The Snow Angel

by Lauren St. John

  Helen’s face was aglow, the way it had been in the orphanage photos. ‘Did you hear the hyenas laughing at night? It was so eerie I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Neither could I. I had a nightmare.’

  ‘I was a nervous wreck too,’ laughed Helen. ‘I kept imagining hyenas converging on the cabins in packs. Dad reminded me that, like vultures, they prefer carrion – you know, decaying flesh – but I wasn’t convinced. Did you see the trout in Lake Rutundu? They’re as big as beluga whales.’

  Caught up in the moment, Makena heard herself say: ‘I saw a bat-eared fox on the shore of Lake Rutundu. It was drinking and when it looked up there were water diamonds in its whiskers. When I told Baba he said there was no such thing as foxes on Mount Kenya, but I think he believed me in the end.’

  Helen was unfazed. ‘Foxes turn up in all sorts of unlikely places. In London, they’re in every suburban garden. Once, a couple walked into a restaurant near Piccadilly Circus. Funnily enough, I thought I saw a fox the night Edna and I found you in Nairobi. We were about to move on when it caught my eye. Apparently, there are no foxes in Nairobi so I must have been mistaken, but I did see something. Whatever it was left a trail of sparks. A trick of the light, I suppose, but it was enchanting.’

  ‘A trail of sparks?’

  The ground rolled under Makena’s feet. She recalled the creature she’d glimpsed in the airport car park, trailing sparks like hot ash.

  ‘Yes. If it hadn’t been for that, we might have driven on without checking under the market cart. When I think we might never have found you, I get heart palpitations.’

  She stopped. ‘Are you feeling faint, Makena? You seem a little wobbly. Maybe we’ve been out too long. It’s bitingly cold.’

  ‘We can’t both be wrong,’ said Makena, recovering. ‘About the foxes, I mean. Either we’re both right or both wrong. Or one of us is right and the other is wrong.’

  ‘There’s another explanation too.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That we both have an over-active imagination,’ Helen said with a smile. ‘Although, personally, I think that’s something to be encouraged. There’s an Einstein quote I love. “Logic will get you from A to Z. Imagination will get you everywhere.” He called it a “preview of life’s coming attractions”.’

  Her eyes met Makena’s and dropped away awkwardly as each became aware that they were having a mother–daughter moment.

  Helen hastily changed the subject. ‘See the church steeple in the valley between those hills, and the dark dots beside it? That’s the local school. Some of the kids ride to lessons on horses. In PE, they do regular sports such as football and hockey, but they also learn kayaking, climbing and skiing.’

  ‘There’s a school similar to that near Mount Kenya,’ Makena told her. ‘It’s right on the Equator. There are pupils who have breakfast at home in the Southern Hemisphere and lunch at school in the Northern Hemisphere. It’s really cool.’

  It was a school she’d always wished she could attend and it was comforting to learn that, half a world away, Scottish children also liked wilderness adventures. She admitted to Helen that she’d half expected them to be too busy playing video games and watching television to care much about nature.

  ‘Some Scottish kids do prefer TV and technology to the great outdoors,’ said Helen. ‘I think that’s true of kids all over these days. But in my experience, the children of the Highlands understand that while those things are fun, the best adventures are found in the wild.’

  ‘Was that your school – the one in the valley?’ Makena asked.

  ‘Sadly not. Mine was on a polluted London road with a concrete playground. I was eighteen when Mum and Dad moved to Scotland and not ready to leave the bright lights. I did my degree in London then took a gap year to volunteer in Kenya. I fell in love with the country and its people but not with the charity. Edna and I were young, fired-up and idealistic. We decided we could do a far better job on our own. Sometimes we have; at other times it’s been a disaster, but I don’t regret a single hour. Hearts4Africa has, in a sense, been the love of my life.

  ‘Things have changed, though. For the foreseeable future, my life is here. I’m not concerned about Hearts4Africa. Edna and Serena will do a marvellous job without me and I can help by fundraising in the UK. But I pine for Africa, as I’m sure you do. It’s in my blood. Until Mum passed away, I’d spent more time in Kenya than I had in Scotland.’

  She stared up at the forbidding mountain. ‘This is new for me too.’

  NO ANGEL

  On Christmas Eve, Makena came downstairs to find Ray sitting on the sofa beneath a pile of blankets. He was eating Marmite toast and watching a documentary about penguins in the Antarctic. Though as gaunt and grizzled as a scarecrow, he had more colour in his cheeks.

  A smile flitted across his lips when he saw Makena. He seemed on the verge of speaking, but Helen walked in and he turned his attention to the screen.

  That day was one of the loveliest Makena could remember. A friend of Ray’s came to keep an eye on him for a few hours and she and Helen went to the Glencoe Café near Loch Leven. There was a life-sized reindeer made of willow on the doorstep. Makena ordered a hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and pink marshmallows. The waitress who brought it was wearing a Santa hat.

  The main street bustled with thirty or so people doing last-minute shopping. Helen described it as ‘packed’. For the first few days in Scotland Makena had wondered where everyone was. The Highlands seemed virtually uninhabited. Then she figured it out. The perishing cold discouraged visitors.

  Makena found Glencoe charming but not nearly as interesting as The Three Sisters, Devil’s Staircase and Buachaille Etive Mor and Buachaille Etive Beag. Those were the mountains that gave Glencoe its frontier-town atmosphere.

  Ben Nevis, Britain’s tallest mountain, was only one thousand three hundred and forty-six metres, less than a third of the size of Mount Kenya. But what the mountains of Scotland lacked in height, they made up for in wind-blasted ruggedness. The wildness of the crags and clouds that sent dragon-shadows swooping across the village set Makena’s skin tingling. She was forced to revise her opinion of Ray. If he’d been a guide here, he must once have been tough.

  That afternoon, she helped Helen bake mince pies. They ate them warm and smothered with cream in front of the fire. Somehow the fact that the wind was howling outside made them extra scrumptious.

  When night drew in, Helen and Makena took turns at reading The Velveteen Rabbit out loud. Ray had recovered enough to sit whittling away at a block of wood with a small knife. Gradually, a pair of pointy ears emerged. Makena was startled to realise that he was the artist behind the exquisite animal carvings dotted around the cottage.

  ‘First time I’ve seen him work with wood since Mum died,’ confided Helen, relief mingling with sorrow in her voice.

  Worryingly, Ray was still weak and coughing. They looked up from a passage in the book to find he’d slipped off to bed. Makena was weary too. The fox cubs were divine but the lack of sleep was catching up with her.

  Before going up to her room, she went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The Christmas tree twinkled contentedly in the conservatory. Makena wished her mama could have been there to see it. She’d always adored Christmas. The spruce’s luxuriant lower branches curled around a pile of presents tied with gold, pink and red ribbons and bows.

  Guilt thwacked her over the head. What was wrong with her? Was she so faithless that she’d already forgotten that her parents, Aunt Mary and her best friend were gone and did not have the luxury of enjoying Christmas?

  She glared at the tree. It was still missing an angel.

  THE LETTER

  The ticking of the radiator as it warmed her room in the eaves woke Makena. She stretched lazily. When she remembered it was Christmas Day, her heart did a little skip. She forgot to feel bad about her good fortune and allowed herself to dream about the presents and promised roast that lay ahead. There was eve
n veggie haggis. Helen and Ray were both vegetarians and her dietary choice had never been an issue.

  Then she caught sight of the clock. It was seven-twelve a.m. She’d forgotten to set the alarm so she could feed the foxes! It was doubtful that Ray had been well enough to tend to them, which meant they would have gone hungry.

  Makena flew out of bed and wriggled into her jeans, thermal vest, fleece and jacket. She shoved her gloves into her pocket and pulled a woolly hat over her braids. A week before she’d left Nairobi, Gloria’s daughter had turned up at the Hearts4Africa Home for Girls. Nadira was training to be a hairdresser herself and came often, Serena said, to hone her skills on the orphans. Her sessions were wildly popular and girls queued up to be one of her models.

  Makena was self-conscious about her hair and did not join the queue, but Edna came to fetch her and told her she had her own private appointment with Nadira. When Makena asked why, Edna gave the enigmatic, all-purpose answer of grown-ups across the globe: ‘Because I said so.’

  Nadira never asked how Makena had ended up at the orphanage and Makena never told her. Nor did she comment on the state of Makena’s hair.

  All she said was: ‘I hear you’re on your way to the UK for Christmas. We need to sharpen up your look. It’s about time someone showed those Brits, with their dragged-through-a-thorn-bush-backwards hair-dos that we Kenyan ladies can teach them a thing or two about style.’

  Down in the kitchen, Makena considered the cubs’ dining options. The bread was almost gone. So were the eggs. As she deliberated over the mince pies, she spotted Helen’s laptop on the kitchen bench. It would only take a minute to do a Google search on whether raisins and piecrust would make the fox cubs sick. Helen would never know.

  Hopping on to a stool, she tapped a key. The screen flared to life. An email popped up. Makena was about to sweep it aside when she saw the address: glasgowadoptionservices@globalmail.com.

  A cold feeling came over her. It was dated the twenty-fourth of December and marked ‘URGENT!’ She knew it was private but she had to read it.

  Helen Stuart

  to Glasgowadoptionservices@globalmail.com

  Dear Mr Carrick,

  Thank you for helping to organise documentation for Makena Wambora, the twelve-year-old Kenyan girl I am fostering for Christmas. I beg your assistance again on a matter of the greatest urgency.

  As soon as Makena stepped off the plane, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. I asked if I could foster her for a month. I’m afraid that will not now be possible. She’s barely been here five days and I find myself counting the hours till she leaves. You see, I—

  Makena slammed the laptop shut. Blood roared in her ears. It had all been a lie. Everything. The entire time she’d been in Scotland Helen had only been pretending to care while counting the hours until Makena, a ‘terrible mistake’, was sent away again.

  The previous day they’d had so fun much baking, visiting Glencoe and reading The Velveteen Rabbit that Makena had caught herself wishing she could stay for ever in this magical mountain hideaway. She’d wondered if Helen felt the same way.

  She’d even warmed to Ray, reasoning that any man who’d risk his life to play with foxes in the snow was probably ninety-five per cent good. They shared a secret. She knew that he knew she was taking care of the cubs until he was strong again. Plus he was a mountaineer, a species for which she had the greatest affection and admiration.

  But none of that mattered now she knew the truth. Helen didn’t want her. Had, in fact, been so desperate to get rid of her that she’d written to the adoption agency on Christmas Eve. Doubtless, she was planning to break the news to Makena as soon as Christmas was over.

  Makena was devastated. She’d been a fool to believe there’d be any other outcome. In Nairobi, the other orphans had been glad for her but had warned her not to get her hopes up. They’d told her that few twelve-year-olds were adopted because foster parents preferred babies and toddlers, and that even if Helen did take her on it might not work out.

  ‘People are different when they’re in their own country. Maybe she’ll be a terrible cook or have a bad temper. Maybe you won’t fit in there. Maybe the other villagers will be racist and tell you to go home to Africa.’

  Makena glanced at the clock. It would be light soon. She grabbed a banana and two mince pies and swallowed a glass of water. Where she was going, she’d need all the strength she could get.

  THE RULES OF MOUNTAINEERING

  • Always triple-check the weather and ensure you have the correct equipment, clothing and supplies before heading out. Take a fully charged phone

  • Do all you can to minimise risk. Don’t be a hero

  • Listen to your body and mind

  Makena’s father had drummed these rules into her from an early age, and yet she’d escaped The Great Escape without thinking about any of them. All her backpack contained was an extra sweater, one bottle of water, Snow’s jar of melted snow (now freezing again), and the photos of her parents, removed from their frames. The banana and the mince pies had long since been devoured.

  Starting out, she’d been quite pleased with her decision. The day had dawned fine and bright and she’d made rapid progress up the mountain. Her plan had been to head for the pass. She recalled seeing a petrol station about two kilometres beyond it. If she made it that far, she might be able to sneak aboard a lorry to Inverness or Edinburgh. What she’d do once she got there, she wasn’t sure. She’d come up with some ideas along the way.

  But the weather had turned from sunny to stormy with disconcerting speed. Fast-moving clouds had gobbled the summit. Mist oozed from the crevices and gullies, and a bitter wind seemed intent on hurling her into space.

  Makena knew from her father’s stories that fog was as deadly to climbers as any avalanche. Lose your bearings on a mountain and a hundred hazards lie in wait. From the ground, she’d been able to see a clear route up the mountain. Higher up, it was more difficult. The path kept merging with sheep trails. Rock falls confused things further. Twice she had to take detours around snowdrifts. When the path forked she had to use her best guess.

  Now it split again. Makena went left. After battling uphill and sideways for another ten minutes, the trail ended at a frozen waterfall.

  Trying not to panic, she retraced her steps. The path fizzled out. When she found another, it soon split into three.

  Makena stopped to catch her breath. She had Elvis legs. That’s what climbers called it when their thighs and calves wouldn’t stop trembling. Her feet were rubbed raw and she had a raging thirst. Earlier, she’d seen the lights blink on in the faraway cottage. Imagining Helen waking on Christmas morning to find the girl in her care gone made Makena feel unwell.

  Had the police been called? Would Helen regret writing the email or would she, like Uncle Edwin, be relieved that she had a good excuse for dispatching Makena back to Africa if and when she did reappear? But whatever was happening in the valley below was a mystery. Like Makena herself, it was lost in the mist.

  It was snowing again. Hard. Makena let out a sob. She was going to die on the mountain and she’d have no one to blame but herself.

  Terror threatened to overwhelm her. She fought it off by taking deep gulps of brutally cold air. She had to get a grip, as her father would say. The situation was fixable. She could turn back. Returning to the cottage would be humiliating but she’d be alive. And warm. She would insist that Helen return her to Nairobi on the next available plane.

  She chose the path that looked most likely to wind its way downhill. As she rounded a tall, jagged rock, she stopped in fright. The silver fox was in her path. Against the snowy backdrop, it was nearly invisible except for one thing: it glowed.

  Up close, it was evident that it was not a white version of a red fox but another species altogether, one with thick, soft fur, a pretty, pointed face and vivid blue eyes that seemed to stare right into her soul.

  Once Makena had recovered, she was so re
lieved to see another living creature that she had to remind herself that it was a wild animal, not a sweet ginger cub like those in the shed. It could attack her. Still, its presence gave her a boost. As nightmarish as the situation was, at least she wasn’t alone.

  Then the fox moved and she screamed. Not because she was afraid it was going to bite her but because she saw, through the swirling white, the cliff edge that lay beyond it. If it hadn’t blocked her way, she’d have fallen.

  Staggered at how close she’d come to disaster, she turned to see the fox’s ghostly outline melting into the gloom. Makena scrambled after it. It had saved her life once and might do so again. If it was accustomed to getting treats from Ray it might lead her down the mountain to the cottage.

  The fox followed a twisting trail visible only to itself. Sometimes it trotted so quickly and surely that Makena struggled to keep up. At other times it seemed to go in circles. She never lost faith that it knew where it was going nor that it wanted her to follow. Its shimmering tail shone through the blizzard like a guiding star.

  She was near to collapse when a shepherd’s hut loomed out of the storm. Makena halted, breath steaming from her lungs in white puffs. Afraid that it might be a mirage, she took a hesitant step towards it. It seemed solid enough.

  Helen had explained that, across the Highlands, there were bothies – basic shelters that could be used for refuge by hikers and climbers. They were free to anyone who needed them.

  Makena broke into a tired run. The steps were piled with snow and the door so aged and swollen with moisture that at first she was convinced it was locked. Finally, it creaked open. Only when she stepped over the threshold did she glance back. The shining fox was gone.