We thought you were going to steal our cheese,” admitted Bert.

  Mr Zola looked hurt. “My dear boy,” he said. “After everything we’ve been through together?”

  “Sorry,” mumbled Cam. “You just seemed a bit … you know … weird.”

  “That’s because I am a-bit-you-know-weird,” said Mr Zola. “I always get excited when I’m making cheese. Come along; let’s get cleaned up and have something to eat while we’re waiting for it to cool. It’s fine with your grandfather.”

  They made their way back to the farmhouse and all had a wash. The twins changed their dirty clothes before finding some bread and jam in the kitchen. When they returned to the dairy, thick clumps of cheese curd had formed in the pot on the range. Mr Zola ladled them out and pushed them into a round mould.

  “Have a sniff,” he said. “The sweet smell of moose cheese. The rarest cheese in the world. You may never get to see one again. Savour the moment.”

  The moose cheese looked amazing. It was a thick creamy yellow but speckled with tiny fragments of crystal that sparkled in the light, creating a warm glow all around it.

  “It looks like a UFO,” shouted Bert, excitedly.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Cam. “Can we taste a bit?”

  “No!” cried Mr Zola. “This is for the Queen, and the Queen alone.”

  “And Mr Grand-Fromage,” added Bert.

  “Yes, him too,” murmured Mr Zola. “Now, back to the cheddar caves to meet your grandfather. The moose cheese can mature ov
ernight and be ready for the State Banquet tomorrow, where you two will receive your titles.”

  It had taken all day to make the cheese and it was starting to get dark. The rain still fell heavily. The twins ran ahead of Mr Zola who covered the moose cheese with his coat. They scrambled down a steep path that led to the cheddar caves embedded in the gorge. Mr Zola pointed to a wide crack in the rock face.

  “Here we are,” he said. “I took the liberty of bringing a torch from the farmhouse.”

  The twins stopped short of the cave entrance.

  “That’s not the right one,” said Cam. “Gramps won’t be in there. We know these cliffs and caves. Gramps says never to go in that one. It’s connected to an underground river and can flood.”

  “I’m sure it was this one,” said Mr Zola. “Let me just check.”

  He stepped into the shallow cave. “You’re right, it’s not the one your grandfather showed me,” he called. “But it’s much better. It’s perfect! Exactly the right temperature and humidity for moose cheese – and look! We don’t have to go far in. There’s a high shelf just inside the opening.”

  The twins followed him inside and watched as he placed the moose cheese on a flat shelf of rock that jutted out high up on the wall.

  “It should be safe up there,” he said. “It’s only for a few hours.”

  “But Gramps said never to go in this cave,” insisted Bert.

  Mr Zola sighed and turned to face him. “I am the expert on where moose cheese should be matured, young man,” he said. “However, if it would make you feel better, we can investigate this underground river just in case. When we meet up with your grandfather we will double-check with him, OK?”

  He flashed the torch to the back of the cave. It was much longer than it first appeared. A narrow tunnel led deeper into the earth. Mr Zola made his way over and peered into it.

  “Whispering whiskers! There’s an opening at the end of this tunnel,” he said. “And look, I can just make out some stalactites hanging from the ceiling.”

  The twins followed him into the tunnel. They were curious, as it was one of the only caves that they hadn’t explored. They came out into an immense cavern. Mr Zola shone the torch along a huge tiered wall which was completely covered by a great cascade of multicoloured stalactites. Around the perimeter several colossal stalagmite pillars rose from the floor.

  “It’s like a cathedral,” whispered Cam.

  At the far end of the cavern a shallow pool reflected the jagged ceiling above.

  “See, there is water in here,” said Bert. “I think we should find another cave.” He turned to go but stopped in his tracks as a faint cry echoed through the cavern.

  “What was that?” he whispered.

  They all stopped.

  “Help!”

  “There it is again,” cried Cam. “Someone’s down here. HELLO?”

  Her voice rebounded off the walls.

  “Help!”

  “It’s coming from over here,” said Mr Zola, heading deeper into the cavern. “Stay close to me; we don’t want to get lost. Here, catch hold of this.” He threw a length of rope to Bert.

  “It’s from the helicopter,” he explained. “If I tie it round your wrist and then around Cam’s we won’t get separated. I’ll hang on to the other end.”

  They wound their way around the stalagmites protruding from the ground. The cavern narrowed the further along they went.

  “Help!”

  “It’s getting louder,” said Bert. “HOLD ON. WE’RE COMING.”

  They eventually reached a narrow alley.

  “You go first, Bert,” said Mr Zola. “I’ll shine the light from behind so that we can all see where we’re going.”

  They squeezed into the thin passage and edged their way along. Mr Zola’s torch lit up a small grotto at the end.

  “Over here,” called a familiar voice from the chamber.

  “Gramps!” yelled the twins together.

  They burst into the grotto to see Gramps tied to a rocky stalagmite.

  “Cam, Bert!” he shouted, his face lighting up. But it clouded over as Mr Zola followed them in.

  “No!” Gramps growled. “Not you!”

  Revenge

  (Twelve hours to go…)

  The twins turned to Mr Zola. His eyes were glowing and Monty was standing on end like a startled cat. He caught hold of the other end of the rope that was tying Cam and Bert together and quick as a flash looped it over a tall thin stalagmite.

  “Mr Zola!” screamed Cam as he jerked them against the rock. “What are you doing?”

  But he had already pulled the rope tight, securing the twins to the stalagmite. He looped the rope around their bodies, squeezing their backs against the hard rock.

  “Let us go!” yelled Bert, struggling furiously against the rope.

  “Leave them alone!” bellowed Gramps.

  “I’m sorry, old chap,” panted Mr Zola. He was sweating from the exertion of binding the twins. “But I want revenge!.”

  “What for?” cried Bert. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Not you, dear boy,” said Mr Zola. “It’s nothing personal, you understand.”

  He stood by the narrow exit and twiddled Monty back into place.

  “It’s the Queen,” he announced.

  The twins’ eyebrows simultaneously pinged to the top of their heads.

  “If you touch one quaffed hair on the royal head,” roared Gramps, “then I’ll … I’ll—”

  “Your threats won’t dissuade me,” interrupted Mr Zola. “I am going to avenge the death of my father. He died by moose and so shall she. My father was killed whilst trying to milk a moose to make cheese for the Queen. If it wasn’t for her then he would still be here. I’ve been waiting, biding my time, ingratiating myself into the royal circle, ready to take my revenge. When she announced this competition I knew it was my chance. All I had to do was stick with the leaders and make sure I was present when the cheese was prepared. While you two were racing those yaks, trying to win the rennet from the fourth stomach, I was obtaining the rennet from the third stomach.”

  “The poisonous one!” cried the twins together.

  “Deadly!” said Mr Zola, holding up a red pot with a black skull and crossbones on the label. “Protocol demands that the Queen has the first mouthful of moose cheese. She will then have approximately two point four seconds to live.”

  Mr Zola turned to go.

  “I knew you were up to something,” cried Gramps. “The moment you walked into the farmhouse and tried to persuade me to let the children make the moose cheese. That’s why I wouldn’t give my consent.”

  “You told us Gramps agreed,” gasped Bert.

  Mr Zola rolled his eyes. “I lied,” he said. “Your grandfather was still furious with you for entering the competition. He refused to allow you to take part. That would have ruined my plan and time was running out.”

  “I could sense you and your trumped-up moustache were up to no good,” shouted Gramps.

  Mr Zola looked furious. “Leave Monty out of this,” he snarled. “If you had given your permission then we wouldn’t be here now.”

  “If I’d said yes then we would have been blamed for the poisoned moose cheese,” spluttered Gramps.

  “Yes, it would have been perfect,” muttered Mr Zola. “But you had to say no. So I have to hide you away down here until the job is done. I shall tell the Queen that you have temporarily gone missing. She won’t have time to question me, as Monsieur Grand-Fromage will have arrived by then.”

  “You can’t keep us here!” cried Cam.

  “I’ll leave a torch,” said Mr Zola. “My argument is not with you, although you can be very annoying. I shall pass on a note to the authorities detailing your whereabouts. But by that time it will be too late to save the Queen, and
Monty and I will have escaped to Acapulco. Mexico is one of the top three moustache-dense countries of the world. We will blend in, never to be seen again.”

  Monty fluttered manically as Mr Zola laughed. “Farewell, dear cheese-urchins,” he said, disappearing into the narrow passage. “I don’t think I could have done it without you.”

  Cam looked over at Gramps, who was tied to the stalagmite next to theirs. She could just see his anxious face lit up by the torch left on a nearby boulder.

  “We’re sorry, Gramps,” she said. “This is all our fault.”

  “Yes,” muttered Bert. “Sorry.”

  “At least you’re safe,” sighed Gramps, “which is more than can be said for the Queen. How long have we got before the State Banquet on top of the gorge?”

  “It starts tomorrow morning,” replied Cam.

  “That gives us a bit of time,” said Gramps, pulling at the ropes that bound him. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They spent the next few hours wriggling their wrists, trying unsuccessfully to loosen the knots.

  “It’s impossible,” said Bert at last. “It’s really tight.”

  They all drooped against their ropes, exhausted from struggling.

  “I’m hungry,” said Bert.

  “And I’m thirsty,” added Cam. “So thirsty that I think I can actually hear running water.”

  “Me too,” murmured Gramps.

  “Me three,” whispered Bert.

  They all looked up towards the sound of trickling water. A round hole in the side of the cave was leaking a steady stream of crystal-clear liquid on to the cave floor.

  “Heaven help us,” cried Gramps. “It’s the underground river. All this rain has caused it to break its banks. We’re going to be flooded!”

  The Flood

  (Six hours to go…)

  The water from the underground river poured steadily out of the hole and down the wall. A small pool began to form directly underneath it. Gramps and the twins watched as a little trickle broke away from the main puddle and snaked towards them, circling their feet.

  “Looks like we haven’t got much time,” said Gramps, trying to keep his voice calm. The twins looked at him, fear darkening their faces.