The Snow Angel

by Lauren St. John

  For that reason, it was particularly distressing that on her first night in The Not-so-Great Escape, she had a new nightmare.

  In it, her parents were alive but just out of reach. Whenever she tried to touch them, they evaporated like mist.

  ‘Try harder, Makena,’ her mama kept saying. ‘Come closer so I can hug you. I miss you so much.’

  Makena brushed away tears and sat up in bed. She hated Scotland already. It was fit only for polar bears. Fancy Helen thinking Makena would have anything in common with her creepy dad – apart, that is, from him being a mountain guide like Baba. That was a weird coincidence. Other than that, she was a stranger in a strange house. The thought of being stuck in the middle of nowhere with Helen and Ray for weeks on end was too horrible for words. And yet what choice did she have?

  Would she ever again find a place she could call home?

  Secretly, she’d been looking forward to seeing Scotland. In a strange way, she thought it might make her feel nearer to Baba. He’d adored his Scottish clients and had always spoken of the Highlands as being uncannily like the heather zone of Mount Kenya. So far Makena had only viewed the landscape through a rain-splattered windscreen and in the white semi-circle of headlights, but she wasn’t seeing any resemblance. She’d expected snow, for one thing, but from what she could see it was just fold after fold of pewter-grey mountains and hills.

  She was having the same trouble with Helen. Now that she knew that the orphanage director had left Nairobi to be with her dying mother, she felt bad that she’d resented her for doing what was right and going to be with her family. It’s just that Makena didn’t have a family. She’d needed Helen too.

  Thinking about it now, she wasn’t sure why. The weeks of her illness were so hazy she barely remembered the woman. What she did recall was the feeling of her. An intense warmth. In the months that followed Makena had swung between hating Helen for saving her and feeling a certain kinship with her.

  At night, away from the eyes of the other orphans, she’d read books she’d been told were Helen’s favourites: Little Women and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. She’d found herself listening whenever anyone talked about the scrapes Helen and Edna had got into as directors of Hearts4Africa – some funny, some deadly. They’d routinely risked their lives standing up to corrupt officials, armed gangsters and evil slum landlords as they travelled Kenya’s no-go areas helping children. Serena idolised them both.

  ‘If it weren’t for Edna and Helen I wouldn’t be here now. They did more than simply save my life. They saw beyond the dirt and my missing leg to the person inside. They made me believe I was worth saving. Now I have a management diploma and can help my community as I have been helped.’

  In photos, Helen always seemed to be laughing. Her wildfire hair was cut in an unruly bob, as if she’d been called away to help a child in mid-haircut.

  When she’d been told that Helen had invited her to the Scottish Highlands for Christmas, Makena had veered between being resentful because she was sure that Helen had asked her to Scotland for all the wrong reasons, and being quietly thrilled that, of all the girls in the orphanage, she was the one Helen had chosen to foster for a month.

  But the smiling Helen of the orphanage photos and the one who’d met her at the airport were not the same at all. Scottish Helen was dull in both looks and spirit. Her spark had gone. The harder she tried to be relaxed and friendly, the more anxious she seemed.

  Makena knew better than anyone how shattering it was to lose a parent. How one minute you were upright and full of plans and next you were buried alive under the rubble of your ruined life. Even if you managed to crawl out, an invisible knife stayed stuck in your chest and twisted randomly. At times you could hardly breathe for the pain.

  However, Helen had a home. She also had a father. It wasn’t the same as being alone in the world, thousands of miles from your own country.

  Even allowing for his recent bereavement, Ray did not match the Ray of orphanage legend either. Nairobi Ray had chopped logs, laid floors, built walls and created a garden from a rubbish heap with his bare hands. He’d subdued a cobra and insisted on releasing it into the wild. Scottish Ray did not look capable of facing down a Mount Kenya mole shrew, much less guiding people up mountains. Makena wondered if the tales about him had been exaggerated.

  She also wondered about her air ticket. Perhaps it could be changed. She could tell Helen that she was homesick for Africa and wanted to return on the next plane. Whatever her issues, Helen had a kind heart. She could hardly refuse.

  The clock on Makena’s bedside table said two-fifteen a.m. but she couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable. The duvet was as fluffy as the clouds that floated halfway up Mount Kenya, too idle to climb any higher.

  As for the mattress, after the sofa with the stabbing springs at her uncle’s house, the smelly, shared cardboard in the slum and the orphanage hammock, let’s just say that the Scottish bed did not go unappreciated.

  Unfortunately, the bed was in Scotland, a country Makena intended to leave as soon as possible. She had no doubt that Helen had gone to great lengths to make her room in the eaves welcoming. The bookcase took up one whole wall. It was a treasure trove. Helen had told her to help herself to anything she wanted. It was a pity that Makena wouldn’t be around to take her up on the offer.

  There was a wooden giraffe that watched her from the corner and a drawing pad and pencil case on a small desk. Above it, was a painting of herds of giraffe and zebra grazing on a plain, with a snow-capped Mount Kenya in the distance. Only two things in the room belonged to Makena: the photos of her parents, and Snow’s empty jam jar with its crumpled label. She’d put them on her bedside table in an attempt to make herself feel more at home.

  Makena fumbled for the lamp. If she was planning to leave after breakfast, she might as well get ready now. Unable to find the switch, she pushed up the blind to let in some moonlight.

  It was snowing! Flakes drifted past the window like white rose petals. Billowy piles collected in the garden.

  Entranced by the wonderland below, she pulled the duvet round her shoulders and leaned on the sill. The ordinary had become extraordinary. Threadbare trees wore snow leopard cloaks. Bushes and shrubs had become a parade of white lions, tigers and bears. The mountain was a Christmas cake, its crags iced with white.

  She wanted to race downstairs, twirl in it and even roll in it. She wanted to lose herself in the magic of it.

  A movement caught her eye. There was a figure out in the snow. To her astonishment it was Ray. He was carrying something.

  With a spryness that belied his thin frame, he crossed the garden to a shed. He disappeared inside. Long minutes ticked by. Makena began to worry. It was freezing and Ray was in his pyjamas and dressing gown. She wondered if she should wake Helen. Clearly he was losing his marbles. If he couldn’t operate a television remote, he should not be out in the snow in the dead of night.

  She was trying to pluck up the courage to call Helen when Ray emerged, holding the shed door open as if waiting for someone to follow. Makena pressed her face to the cold glass. Small creatures spilled out into the snow. She strained her eyes to make them out. Were they puppies?

  Ray set his torch on a garden bench and sat down. Four scraps of ginger fur came barrelling into the light. Fox cubs.

  The memory of the bat-eared fox with water diamonds in its whiskers came back to Makena with crystal clarity. These were different but just as adorable. They tore in circles, dodging shadows and snapping at snowflakes. Ray leaned down and they nibbled his fingers.

  At length, he attempted to scoop them up. They scampered out of range, enjoying the game. It was some time before he was able to coax them back into the shed.

  Makena waited for Ray to return to the cottage. He was in his slippers. His toes must have been frozen solid. But he stayed where he was. Switching off his torch, he gazed up at the mountain. Feathery flakes fell faster and faster, settling on his head an
d the shoulders of his dressing gown.

  Then something even odder happened. A silver fox appeared at his side. It had an unusually bushy tail with a starlight shimmer. Ray didn’t look round or react to the creature in any way. The two of them just stood together, staring up at the snowy peaks.

  Makena watched until her eyes began to close on their own. She lay down. Seconds later, she was fast asleep.

  THE GO-BETWEEN

  She awoke after nine, so famished she could have gnawed her own arm off. Helen had breakfast ready. Porridge was one of Makena’s least favourite things (along with Eunice’s potluck gruel in Mathare Valley) but Helen topped it with apples stewed in cinnamon and a dash of maple syrup and it was delicious.

  They ate in the warm kitchen. It was a brilliant blue morning and the sight of the mountains, white with creases of granite showing through, filled Makena’s chest with a feeling so strong it made her dizzy.

  Her father had always told her that mountain air was in her blood. He and her mama had hiked to Point Lenana when Makena was still in the womb, and had often joked that Mount Kenya was in her DNA. Her earliest memory was watching her father return from a climbing trip with his coiled ropes slung round his shoulder and crampons, ice axes and other technical gear hung from, or stuffed into, his backpack. She’d taken it for granted that when she grew up she’d be a mountain guide like him.

  But that dream was long gone. These days, her grandest ambition was getting through the next twenty-four hours. She did not see mountains in her future. If she had a future. Yet when she stared out at the sharp white ridge, its teeth biting into the clear sky, she couldn’t help but feel that familiar pull.

  Helen came over with a glass of orange juice just as Makena was working up to her speech about hating Scotland and wanting to go back to Africa on the next plane.

  ‘A pair of sleepyheads, you and my father are, Makena. I’m glad. I’m sure you needed it after your epic journey. I might check on Dad, though. He’s always been one of those annoying early risers; as perky at four a.m. in a snowstorm as the average person is at ten in summer. Since Mum died, he’s been lying in a lot more. Some days I get the feeling he can’t be bothered to get up. But nine-thirty is late even by his new standards.’

  She reappeared in a hurry, phone in hand. ‘He’s burning up. I’m calling the doctor. I think he has a fever.’

  It all came back to Makena then, Ray and the five foxes. The four playful youngsters and the regal silver one. She’d wondered if she’d dreamed the whole thing. What if Ray had caught pneumonia, hanging out in the snow in his PJs?

  Makena was in an agony of indecision. Should she say anything or not? She decided against it. For some reason it felt disloyal.

  As soon as breakfast was over, Helen began preparing some minestrone soup for her father. ‘Another recipe of my grandmother’s. Best tonic I know. If this doesn’t cure him, I don’t know what will.’

  ‘Would it be okay if I go out to see the snow?’ Makena asked shyly. If she was to leave Scotland soon, she wanted to fill Snow’s jar. Then she’d have honoured her promise to her friend.

  ‘Of course! But are you sure you don’t want to wait until I can come with you? I was so looking forward to sharing it with you.’

  Makena didn’t answer. Snow was sacred. It was the bond between her and Baba and her best friend. When she touched it for the first time, she wanted to be alone.

  A flicker of hurt flashed across Helen’s face, but she covered it with a smile. ‘Wrap up warm, honey, and stay where I can see you, in front of the conservatory window.’

  Makena had imagined snow for so long that its rice crispy crunch and the way it swallowed her boots came as no surprise. But the pearly sparkle of it did. She kneeled in it, not caring that it soaked through her jeans. She made a snowball, packing it tight and juggling it from hand to cold hand.

  Hot tears came into her eyes. In Nairobi, she’d wished so much that the snow in her jar had stayed as frozen and pristine as it had been on the peak of Batian. Now she’d have done anything to have her old jar of melted snow, turning slightly green, if it meant her mama and baba were still alive, still loving her.

  There was a knock at the conservatory window. ‘Makena, won’t you come inside now before I have two invalids on my hands? I’ve made you a cup of hot chocolate. With marshmallows on top!’

  Makena saw that the snow in her hands was melting between her fingers. She got to her feet, feeling a thousand years old. She realised that she’d forgotten to bring the jam jar down from her room. Before she left Scotland, she’d have to find time to fill it up.

  Ray’s condition worsened rapidly. Helen played it down but was clearly alarmed. Dr Brodie, a man with a red beard abundant enough to house a family of mice, came and went at regular intervals. He’d diagnosed bronchitis. Hospital was mentioned but Ray refused to consider it.

  Curled up by the fire with a mystery novel, Makena couldn’t help overhearing the heated debate. The doctor’s broad Scottish accent boomed down the stairs.

  ‘The bad news is, he’s more stubborn than an arthritic mule. On the plus side, he has years of healthy living behind him. At the peak of his guiding career, he was the fittest man I’d ever met. Muscles like granite. Lungs like a dolphin. Keep feeding him nettle tea and minestrone soup and he’ll get through it.’

  That night, Makena couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about Ray and how he was ill because he’d been playing with the orphaned foxes in the snow. Had he also been taking them food? If so, wouldn’t they be ravenous by now?

  Makena jumped out of bed and pulled on all the winter clothes she possessed. Thanks to Helen, there were a lot. She crept downstairs. In the kitchen, she paused and listened. Not a peep. She opened the fridge. What did fox cubs eat? More importantly, what could she take that wouldn’t be missed?

  In the end, she tore up four slices of bread and put the pieces in a bowl with a few raw eggs. It looked disgusting but then she wasn’t a fox.

  Getting out of the cottage was the scariest part. When she opened the back door, she was as nervous as a burglar on the brink of cracking a safe. If it was alarmed, she’d be in trouble.

  It turned out it wasn’t even locked. ‘Not a lot of crime in these parts,’ Helen had told her. Remembering the lawlessness of Mathare, Makena couldn’t understand how she’d coped.

  Makena set off across the snowy garden, clutching the torch she’d found on a shelf in the hallway. With every step she expected to hear a shout, but the cottage stayed dark.

  Only when she reached the shed did she dare turn on the torch. Four terrified ginger faces peered up at her from a nest of blankets. She’d worried that they’d refuse to take food from a stranger, but they were too famished to care. They yapped with delight when she set the bowl down. Makena sat and watched them eat till their bellies were bursting.

  Something kindled inside her, a forgotten feeling of joy. Before it could take hold she stood abruptly. As she hurried to the cottage, hoping that the falling snow would conceal her footsteps, she noticed Ray’s curtains move. She squinted up at the window but saw nothing further.

  In the kitchen, she washed and dried the bowl before tiptoeing back to bed. It was a while before she could sleep. She was far from Kenya, in one of the coldest places on earth, but all of a sudden her heart felt warm.

  A JAR OF SNOW

  From then on, Makena routinely crept out between midnight and dawn. She grew bold enough to play with the cubs in the snow, but was careful to erase all traces afterwards. Never once did she see the silver fox with the magnificent tail.

  In the lead-up to Christmas, Helen went out of her way to ensure that Makena did not feel forgotten during the crisis with her father. When she wasn’t preparing broths or hot water bottles, she and Makena made gingerbread bears together, watched The Wizard of Oz and went on walks.

  Makena had decided to put off asking to fly back to Kenya until Ray was better. It didn’t seem fair to add to Helen’s burden at such a
difficult time.

  Makena was surprised at how rapidly her own fitness returned. At her parents’ home in Nairobi, she’d worked hard at it, shinning up and down her climbing wall, running at school and playing tennis with her mama with the aim of one day being strong enough to scale mountains.

  Strolling through a snowy forest one afternoon with Helen, Makena was struck by the realisation that the elephant had gone from her chest. It seemed to have been left behind in Mathare Valley. After the crowded clamour of the slum, the pure, gushing mountain streams and silence and space of the Scottish Highlands was a luxury she was still getting used to.

  When they emerged from the trees an hour later, the low dark sky had the look of a smouldering ember. They were crossing a field of fresh snow when the winter sun pierced the clouds. The white landscape came to sparkling life, as if lit by laser beams. Makena stopped. She unzipped a side pocket in her new rucksack and took out the empty jam jar.

  Without ceremony, she filled it with snow. There was no fuss, no song and dance. It just felt like the right moment to do it. As she put on the lid, she sent up a prayer that wherever Snow was, whether in this world or the next, she was dancing.

  Helen watched without comment. When they resumed their walk, she took Makena’s hand. Makena was tempted to pull away but didn’t want to hurt her feelings. After a while, she found she quite liked it.

  ‘Would you believe that, in the autumn, this entire area is carpeted in purple heather,’ Helen was saying. ‘When Dad and I went hiking on Mount Kenya, we couldn’t get over how similar the East African moorland was to ours. We stayed in these log cabins called Rutundu on a gorgeous loch. That’s the place where Prince William proposed to Kate.’

  ‘I know about the log cabins!’ Makena cried, forgetting her rule about not discussing her parents with Helen or anyone else. ‘Me and Baba camped near Rutundu. On the banks of the River Kathita.’