The Artist and The Yeti

by James Hemmington

  In no time, on the playing card size page, there was an intricate drawing of buildings, rolling mountains, the lake, and the neat pine tree forests, all tall and straight, that hugged the city.

  As the plane came into land, Albie squeezed Paris’s arm. He was getting a little agitated, he didn’t like the bump as the plane touched down. He was certain that one day the bottom of the plane would break.

  Paris took the deck of playing cards from her brother, saying she would keep them safe, and then did her best to distract him by going through all the superhero skills she knew. He was completely absorbed.

  The plane landed with its bottom intact. When the family left the airport, they chatted excitedly about what lay ahead. Apparently there was a boring train journey first, but that was followed by a helicopter ride up to the hotel. How exciting was that?

  The family were booked into a suite at the hotel, with its own cosy lounge, with a log fire in the centre and a balcony that leaned out over a cliff edge with a to-die-for view of the Matterhorn. Dad reckoned they would feel like celebs themselves.

  4

  It was evening by the time they reached the last leg of their journey, the exciting and now long awaited helicopter ride. Paris had never been in a helicopter before and was feeling a bit nervous. The light was fading quickly and the journey would be made pretty much in the dark.

  Snow was falling when they made their way to the helicopter at the base of the towering mountainside leading up to the hotel. The snow was so heavy it was hard to see where the helicopter actually was. It was a relief to get inside; it was warm and reassuringly calm.

  For the inside of a helicopter is was surprisingly luxurious. Nice furry seats with matching blankets and cushions to snuggle into. There was a glass table that looked like a block of solid ice, laid out with red clay mugs of steaming hot chocolate and plates piled with biscuits displaying all kinds of intricate icing.

  Albie managed to sift through more than half the biscuits, trying to find at least two with the same pattern, before his mum told him to stop touching them. He was amazed how so many biscuits could all be so different.

  The small windows each side of the cabin were laced with tiny gold curtains, tied tightly back so as not to spoil the view. Not that there was going to be one this evening. The snow battered against the windows as the wind started to pick up, now it was almost completely dark. The odd light from a nearby village flickered from time to time when the snow momentarily thinned; it was like dim stars twinkling in the darkness.

  On board a lady introduced herself to the family as their hostess, Anita, and the pilot Johan, who waved from the small cockpit up front. He appeared squashed compared to the lavish space provided for the passengers. Anita smiled and encouraged the family to relax, get themselves comfortable and enjoy the refreshments. Albie munched two biscuits in a moment. When he was excited he ate quickly.

  Paris sipped her hot chocolate. It was smooth and velvety, and she almost purred as she snuggled up under the furry blanket on her furry chair.

  Paris’s mum turned to her dad and said, “You’ve really come up trumps this time Luke, what a wonderful surprise.” He took a big gulp of hot chocolate and smiled, feeling pretty good with himself. A thick ring of chocolate coated his lips. The family thought it looked quite cute and decided not to tell him about it.

  The noise in the cabin grew slightly as the helicopter started to lift off. Snow swirled around the blades, creating a spiral in their wake as the helicopter slowly made its climb. The family peered through the windows, hoping to see something of a view, but they just saw their faces reflecting back from the blackness outside.

  The snow and wind got stronger; the helicopter continued its climb towards a single beacon of light that suddenly appeared high above them, marking their ultimate destination.

  Anita, seeing a concerned look on Paris’s face as the wind shook the helicopter, sat next to Paris and said in her best reassuring tone, “Don’t worry, that light up there can always be seen, no matter how thick the snow is, we’ll be there in no time,” Paris smiled and took another sip of her chocolate.

  Suddenly, with no warning there was a bump, the helicopter dropped for a moment and hot chocolate splashed across the glass table. The lights went out and the warmth and security of the helicopter began to feel more like a frightening fairground ride. It started to spin and spin fast. It was more than unpleasant; it was terrifying.

  Paris screamed, along with everyone else. Their dad shouted, “Hang on!” Everyone was cowering on the floor, grabbing what they could as they became increasingly disorientated. Poor Anita had lost her balance when the helicopter dropped. She hit her head and became unconscious, and was now being thrown around the cabin like a rag doll.

  Then there was an ear-shattering bang, the helicopter blades caught the side of the mountain and the helicopter in a moment turned into one huge metal stone, falling from the sky at great speed, leaving behind it a frenzied swirl of snow.

  Then that moment of expected dread, the helicopter smashed into the dark jagged mountain bouncing and rolling. The noise of twisting metal was deafening. Everyone was screaming with terror, then, for a moment, there was an eerie silence as the helicopter came to a rest. The silence was gradually broken by the sounds of moaning and sobbing.

  From the front of the helicopter the pilot was dazed but still belted into his seat. He seemed unharmed and slowly lifted his arm above his head and flicked a switch. Emergency lights came on, not very bright, but bright enough to light the cabin. Wind and snow was whistling through the cabin, the main door had been flung open and every window was shattered.

  Unbelievably, everyone was beginning to stir. Albie snuggled into his mum, he seemed uninjured, but she was holding her arm. It was stinging. Dad had a nasty cut across his cheek, but managed to stand and Anita was now sitting up, feeling dizzy but relieved. Paris, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  Her parents called her name, more frantically each time as they began to panic. Dad climbed out of the open door into the freezing snowstorm. He could barely see his hand as he held it across his face for protection from the biting wind. He screamed Paris’s name time and time again. He got very cold very quickly and had no choice but to return to the helicopter.

  Paris’s parents and her brother were sitting in the foyer of their hotel. The three of them cuddled up on a huge sofa with a soft red blanket each, in front of a blazing log fire that rose up towards an impressive stone chimney. Mum had her arm in a plaster cast and a sling; she had broken it quite badly. Rescuers had arrived at the scene quickly, but failed to find any trace of Paris anywhere.

  Now back from the hospital the family awaited news on Paris. It was 9 o’clock the next morning, the snow had stopped and the sky was the purest of blue. Across the way from where the family were sitting was a huge ceiling to floor window with a view of the Matterhorn, so breath taking that guests would stop to admire it every time they entered the foyer. Paris’s family were completely unaware of it, all they wanted was to see Paris walk through the heavy revolving doors of the hotel entrance.

  The revolving doors did start to turn, together the family looked across expectedly. Through them came two policemen; they seemed very solemn, almost tearful. They walked slowly across the foyer, introduced themselves and sat alongside Paris’s family.

  One of the officers explained that they continued the search for Paris and were doing everything possible to find her. Paris’s mum started to cry; she knew things were looking very bad, very bad indeed.

  5

  A soft light was bouncing off the ceiling. It was a bumpy uneven ceiling, with rocks jutting out haphazardly, forming dark shadows. The walls were even more uneven, completely covered in paintings of mostly animals and trees, faded and fairly basic ones, painted a long time ago.

  Paris was not sure if she was dreaming, but dream or not, her eyes told her this was a cave. She remembered nothing past the helicopter diving out of control. How did s
he get here? Any moment now she would wake in that cosy hotel bed. She wanted to get up; moving would wake her up properly, she thought. But slowly her eyes closed and she fell back into a deep sleep.

  After some time a soft light in the cave made Paris stir, and she gradually came out of her deep slumber. She was lying on what seemed to be some kind of bed, made of branches and twigs, lined with leaves and petals of all colours.

  Covering her was an animal skin blanket. She hoped it wasn’t real animal skin, but whatever it was made of it was very soft and comfortable. She tried to move, but a sharp pain in her side prevented that. She winched and held her side, feeling something covering the spot, a bandage of some sort.

  Paris had a more thorough scan of her surroundings; wherever she was she seemed safe and well looked after. The cave was big and well lived in too.

  At the base of the walls and every few feet were little black stones, each with a small flame burning away, providing well-needed light. She’d never seen anything like them before; they were like candles but without a wick.

  Paris could smell the damp earth of the cave floor, but it had a strange reassuring aroma, like the one she could smell in her garden on a hot summer’s day after a rain shower. That was a smell she always associated with long summer days and happy holidays.

  The cave had a cosy warmth about it and the shadows created from the small flames danced around the walls and ceiling, giving the illusion that the colourful paintings on the walls were animated. It was mesmerising.

  Then she noticed the possessions of whoever lived in this cave. There was a wooden chair, a rather large one, next to that a clumsily bundled group of stones stacked near to the centre of the cave that made a fireplace of sorts, with an improvised grate on which sat some basic cooking utensils.

  There was a fire burning and the occasional ash that rose up from it, fluttered upwards and disappeared through a gap in the ceiling, out into the open.

  Next to Paris was a stone shelf and on it was a wooden block and resting on the block spaced evenly was five different coloured marbles, at least they looked like marbles, large ones. Even in the faded light Paris could make out the colours. They were blue, red, orange, green and purple and they seemed to take a prominent position in the cave, like the TV at home.

  This was all very strange. Then she heard something, it sounded like a low but distinct grunt, an animal of some kind and was worrying, to say the least. Paris pulled the blanket up over her head; she was shaking.

  She sensed whatever was in the cave with her; was getting closer and closer. She heard steps skimming across the soft earth of the cave floor, slow heavy steps. She panicked, despite the pain in her side, despite not knowing what would confront her when she bolted from her bed and despite not knowing if she was about to do the one thing she should not do, she jumped up holding the blanket over her head as some kind of protection.

  As soon as her feet touched the ground Paris started to run, wincing with the pain in her side. Instantly she felt a soft cold breeze, sensing she was heading towards the cave exit. Her instinct was right; in a few strides she was outside into thick snow and the darkness of late evening.

  Paris found a super reserve of energy that Albie would be proud of. Although the snow was deep and up to her knees, she seemed to be ploughing through it at speed. She sprinted as best she could, kicking her knees high to leap above the snow, while holding her injured side with one hand and with the other hand keeping the blanket over her head. It was a strange sight.

  After what seemed an age Paris stopped running, she was exhausted. Hesitantly she looked behind her, breathing so heavily her chest hurt. With great relief she saw nothing following. Although it was dark the moon shone brightly and the pure white snow reflected its light. She could see remarkably well.

  As her breathing returned to normal and after double-checking there was no sign of being followed, Paris began to assess her situation. She was in the absolute wild of the mountain forests. She could see no man-made lights and no sign of civilisation. All around her the snow was completely untouched, contaminated only by the footprints that lay behind.

  Paris decided she would continue walking straight ahead. She was warm enough and was sure that eventually she would come to a town or village. All would be fine. She walked a good mile or so when she stopped abruptly. Up ahead there was movement, or was it just shadows from the soft breeze pushing through the tall pine trees?

  The shadows got bigger and more defined. There were at least eight of them – wolves it turned out. They stalked towards her forming a semi-circle as they closed in. In the dim light their teeth stood out as they snarled, and one wolf prepared to pounce. It was larger than the rest, striding boldly through the thick snow towards Paris, gnashing its teeth and growling more frantically with each stride.

  Paris screamed a piercing scream; that alas no one would hear. It would be over very soon, she hoped it would all end quickly.

  In an instant, a bright light and a huge roar came from behind her. Something was running at great speed. She dropped to the floor and curled into a tight ball, wrapping the blanket around her as best she could.

  The wolves squealed in terror and scurried off into the night. Paris felt the blanket being gently lifted off her. She looked up and almost fainted. She saw the face of a huge beast towering above her. It must have stood nine or ten feet tall. Very quickly the beast crouched down, holding above its head a burning torch, lighting its face.

  Through her shock and utter fright, Paris saw in the beast kind eyes that had the look of concern and reassuring warmth. It appeared to smile at her, a soft gentle smile and held out its other hand, nodding to encourage her to take it. He pulled her onto her feet and then in a moment lifted her onto his shoulder. He turned and walked back to the cave.

  6

  It had been three days now since the accident and no news of Paris. The local paper had upset Paris’s family by highlighting the increasing presence of wolves coming down from the mountains and roaming the villages during the quiet of the night looking for food. It was claimed that pets had been taken and the wolves were becoming increasingly bold and daring. They didn’t say it directly, but the papers inferred that Paris had become a victim of the wolves herself.

  All the focus on wolves had made international news, as did the disappearance of Paris. The story was front-page news in the UK papers. The reference to wolves had attracted the attention of a certain Dougie McQueen, a famous and flamboyant hunter from Scotland.

  He was not the most popular of people; almost everywhere he went to hunt there was usually several protesters ready to throw eggs or tomatoes at him, or worse. Dougie had hunted most things over the years and acquired numerous trophies, which he displayed proudly on the walls of his castle, albeit a fairly small one, in a quiet spot by the sea on the Fife coast.

  On this morning he sat in a well-worn red leather seat overlooking an impressive view of the bay below. It was a huge room, but sparsely furnished. Dougie was not one for design or home comforts, apart from his precious trophies, wall to wall. But he did have a huge TV, a state of the art smart TV, and was mesmerised by the wolf story and the link to Paris Palmer made by the news reports coming in from Switzerland. This could be good for him, he thought.

  Dougie shouted, “Fraser, are you there? Come and listen to the news.” Dougie’s voice was booming even when he tried to whisper, which he rarely did. Fraser Campbell was Dougie’s hired help. He was a sort of butler, come housekeeper, come adviser, come general dogsbody.

  Fraser was a very small man, with thick white hair, but a jet-black moustache. The combo did appear a little strange to everyone except Fraser himself. The other thing that made Fraser different was that he only ever wore a kilt, the same blue tartan every day, a different kilt of course. He had immaculate personal hygiene. He was a true Scot, no underwear!

  Fraser walked into the cavernous room, and in a clipped Scottish accent said, “What is it sir, is it the end of th
e wurld?” The other thing about Fraser was that he liked sarcasm.

  Dougie slowly turned his head towards Fraser, while keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the TV, ignoring Fraser’s quip about the end of the world. “Fraser, this is great news, I’ve an idea to make us heroes at last.”

  “That’s good to hear sir, do I need to pack?” said Fraser, with notably little reaction to his boss’s excitement. He was used to Dougie’s so-called great ideas, usually involving travel.

  Dougie beckoned Fraser to sit on the shabby plain navy sofa opposite him, “Let me explain,” Dougie grinned his widest smile; it wasn’t a pleasant look!

  Fraser listened quietly as Dougie explained his inspired idea. “Fraser, I have no doubt that wolves have taken poor Paris Palmer; and clearly things are only going to get worse. The Swiss, poor souls, are quiet and pleasant people. They will be taken completely unawares when the wolves strike. All the reports are telling us that they are getting more bold and daring. The Swiss need saving from the growing threat of these manic creatures. Guess who’s going to save them, come on Fraser, guess?” Dougie’s eyes were bulging with excitement, he was still grinning intensely. “Is that you per chance, sir?” Fraser was still as calm as the calmest of seas.

  “Of course you idiot. We turn up, hunt the wolves, reassure the locals and return home heroes. Oh, and before we deploy our great skills, we also persuade the local Mayor that our services are hugely expensive, you know given the risks involved. We can decorate the west wing with our trophies. I think I’ll have a wee dram with me breakfast today.”

  Fraser sat on the sofa. “Well, you’ve excelled yourself this time, sir. I’ll go and sort some breakfast and that wee dram, then I’ll pack some warm clothes,” and with that Fraser marched off, with his kilt swinging from side to side.

  Dad sat on his own, in the foyer of their hotel. He had decided that they would be better off going home now and waiting for news from the local search team. The constant media intrusion was irritating him; they were camped outside the hotel, watching the family’s every move.