Dad was particularly concerned about Albie, who said he would not wear his cape until Paris returned home. Albie would keep repeating that all the way home and continue to repeat it every morning when he woke.
As Paris’s family left Switzerland, Dougie McQueen arrived at the airport in spectacular fashion. He liked to be identified as a hunter within a nanosecond of anyone meeting him. He always wore a beige safari suit with shiny brown boots. He sported a wide-brimmed light brown hat, with a leopard skin scarf tied around its brim with the ends falling onto his shoulder, like a ponytail.
His skin was very pale, so were his eyes, a soft brown, matched by a light brown moustache, with curled ends that formed almost perfect circles either side of each nostril. His hair was a swirl of neatly trimmed ginger curls. Indeed, due to his tight curly hair, those who tended to dislike Dougie referred to him as the ‘Deadly Shredded Wheat!’
Representatives of the media swarmed Dougie as he entered Arrivals at Geneva airport. He loved it and posed for pictures, happy to answer the many questions being shouted out by the gathering of journalists thrusting microphones towards him, like they were tempting him to try their unique brands of lollipops.
Dougie boasted that he was going to end the threat of wolves in the whole of Switzerland; he’d be the modern day ‘Pied Piper,’ drawing them from their lairs and clearing the danger from the streets. He would hunt those wolves that had attacked the poor defenceless Paris Palmer and make them pay. His moustache twitched, with the passion of his speech.
Eventually Fraser managed to drag Dougie away from the airport, suggesting that getting too carried away now might jeopardise their luck. In any case they needed to give the local Mayor the impression that they would go home unless he gave them loads of cash.
7
Back at the cave Paris was sitting up on the bed, her face glowing in the soft light of the little flames reaching up from those small black stones at the base of the walls. She was staring and her stare was fixed on the huge creature in front of her. There was no fear in her face, she looked calm; in fact if anything she looked pleasantly amazed.
Although the light was soft, Paris could see her host very clearly. He, she assumed it was a he, was kneeling over the makeshift stone fire. He appeared to be cooking something.
He glanced across at Paris and smiled. It was the first time she had really seen his face properly. It was a kind reassuring face, of course nothing like any she had seen before. It was covered in short dark brown fur. Around his eyes and mouth the fur was much lighter, almost white. He had the brightest of blue eyes; they were big but very human like. His smile revealed large snow-white teeth that would impress any dentist. Around his head the fur was long creating a bit of a rock ‘n’roll hairstyle, complemented nicely by a short stubbly beard. The most unusual feature, and let’s face it all his features were unusual, was his ears. They were long and stood tall, like a deer’s ears on high alert!
Although he was completely covered by thick hair, head to toe, he wore light leather clothing. Oddly he had huge walking boots on his feet, though they were clearly too small for him. No laces were required and the seams were splitting.
As Paris continued to stare, the creature finished cooking and poured the bubbling contents from an old dented pot that had been resting on the grate perched over the flames, into an equally dented old tin mug. He passed it carefully to Paris who was relieved to see the contents were actually a pleasant smelling soup. Paris detected carrots and chunky mushrooms.
She had forgotten how hungry she was. She sipped the soup and in no time was taking huge gulps. “Thank you,” said Paris and smiled. The creature smiled back and grunted a chorus of grunts, as if he were trying to talk.
The two sat together. Paris was starting to chat, asking questions and making gestures as she regaled what she could remember about the helicopter crash. The creature seemed to be listening and every now and then grunted.
Eventually the creature leaned over and pulled towards him the wooden block holding the five different coloured marbles. He picked up the orange marble from its perch. Paris noticed his large furry hands; the marble was almost lost in his palm. He gently placed it into her hand. It felt warm. A little tingle ran up Paris’s arm. It tickled then she dropped the marble abruptly.
The creature slowly bent down, picked up the marble and placed it back on its perch. Then to Paris’s utter amazement he spoke to her. “That’s better,” he said in a gruff but friendly voice, “you should understand me now.” Paris was stunned.
“What’s going on?” Paris eventually managed to whisper. She was still stunned. “It’s my marbles,” the creature said, pointing to the block of marbles, “They help me with things – the orange one’s called the ‘talking marble’.”
“Who are you, I mean what are you, I mean what’s your name?”
The creature smiled softly, “Well,” he said thinking about the questions, “I’m a Yeti, not that you may have heard of what a Yeti is and my name is Titus.”
Paris was still reeling from the fact that she was speaking English to something that was not a human being. “No, I don’t know what a Yeti is.”
They chatted and chatted. Paris couldn’t believe the magic of the moment. Here she was, chatting enthusiastically to a nine-foot Yeti, in a cave where it lived, while enjoying the cosy heat from the fire and tasty food, while also accepting the situation as quite normal. She didn’t comprehend how clutching an orange marble had given her the power to understand and converse with the Yeti, but she was so pleased she could. There was much to be discussed.
They sat together sipping soup and crunching on apples and nuts that the Yeti had scooped out of a huge basket from a corner of the cave. This spot appeared to be the larder. There were also huge clay jugs next to several other baskets of, what you might say, were groceries. From one of the jugs the Yeti poured two tin mugs of fresh water.
“Melted snow,” he said, “purest water you can get.”
Now they were both suitably refreshed, Titus told the story of how Paris came to end up here in his home, the cave. It turned out that he discovered her almost completely buried by the snowdrifts from the heavy storm the night he found her. When he arrived no one else was around, the wreck of the helicopter was deserted and some distance from where Paris was lying.
He brought her back to his cave. She was very weak; her lips were deep purple and her skin a pale grey. He was very concerned about her, he had not seen many humans, but he knew this was not how they should look. He made her as comfortable as he could, laying fresh petals on the bed. She had a nasty cut in her side and he dressed it.
After a little while he saw no change. She hadn’t moved or murmured a sound. He stoked the fire as high as he could and while the cave warmed up Paris remained cold.
Finally Titus reached for the blue marble on the wooden block and pushed it into the palm of her limp hand, holding it in place. After a few moments Paris began to stir. The colour returned to her cheeks almost instantly and the heavy purple tinge on her lips gave way to a normal cherry red. Apparently she had slept on and off for four days, waking just for the occasional sip of water. She was now on day five.
“And a little while ago you woke up properly and made your dash out of the cave,” said Titus, smiling. He offered her more soup.
Paris smiled back softly and thanked him again. She was in no doubt that the Yeti had saved her life. Then a look of horror struck her. “My family,” she shouted, panicking and jumping to her feet. She quickly grimaced and held her side. The pain made her drop back onto the bed with a bump. Titus quickly steadied her, putting his hand on her shoulder.
“Please don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, “your family were rescued, I am sure of it.”
Paris was in despair. How could the Yeti know that? She needed to get back to the city and now.
8
“Wait!” said Titus. He made his way to the back of the cave and scrambled over some rocks. In no
time he emerged with a little box. It was a radio, a very old and dirty one, but a radio nonetheless.
Somehow the pair managed to get it working and to Paris’s relief they soon found a news bulletin about her disappearance, announcing her family had returned back to the UK after several days of no news of their daughter.
The radio had at least given Paris the reassurance she was desperate to have, that her family were safe. Titus did well in calming her and getting her to accept that she needed to build her strength, another day or two and he promised to get her home. He promised that he could get her home more quickly than she could imagine.
Paris knew Titus was right. She could not travel at the moment, but was anxious to get back home, missing her family so much and knowing they would be so desperately worried about her. Titus did his best to entertain Paris, telling her about his many adventures and asking her about the world of the humans that he tried so desperately to avoid.
Time passed quickly and Titus began preparing another hot meal. Paris had not asked him directly but she was sure he was a vegetarian. He was cooking what appeared to be a vegetable broth; it smelt wonderful.
Paris was sitting on a large stone in the cave staring into the flickering flames of the fire with her elbows on her knees, thinking about her family and how they might be coping. She also wondered if Toby had given up on her and was seeing someone else already – surely not, she decided.
As her host went about preparing their evening feast, Paris sensed a strong smell of freshly baked bread. Titus had a makeshift oven, comprising carefully laid stones that formed a make shift kiln with one big flat stone as a door. The bread didn’t quite reach the soft fluffy standard that Paris was used to, but it tasted good.
She observed Titus as he cooked and wiped clean two stone slates ready for plating the broth. Understandably Paris remained fascinated by him. He moved like a human and was so human like; he could almost be taken for a man in some kind of Star Wars fancy dress. Everything in the cave he had either made or scavenged. It was all so organised and tidy.
She found his boots amusing. They brought a bit of comedy to his appearance, which of course overall was pretty disconcerting, at least when you first met him. Titus explained that the boots meant his footprints would always be mistaken for a human’s.
As she watched, she became aware of her notebook and the playing cards she had taken from Albie, still in her pocket. She pulled out both. There was a small pencil wedged between the pages of the notebook. Paris started to sketch Titus. After that, she sketched views of the cave. By the time Titus served up the food, Paris had sketched five pages.
As she tucked into the broth she found herself staring at the deck of playing cards she’d placed next to her. Something strange happened. For some reason she kept thinking about the six of spades while she ate. She could think about nothing else.
After her next mouthful, Paris turned over the card on top of the deck; it was the six of spades. Then an image of the queen of hearts popped into her head, and there it was looking up at her as she quickly turned over the second card. She did it ten more times, guessing correctly every time, until Titus’s voice broke her concentration.
“Are you OK?” he said.
Paris looked up, “I can guess the cards, I really can, I’ve guessed every one. How can that be?”
Titus appeared unimpressed; he could do it too. He could not explain why, he just could.
The trick, if that’s what it was, amused and amazed Paris. She went through the whole deck of cards twice, guessing the correct one each time. She was grinning, enjoying her newly acquired talent.
But then she paused and wondered what was really going on. She could converse with a Yeti and predict the turn of a playing card. Two things that was certainly not normal. Was she really awake, or was she just lying in the snow after the crash?
9
It was night-time. Dougie McQueen and Fraser were concealed under a large pine tree on the edge of the woods near a small village close to the hotel where the Palmers had stayed. They were laying tucked into the deep snow, Dougie poised, his rifle loaded with enough tranquilliser darts to take down a pack of wolves.
According to the local papers several pets had disappeared during the night. Reports claimed that eyewitnesses had seen dozens of wolves stalking villages during the quiet hours.
Fraser had acquired sore and blistered feet walking around the village that day, knocking on doors and seeking out those eyewitnesses, but no one seemed to know anything about missing pets and bold wolves walking the streets.
From where they were positioned they could see the beacon marking the spot of the hotel the helicopter was aiming for on that fateful night. It was another clear night and Dougie and Fraser were exceptionally cold, despite their thermal underwear and several layers of clothes. Fraser had even swapped his tartan kilt for tartan trousers, something he did in exceptional circumstances only.
In the subdued light Fraser was certain he could see a small icicle dangling from the end of Dougie’s beautifully circular moustache.
“Would you like my handkerchief, sir,” he whispered, starting to fumble in his coat pocket.
“Don’t fuss, Fraser,” retorted Dougie, in his best angry whisper, which was still quite loud.
The two men had been out for several nights now with not a sign of a wolf, not even a paw print in the snow. Fraser was exhausted from his day of trudging around the village. While he trudged, Dougie had caught up on some supposedly well-earned sleep.
Fraser was increasingly bored as well as cold; he didn’t even have a rifle to point.
“Shall we retire early tonight, sir? We could avoid those annoying reporters back at the hotel quizzing us on how the ‘Pied Piper’ of wolves was doing.”
Fraser knew how to get Dougie to come round to his way of thinking, usually by irritating him. “All right, all right, let’s call it a night and think about a new approach for tomorrow.” Dougie was about to get up and stomp off when he noticed from the corner of his eye a movement over by the trees. Something was emerging from the woods, something big.
“Quiet and stay down,” he quickly whispered to Fraser. Dougie peered through the sight of the rifle. There was something coming towards them. He couldn’t quite make out what it was, but it was moving at a pace. He fired.
“Hey,” someone shouted. “Don’t shoot.” A man emerged from the darkness; a dart was swinging from his thick fur coat.
“I’m sorry,” said Dougie, “I thought you were a wolf.”
The man had something in his hand; it was a silver flask. “Here,” he said in a strong Swiss accent, “I’ve brought you some hot chocolate, you must be near frozen by now, as well as blind!” He had two cups and filled them with steaming hot chocolate, “Please, drink while it’s hot.”
Dougie and Fraser gratefully took the hot chocolate, both nodding in gratitude and instantly taking a sip in unison; it was warm and comforting.
Dougie apologised again, blaming the poor light for his mistake. The man introduced himself as Conrad, a local woodman and odd-jobber. He pointed back over to the woods, explaining he lived there in a small log cabin.
They exchanged pleasantries and Conrad invited the two hunters to join him for a nice warm brandy, a much more effective warmer than hot chocolate. He had heard about Dougie’s quest and had something to tell him that he might find very interesting, a story that could change his life.
The three men made their way into the woods and in no time came across Conrad’s tiny log cabin. Inside they sat around a battered wood table and Conrad produced three large bowled brandy glasses and a heavy crystal decanter filled with brandy. Conrad was definitely a serious brandy drinker, Dougie thought to himself. He preferred a fine Scotch whiskey himself.
Dougie settled in. He took off his wide-brimmed hunter’s hat, placed it on the table and smoothed down the leopard-skin scarf tied around the brim. His ginger hair seemed extra curly today.
10
The three men sat quietly while they each took a sip and enjoyed the warmth of the brandy. “That’s better,” said Conrad. He looked across the table to Dougie, took a further sip of brandy and began his tale.
He stared directly into Dougie’s eyes fixing his gaze on them as he spoke each word with deliberation. “I’ve lived here most of my life in this very cabin; I know these woods and the surrounding area better than anyone. I’ve only seen it twice, but I’ve seen it as clear as I’m seeing you now. I’ve tried to find it many times, but it’s too clever.”
He learned further across the table, almost getting out of his chair. “I think you can catch it Mr McQueen. If you do you’ll become the most famous hunter in the world.” Conrad paused, still holding his stare.
Dougie cleared his throat. He felt a little uncomfortable under Conrad’s gaze. Looking quizzically he asked Conrad, “What have you seen?”
Conrad’s eyes opened widely. “Yeti,” he said with great drama, “Yeti,” he repeated the word more loudly, “a beast that walks like a man, nine, maybe ten feet tall. A creature of myth, but I know it to be true.”
Fraser burst into laughter, quickly followed by Dougie. “I think, sir,” said Fraser, “perhaps on those occasions when you did see something, the brandy had been flowing most generously beforehand.”
Conrad appeared angry. He did not like being laughed at. “Listen,” he said firing his angry expression right into the eyes of Dougie, “you above all people should know about how elusive creatures can be. You must have come across some very clever animals able to hide and keep hidden to avoid the hunter?”
Dougie resisted the temptation to look away from Conrad’s angry expression. For some reason before he responded, he put his hunter’s hat back on, as if that would bring more authority to his response.
The Artist and The Yeti Page 3