Free from the confines of the gully, the wind swirled around him like a tornado, bouncing off the cliff face and threatening to throw him in any direction. If he hit the rocks with enough force, the wings would be torn to pieces, leaving him with little hope of surviving the fall.
No, he told himself. You need to get down.
He willed his terrified tail to act, but in the panic of the moment it froze to the spot. Desperately, he retracted the ends of the wings, trying to reduce the surface area.
It made little impact. Still gaining altitude, he withdrew the wings even further, while forcing his tail down. In the swirling wind, he began to fall, spiralling downwards towards the rocky foot of the chimney.
I need more resistance, he realised, flinging the wings open to slow his descent. The wind instantly took hold of him, jerking him to a stop in mid-air. Before he could act, he was being blown back up again.
‘Blasted wings,’ he cursed. ‘I’ll never get this right.’
He retracted the wings once more. This time he was gentler with his movements, using his tail to steer his body in an arc until he was facing directly into the chimney. With no hope of avoiding a collision, he manoeuvred the Ghost Wings towards a flat ledge partway up the rocks.
He came in fast, thrusting his legs out in front of him, hoping his boots would take the full force of the impact. There was a sickening SCREEEECH as the spiked soles of his boots scraped over the granite, sending tiny sparks flying in all directions.
He skidded to a halt at the end of the ledge and flopped backwards, his wings spread out beneath him, the taunting wail of the wind still echoing in his ears. There he lay, panting for breath in the thin mountain air, aware of how close he had come to disaster.
Looking up, he saw two grey granite cliffs rising high above him, converging in a zig-zagging line to form the chimney. Staring at the weather-beaten rocks, he realised it was going to be a difficult climb. Not only did he have the wind to contend with, but there were overhangs, loose rocks and sections with no visible paw holds.
At least the weather is holding out, he thought optimistically.
He wiggled his body free of the Ghost Wings, leaving them flat on the ledge, then examined each joint as he folded them up again. Apart from one damaged nail, which he replaced with a spare from his pocket, the wings had survived surprisingly well.
With the folded wings secure and fastened to his back, Whisker began his ascent. Inactivity, he reasoned, would only increase his chances of frost bite, and he removed his tail from the straps, allowing it to move unrestrained behind him. With any luck it would assist with his balance and act like a safety rope in the event of a slip.
After several minutes of awkward climbing wearing heavily padded gloves, Whisker opted for a bare-paws approach. At first it gave him a stronger grip on the rocks, but his fingers became numb and started cramping from the cold and he was quickly forced to abandon the idea.
Slipping his fingers back into his mittens, he reminded himself that his legs were much stronger than his arms. His hobnailed boots weren’t the most ideal climbing shoes, but their front spikes allowed him to find footholds in the narrow grooves between the rocks. The close confines of the chimney meant that Whisker could also brace his body against two sections of rock for greater stability.
Working his way up the chimney, he was so absorbed in finding his next hold, that he was caught unawares by a second piercing CRACK … crack … crack … echoing through the air.
Reacting instantly, he pressed his body against the cliff face and remained perfectly still. He waited as the seconds ticked by, half expecting to see a shower of rocks plummeting past his head. But the sound soon faded to silence, with no sign of a rock fall.
Whisker began to breathe easily again. Reminded of the false alarm at the glacier, he looked above him, trying to determine if the two sounds were connected. There was no doubt the second crack had come from higher up the mountain – if not from the cliffs then definitely from the upper slopes – but beyond that, Whisker had no clue. Apprehensively, he resumed his climb, making his way further and further up the chimney.
Due to the high altitude, he began to experience severe bouts of dizziness. During one episode, when his mind was teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, he felt himself swaying precariously over the edge of the cliff. Fighting through the moment, he eventually resumed control of his balance, only to discover that his tail had been the sole appendage stopping him from falling. In shock, he pulled himself closer to the rocks and remained there for several minutes, hanging on for dear life and sucking down great gulps of air.
With the dizziness came a lack of focus and his thoughts increasingly drifted to Anna and Horace, imprisoned in the cage. Distracted from the task at hand, his mittened paws began to slip on the icy rocks and he found it a constant battle just to hold on. He resisted the urge to look down – not from a fear of heights, but from a fear of losing his confidence and falling from such a height.
Climbing higher, one struggling hold at a time, Whisker was relieved to notice a gradual easing of the wind. The calm conditions came with a price, however. In the stillness of the air, small misty clouds began forming around him, shrouding the way ahead and leaving a slippery sheen over the rocks.
He wondered if he would ever reach the top.
It was while he was climbing through one of these clouds that Whisker first glimpsed a small lump of snow nestled between two rocks. Filled with hope, he struggled higher, spotting more snow on the ledges above him. As he progressed, he noticed the chimney gradually widening and the steep gradient levelling out to become a gentle slope. The soft, white snow was soon visible all around him, growing whiter as he moved from the shadows of the cliffs. For the first time in hours, he saw the hazy sphere of the afternoon sun filtering through the clouds above him and realised, with great joy, that he had finally reached the upper slopes of Cloud Mountain.
Stopping to catch his breath, he took out his compass and took a bearing. Visibility was poor and the white snow of the slopes faded to a dull grey in every direction. Through the low clouds, he could barely see a few feet in front of him, let alone as far as the distant summit.
He removed Mr Tribble’s map of the mountain from his bag and examined the icy paper. According to the map, the summit lay to the north-east of the chimney at the top of a steep slope. To reach it, Whisker would first have to pass between a small band of rock and a low cliff to the north. To avoid the potentially hazardous cliff, he would need to follow the compass religiously.
After eating the remaining squares from his first block of chocolate, Whisker set off through the clouds, the compass held tightly in his paw. His limbs ached from the arduous climb up the chimney and he struggled to remain warm after his brief rest stop. His bouts of dizziness had decreased, but they had been replaced by a constant throbbing in his head. Wondering if he was simply dehydrated, he scooped up a pawful of snow and forced it into his mouth. He felt a sharp stinging sensation as the icy substance slushed down the back of his throat, soon to be replaced by a dull numbness.
What I would give for a steaming cup of tea right now, he thought wishfully, even considering a mug of the much-detested Hot-Chilli Cola to warm his icy insides.
The snow did little to relieve his headache and he resigned himself to the fact that his condition would only deteriorate the longer he was exposed to the cold.
The clouds thickened as Whisker progressed, transforming the sky into a seamless blanket of grey. The diffused light made it impossible for him to determine the exact position of the sun and he began to question whether he was heading in the right direction. He maintained a steady watch on his navigation instrument, but the points of the compass blurred in and out of focus as the mountain clouds wrapped their wispy tendrils around him.
It came as a relief when Whisker’s head poked through the top of a cloud and he saw the triangular peak of the summit rising directly in front of him – exactly where he hoped i
t would be.
To his left, in silhouette against the vivid blue sky, loomed the dark shape of the cliff. Capped by a thick layer of ice and snow, it cast a long shadow over the pristine white slopes. Protruding beyond its western edge and backlit by the sun was a massive snow cornice. Windblown snow on the crest of the cliff had accumulated over time and now hung suspended in mid-air like a frozen wave. The cornice was as fragile as it was majestic, its presence made even more ominous by the strange-shaped wall of rock beneath it – a hulking slab of stone resembling a crouching animal, a final guardian of the mountain.
A giant black bear, Whisker decided.
He had fought bears in the past and knew they were not to be trifled with – even if they were made of stone – and he made a concerted effort to keep his distance from the cliff.
The bear-shaped guardian was not the only landmark that caught Whisker’s attention. Swivelling around to face his path of ascent, he saw the snow-capped mountains of Aladrya stretching out beyond the blanket of cloud. The majestic blue water of Lake Azure lay thousands of metres below him, glistening in the afternoon sunshine. Beyond the lake, the snaking Hawk River made its winding way south, disappearing from sight behind the canyon walls of Eagle’s Pass.
Whisker stood transfixed, marvelling at the creation before him. It was not only the lack of oxygen that took his breath away, it was the sheer exhilaration of witnessing the world as he had never seen it. From the lofty heights of the mountain, everything appeared so tiny, so fragile. Massive boulders were nothing but pebbles. Towering trees were toothpicks in the snow. The world Whisker had known was too small to even comprehend.
He had never been so high in his life, nor did he imagine he ever would be again. And yet he couldn’t stay in his dreamlike state a moment longer.
The mountain made sure of it.
While Whisker’s eyes were locked on a distant snow field, he heard a terrifying CRACK from behind him. It was the same gut-wrenching sound he had heard twice before. This time it was followed by a low rumble, shaking the ground he was standing on. And this time he knew exactly what it was.
Spinning on his heel, he looked up to see a huge slab of ice and snow separating itself from the top of the cliff. Weakened by the heat of the sun, the mighty cornice had finally broken free. Smaller pieces of ice had already plummeted to the ground and were beginning to tumble downhill, stirring up a cloud of snow as they went.
Whisker stood frozen to the spot, unable to move a muscle. His entire body was fixed on the massive chunk of ice crashing to the snowy slope. It hit the ground with a terrifying THRUMP, sending a tremor racing though the snowpack. Whisker was almost thrown off his feet. An instant later, there was a high-pitched splintering sound as an entire section of the slope detached itself from the mountain, leaving a jagged line in its wake.
At first it moved as one mighty slab, sliding down the slope like a giant piece of cheesecake. Then, as it gathered momentum, it began breaking apart, tearing up the ground and sending powdery bursts of snow billowing into the air.
Whisker’s initial shock turned to pure terror. The falling cornice had triggered a massive avalanche and it was heading straight for him.
His legs started running before his brain had issued the command. He had to find cover. But where? He was on an open slope. There were no trees, logs or boulders to shelter behind.
In desperation, he recalled the small line of rocks he had seen on the map, and hoped he could reach them in time. They lay to the south, hidden by the mass of low clouds covering the foot of the slopes.
It was a blind hope, but it was his only hope.
Fuelled by adrenalin, he dropped onto all fours and scrambled into the misty clouds. His limbs moved at a tremendous pace, his boots and mittens barely touching the snow.
The avalanche thundered after him with the deafening roar of a thousand cannons. He shot a frantic glance behind him, but saw only white. The clouds and the avalanche had become one.
It was a race to reach the cover of the rocks before he was overrun by countless tonnes of snow. At any moment, he expected the churning wave of white to put an end to his pathetic attempts of escape.
The rumbling grew louder. He saw the first small chunks of snow skidding past him, and knew it was the end.
Then, without warning, he felt the snow give way beneath his legs and he fell. He glimpsed the dark shapes of rocks cross his vision as he crashed headfirst to the ground.
The impact of the fall jerked his neck backwards and his arms and legs crumpled limply beneath him. Racked with pain, he resisted the urge to give in. With thoughts of his sister filling his mind, he mustered the last of his strength and rolled his body against the foot of the rocks.
The avalanche hit with catastrophic force.
A torrent of snow and ice thundered over the lip of the rocks, blocking out the sun. The ground shook violently. The air exploded with the muffled rumble of falling rubble. Fine particles of powdered snow cascaded around him, threatening to bury him alive. Whisker pressed himself closer to the rocks, raising his arms to protect his head.
Above him, the avalanche continued its destructive path down the mountain – an unstoppable river of snow and ice. Whisker lay trembling like a newborn cub, cold and frightened.
As the sound of the avalanche faded, his body finally succumbed to pain and exhaustion. Stars filled his vision, snow weighed him down and he felt himself drifting into unconsciousness. He tried to fight it, but there was nothing he could do. With a terrifying sinking feeling, his entire world turned black.
And Whisker knew no more.
Entombed
Silence, stillness, black …
Whisker awoke to nothing – no colour, no sound, no movement. Nothing.
He felt cold – bitterly cold.
Go back to sleep, he told himself, instinctually reaching down for a blanket. His arm moved as far as his waist then stopped. Something soft was already wrapped around him.
Snow!
The memory of the avalanche came flooding back. Suddenly, he knew where he was and what had happened. He had been buried alive – buried but alive.
His first instinct was to panic – to shout and scream and call for help. But he knew it would be pointless. He was alone on the top of Cloud Mountain, under layers of snow, with no one to hear him and no one to help him.
He would have to save himself.
With the realisation came a calming clarity. He had a single focus in life: to dig himself out. For a brief space in time, nothing else mattered, no one else existed. There was just him, his swords and the snow.
The words of Ruby drifted into his mind: Focus on the mountain and the mountain alone and the rest will slip away …
He wiggled his numb toes, hoping they hadn’t succumbed to frostbite, then attempted to draw his legs closer to his body. It was a struggle at first, but eventually he felt his knees moving through the loose snow.
No broken bones, he thought in relief. His head and neck still ached from his fall, but he dismissed his injuries lightly. He’d dealt with pain climbing the mountain. He could handle a little bit more.
With the lower half of his body now free, he stretched his arms above his head. His mittened paws extended upwards without restriction, revealing an air cavity above him.
He tried rising to his feet but something was pinning his shoulders down – the Ghost Wings.
He slowly removed his arms from the shoulder straps and rose into a crouching position. Brushing the snow from the wings, he dragged them away from the rock. They felt intact in the darkness, but he wouldn’t know for certain until he was out in the sunlight.
He lay the wings beside him, taking great ragged breaths. With every minute he was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.
Strange, he gasped, I thought there would be enough oxygen in here to last me for hours.
Hastily, he drew his scissor sword and began probing the snow above his head, attempting to locate a weak spot without
collapsing the entire roof. He had no idea how thick the snow was, only that it was dense enough to block out the sun.
Locating a soft section of powdered snow, he began scraping the surface with his sword. Immediately a huge shower of snow and ice rained down on him, filling his mouth and knocking him off his feet.
Spitting out snow, he flailed his arms in a swimming motion, trying to stay on top of the pile. The snow continued to fall and he feared it would engulf him completely.
Then the deluge ceased and Whisker was once again surrounded by the eerie black silence of his prison, semi-buried in the snow.
Not waiting for another collapse, he forced himself upwards, kicking the snow aside and scrambling to the top of the pile. Dragging the Ghost Wings with him, he raised himself into the hole, preparing to resume his frantic digging.
A sudden icy draft tickled his whiskers and he stopped dead in his tracks, his heart racing.
Moving air means a way out.
He scanned the darkness above him, searching for the source of the faint breeze. All he could see was black.
There must be a small hole somewhere, he thought, perplexed.
As he looked harder, he began to see tiny points of light in the emptiness above him.
Cracks in the ice, he told himself.
He extended his scissor sword upwards, preparing to saw his way through. But the sword met no resistance – in fact it touched nothing at all.
And then it dawned on him – the wind, the lights, the darkness. There was no ceiling of ice above him. There was only the night sky and an infinity of twinkling stars.
The terrible realisation hit him like a second avalanche. The truth was irrefutable. He hadn’t blacked-out for a couple of minutes. He had been unconscious for hours. In that time, the afternoon had turned to dusk, and then darkness had descended over the mountain.
Whisker’s hopes of rescuing Anna and Horace were instantly shattered into a million icy shards. He had failed to reach the summit by sunset and he had failed his friends. He wanted to cry, but his frozen eyes were unable to muster the tears. He simply slumped to his knees, a broken shell of a rat, his mind a churning sea of despair and anger.
Child of the Cloud Page 16