You Ain't Seen Nothing Yeti!

by Steven Butler

  ‘I managed to swipe a newspaper from the magazine stand near the pier and it turns out there’s an enormous freak blizzard heading this way. A huge, swirling snowstorm that’s due to arrive here in England any time soon!’

  ‘A blizzard …’ groaned Dad. ‘I just can’t believe it!’

  ‘That’s impossible!’ I joined in. ‘It’s June!’

  We all glanced over to the window at the brilliant sunshine outside. I could see that Dad had already set up the barbecue on the patio and Mrs Dunch, the very old and very wrinkly mermaid, was sunning herself in her starfish bikini at the top of the waterslide by the pool.

  ‘Exactly!’ said Nancy. ‘According to the newspaper, human scientists are baffled! The storm came down from Asia and has crossed Europe, freezing everything in its path. Apparently the Eiffel Tower in Paris has been turned into a giant icicle!’

  ‘Our summer celebration is going to be dreadful!’ Dad whined. ‘No one will ever visit us again. How can we have a proper Trogmanay Trolliday if it’s like the North Pole outside?’

  Suddenly I gasped as something Nancy had said just seconds ago sparked a memory in my brain.

  ‘Hang on!’ I said to her, feeling a tingle of excitement. ‘What did you just say about the storm?’

  ‘That the blizzard has baffled human scientists—’

  ‘No, not that part!’

  ‘That it’s come all the way from Asia and across Europe?’ said Nancy, squinting at me suspiciously.

  ‘Yes, that!’ I barked. ‘THAT’S GREAT NEWS!’

  ‘What is?’ asked Dad as confusion spread across his face like a rash.

  ‘Are you all right, Frankie?’ Nancy said, placing a hand on my forehead.

  The two of them stared at me blankly for a moment, then Dad slowly realised what I was talking about.

  ‘It can’t be…’ Dad glanced over at Nancy as a huge smile spread across his face.

  Nancy giggled at Dad as she realised too.

  ‘Do you really think so?’ she said, clapping her hands.

  ‘It has to be!’ I almost yelled, slamming my mug down on the table with glee.

  Now, before you get cross with me, shouting, ‘I DON’T UNDERSTAND! WHAT ARE THEY ALL GRINNING AT AND TALKING ABOUT?!’, I’ll tell you.

  Ready for a short and snappy history lesson?

  Back when my dad was younger, his human urges kicked in and he got mega mopey and moany, the way all teenagers do … I’ve heard anyway.

  So, he decided to go off travelling around the world to ‘FIND HIMSELF’, just like Great-Great-Great-Grandad Abraham used to do, and Dad ended up staying in a yeti village on the highest slopes of Mount Everest.

  He tried yoga and dinging bells and burning herbs and fasting and feasting and chanting strange words and all that wafty-lofty stuff… He didn’t ‘find himself’, but he DID find his BESTEST lifelong yeti friend, Orfis Kwinzi!

  And, every so often, we get a visit from Orfis and his family, and any magical with half a brain knows yetis always travel at the centre of a stonking great magical blizzard, so nobody spots them…

  ‘If it is the Kwinzis, we’ll have to throw them an extra-special party,’ said Nancy. ‘What a lovely treat for Trogmanay!’

  ‘OH, MY GOODNESS!’ Dad suddenly shot up from the table and his face dropped from a smile to a look of complete and utter panic. ‘What are we doing just sitting here? IT’S TROGMANAY! WE’VE GOT A HOTEL FULL OF GUESTS CHECKING IN FOR THE SUMMER TROLLIDAY WEEKEND!’ he blurted. ‘THEY’RE ALL GOING TO GET SNOWED IN!’

  He was right. If Orfis and his family were on their way to us, the blizzard they brought with them would be a whopper, freezing everything for miles around.

  ‘AAAAGH!’ With that, Dad ran out through the kitchen door, scattering dust pooks this way and that, like grubby little tennis balls, then sprinted off down the hallway, screeching, ‘WE HAVE TO WARN YOUR MOTHER!’

  NEW ARRIVALS

  By the time I caught up with Dad, he was hurrying behind the stone counter in the reception hall.

  I watched him attempt to tell Mum the news, but she was far too busy dealing with guests to listen.

  In the short time I’d been in the kitchen, the enormous foyer had completely filled up with hordes of holidaymakers, ready for the Trogmanay weekend.

  A line of boggarts, a Japanese dogu, some chirping stag-bunkles, an ancient pine dryad and a family of grime fairies had formed in front of Mum.

  ‘We have a deluxe hutch freshly prepared for you all,’ I heard Mum say as she checked in a family of rabbity hinkapoots. She smiled at them, still blissfully unaware that things were about to get very cold. ‘Will you be wanting a wake-up carrot?’

  Mum glanced over at me with a grin on her face, then gestured for me to help an elderly anemononk climb out of the open sea door in the middle of the spiral floor. The old thing was twitching his bright pink-and-orange feelers this way and that, grumbling to himself.

  ‘Welcome to the Nothing To See Here Hotel,’ I said, grabbing at his hand. He wrapped his jellylike tentacles round my wrist and I tried my best not to grimace as the slimy sea creature slithered up over the edge of the deep well.

  ‘Thank you kindly, young man,’ the anemononk half-rasped, half-gurgled at me. ‘Me suckers ain’t what they used to be…’ Then he gave a bubbling, sludgy laugh and slopped off in the direction of the reception counter.

  ‘Frankie?’

  I jumped with surprise as Dad put a hand on my shoulder. ‘On second thoughts, don’t mention anything about the storm,’ he whispered. ‘There’s no point upsetting you-know-who if it turns out to be just a regular one. Sometimes human forecasters get these things wrong, so it might be nothing. Go to the window and keep an eye on things.’

  Mum looked over and Dad smiled his best ‘everything’s fine’ smile at her before hurrying back to help at the front desk.

  Maybe Dad was right not to cause an unnecessary fuss. Mum loved celebrating the magical holidays SO much and it would be a shame to spoil it for her if we didn’t need to. Plus, things had already been really strange at the Nothing To See Here Hotel lately.

  Really, REALLY STRANGE!

  Only six weeks ago, we’d all watched in horror as Prince Grogbah, the thieving heir to the throne of the Barrow Goblins, had been accidentally swallowed by Mrs Venus (Mr Croakum’s giant, flowery, fly-trap wife). That was after the entire hotel had been stormed by goblin pirates and nearly wrecked in a swash-bungling battle!

  HA! How’s that for a crazy paragraph? But it’s all true…

  Mum had been on high alert ever since, making sure absolutely nothing went wrong for the Trogmanay Trolliday.

  I walked over to the smashed window next to the front door and stared out at the horizon. So far, so sunny … or…

  There, just above the line of the sea, was a big dark smudge of cloud against the bright blue sky.

  It was impossible to tell if I was looking at an enchanted storm from this far away, but the more I watched it, the more I could see the clouds were growing and heading towards us. Whether it was a magical blizzard or not, it seemed certain the bad weather was going to reach Brighton.

  So much for a sunny party outside. Dad was right that a freak snowstorm could cause a Trogmanay disaster, but if our yeti friends from across the globe were the reason for the storm then it would all be worth the cold! The guests might have a good grumble that their summer fun was ruined, but the idea of celebrating the trolliday with snowball fights and sledging gave me goosebumps with excitement.

  I was just about to get Dad’s attention and update him about the dark smudge on the horizon when the sky-door mechanism jolted into action, and the black and white rings on the floor started spinning in different directions beneath our feet.

  ‘Incoming!’ Mum yelled as I rattled past her, trying to keep my balance while dodging the elderly anemanonk at the same time.

  ‘Ere what’s going on?’ the old sea creature gurgled, frantically wrapping his feelers around
a hat-stand for dear life. ‘It’s a whirlpool!’

  ‘Oooh, lummy!’ The Molar Sisters called from the third floor balcony. ‘I hope it’th thomeone dentithty!’

  ‘Or edible!’ Madam McCreedie joined in from the entrance to the library.

  A shaft of sunlight suddenly streamed down through the centre of the spiral staircase as the door slid away, ten floors up, and I squinted to see who was arriving.

  ‘Who could this be?’ Dad said, looking mildly panicked as he jogged against the turning floor next to me. ‘Yetis can’t fly, so it certainly isn’t them.’

  MAUDLIN MALONEY DROPS IN

  ‘STEADY!’ a cracked voice suddenly shrieked as a dark, square shape came tumbling down through the hole in the ceiling. ‘STEADY AS SHE GOES!’

  I squinted even more to try to see better, then instantly forgot about yeti visitors and Trogmanay feasts as a feathery house came hurtling into view.

  ‘BRACE YOURSELVES, GIRLS!’ the voice yelled.

  I’ve said squillions of times before that I really DO see crazy things every single day, but this was a shock even for me. I’d never seen anything like it!

  The house plummeted towards us, spinning and ricocheting off the staircase landings with dreadful crunches and flurries of feathers.

  ‘PULL UP!’ the shrill voice started to howl from inside the falling object. ‘Pull up, ladies, or we’ll be splattered, so we will!’

  My heart jumped into my throat and I grimaced, trying to look away. Any second now, the wooden shack would shatter against the floor and…

  Just as we all started screeching in unison, thinking the queue of impatient guests at reception were about to be squished flatter than Nancy’s badger-milk pancakes, the house came to a wobbly stop in mid-air above our heads.

  For a second there was only a stupefied silence, then everybody screamed and bolted to safety, except for one of the boggarts, who wheezed a startled croak at his wife and children and promptly fainted.

  As the sky door creaked back into place above us, I finally got a good look at the unidentified falling object and my mouth drooped silently open at the bizarre sight. It wasn’t a feathery house at all.

  Suspended in the air above reception was a caravan, about a quarter of the size of the type a human would live in. It looked like the pictures you see in books, with brightly patterned walls and a few squat chimneys poking out through a rounded roof tiled in rusted coins!

  Where most caravans have a horse or donkey at the front to pull them along, this one had several ropes sticking out of its windows, each clutched in the claws of a frantically flapping chicken. There must have been twenty of them!

  The poor things were half-bald and looked like they were going to pass out or let go at any moment.

  ‘BWARK!’ one of them ca-cawed, beating its wings so hard it looked like they might drop off.

  ‘B–KAWK!’ called another as an egg splatted on the foyer floor … and then another … and another.

  ‘What’s that, ladies?’ The front door of the caravan burst open and one of the most grizzled faces I’d ever seen leaned out. ‘Would you look at that … safely on dry land! We made it!’

  Everybody gasped and a ripple of fearful mumbling went round the room. It was a leprechaun.

  Now, if there’s one magical creature that you humans have got so, so, SO wrong in stories over the centuries, it’s these Irish fairies.

  In really-real life, leprechauns aren’t anything like the little men in green suits you read about or see on TV.

  NOT EVEN CLOSE!

  They are only ever female, for instance, and they’re never jolly or found skipping about at the end of a rainbow, and their magic charms are mostly extremely unlucky.

  ‘Um…’ Dad slowly raised a hand and waved to catch her attention. ‘W-welcome?’

  The leprechaun jolted with surprise when she spotted our faces goggling up at her.

  ‘Oh, would you look at you all,’ she said, eyeing the crowd and the drop to the floor. She stared for a long time with the expression of someone who’d swallowed a wasps’ nest, then rapped on the ceiling above her. ‘We didn’t quite make it, ladies … LOWER!’

  The exhausted chickens slowed their crazed flapping and the caravan juddered downwards until it hit the black and white tiles with a BUMP, narrowly missing the unconscious boggart.

  ‘Is this the place?’ the little creature grunted, stepping out onto the floor.

  I’d never seen a leprechaun before (except in Great-Great-Great-Grandad Abraham’s dusty old books), but I’d been warned about them hundreds of times. They were very tricksy and often brought terrible bad luck with them, wherever they went.

  ‘I said, is this the place?’ she asked again. ‘The Nothing To Something Something Hotel?’

  Nobody spoke. All we could do was gawp at the strange, stumpy creature with a face like hammered meat and tangled grey dreadlocks that snaked about her shoulders and back like mouldy rags. Both arms were covered in twisty blue tattoos and her gnarled fingers (she was missing a few) were stacked with row upon row of gold rings.

  ‘What are those?’ one of the boggart children asked, pointing to a leathery clutch of shrunken heads hanging from the leprechaun’s belt. The boggart mother quickly shushed her son and pulled him away.

  ‘Ooooh, these are me most precious, most dark and dooky unlucky charms,’ the leprechaun said with a leer. ‘Would you like one?’

  Nobody answered.

  ‘This one here,’ the ancient bad luck fairy hissed, clutching at a particularly gruesome-looking lump of a head, ‘was my Aunt Influenza. She had it comin’, so she did. The noggin-knocker forgot to put sugar in me cocoa.’

  Still nobody made a peep.

  ‘What’s the matter with you all?’ she barked as everyone took a step backwards. ‘Have your tongues been swiped by rattle-snitches?’

  Mum suddenly came to her senses and bounded out from behind the stone counter, beaming her ‘customer service’ smile.

  ‘I do apologise,’ she said, reaching out to shake the leprechaun’s hand, then instantly yanking hers away again. Anyone with even a shred of intelligence knows never to touch the unluckiest fairy in the magical world. ‘You just took us by surprise … that’s all.’

  ‘Surprise?’

  ‘Mmm-hmmm.’ Mum gave a painful smile.

  ‘Haven’t you ever seen a lepre-caravan flown by chickens before?’

  ‘I didn’t think chickens could fly!’ The words came out of my mouth before I was able to stop them.

  ‘Oh?’ The grizzled old thing turned and scowled at me. For a moment I felt sure I’d made her angry, but then her forehead creased in thought.

  ‘Well, that explains the bumpy ride.’ She cackled with laughter. ‘Ain’t that right, girls?’

  The chickens cooed and clucked a weary response, already nestling in to roost on the caravan roof.

  ‘Welcome to the Nothing To See Here Hotel! Are you here for the trolliday weekend, Madam?’ asked Dad, joining Mum at her side, but keeping a safe distance from our new guest.

  ‘Madam?’ The leprechaun scoffed. ‘What nonsense! Maloney’s the name.’ She grinned, showing a mouthful of teeth so wonky and dirty they looked like gravestones. ‘Maudlin Maloney.’

  ‘Welcome, Miss Maloney,’ Mum said. ‘Can we interest you in a room? We’re very busy, but I’m sure we can squeeze you in somewhere…’

  ‘What would I be wantin’ a room for when I’ve got me own lepre-caravan parked right in your reception?’ Maudlin interrupted. ‘Here’ll do just fine, methinks.’

  Mum looked like she’d just been slapped round the face.

  ‘And I don’t care about all that Trogmanay twaddle and fancyish foolery! Spittle-trump, if you ask me!’ Miss Maloney continued. ‘I just want to get me some sun. GLORIOUS, RUMP-ROASTING SUNSHINE! It’s all me cold and cankery heart desires, don’t you know? I’ve been dreamin’ of warmin’ me wumplets and cosyin’ me carbuncles for yonkers now. These tired old bones are
half-rotten with the chill of Tipperary torrents. I can’t take any more cold. I’ll bust me boogles if I have to spend one more dooky day a-shiverin’!’

  Dad shot me a worried look, then glanced at the windows, searching for signs of snow.

  ‘You’ve come to the right place,’ Mum said, smiling. ‘You’ll love our mud spa, and the pool deck is drenched in sunlight all day long.’

  ‘Music to me papery ears!’

  ‘We also have lots of … ummm … blankets,’ Dad stammered.

  The old leprechaun fixed him with her icy stare and scowled.

  ‘Blankets?’ she hissed. ‘Why would I be wantin’ blankets? Who the blunkers are you?’

  ‘Banister,’ said Dad, looking like he might burst into tears. ‘Bargeous Banister.’

  ‘Any relation to Abraham Banister?’

  ‘Yes, actually,’ Dad said. ‘Abraham was my great-great-grandfather.’

  Dad gestured up to the framed portrait of Grandad Abraham that hung above reception.

  ‘Oh, there he is, the ratsome old dog.’ Maudlin chuckled. ‘I knew Old Abe well in me earlier years … and his son there.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I asked, forgetting my nervousness and taking a few steps closer.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Miss Maloney grunted.

  ‘Did you say “son”?’

  I glanced up at the portrait, which was identical to the one in my room. In the picture, Abraham was standing at the centre of a jungle clearing with a pale, dark-haired boy. I’d asked a squillion times before who the child was, but no one could ever tell me … not even Great-Great-Great-Granny Regurgita.

  ‘That’s right. I knew old Abe and his son,’ Maudlin said.

  ‘Abe and Regurgita didn’t have a son,’ said Dad. He looked about as confused as I felt.

  ‘They only have two daughters. There’s Grottle Glump, who lives in Mexico on her foozle farm these days, and then there’s Zennifer Glump.’ He pointed to the water witch in the middle of the fountain.