Raven's Mountain (12 page)

I heave it across the windowsill. It sticks out a lot; it's not very bendy.

Then I climb onto the chair. I lean onto the wobbly doormat but I can't pull myself up and I'm still not quite high enough to wiggle through.

Fear-butterflies flap in my stomach. I lean further onto the mat and step onto the back of the chair.

The chair wobbles and tips. There's a crash as I kick free, and now I'm lying across the windowsill doormat, scrambling forward and tumbling headfirst into the kitchen sink. The mat skids off to the floor, but my right knee smacks the edge of the draining board and I'm stuck in the sink in a jumble of hands, legs and arms. All the bare bits are bleeding. Seems like quite a lot of glass landed in the sink ahead of me.

Then my arms and legs figure out how to untangle themselves, and I swing my legs over the bench and slide onto the floor.

There should be flashing lights and prizes. There should be clapping and cheering. I've won.

The prize is a phone. That's what the ad said: ‘One Free Call with Every Broken Window.'

I crunch across the broken glass on the kitchen floor.

The phone's not in the kitchen.

It's not in the living room.

Now I really feel like a burglar . . . but it's not in the bedrooms either.

There's no phone in this house.

‘Stupid, stupid people!' I scream at the empty kitchen. ‘How could you not have a phone!'

I swing open a cupboard door, and there it is, right up on the top shelf with the cord wrapped around it. It's pathetic and useless, and even worse than no phone at all, except it means I don't have to go on looking.

There are glasses and mugs on the shelf below the phone, but the next shelf has a jar of instant coffee, a jar of tea bags, a plastic container of powdered milk and a biscuit tin. There's a full packet of chocolate-chip biscuits in the tin.

Maybe these people aren't so bad after all.

Chocolate-chip biscuits are a whole lot better to eat than raw oats. Drinking from a mug is a whole lot easier than a tap. In about two minutes I've eaten six biscuits and I don't even feel like I'm going to be sick.

Biscuits in my tummy,

Chocolate in my brain,

It's really very funny

When you think you're going insane.

That one's for Jess.

But by the time I've eaten the next biscuit I've got a plan
 
– and that's for me.

I close the door carefully behind me when I leave the house. I guess it's a bit late to lock it with the kitchen window smashed open, but at least it'll stop any bears from wandering in.

The white horse watches me, nickering softly as I
 
walk towards his corral.

His eyes are so big, so soft and brown, that the longer I stare into them the more I know this horse understands me. He must
 
– he saved my life!

My plan seems better and better.

I tickle the swirl of hair on the middle of his forehead.

‘You still think I've got a treat for you?'

His velvet nose nuzzles my pocket.

‘What about a handful of oats?'

The barn's not nearly as far away from the house as the house was from the barn. Everything seems better when you're not throwing up.

I go back into the barn, and through to the tack room, with that happy smell of leather and horses. As well as the tub of oats, there are two saddles, two bridles and two halters; brushes, curry combs and hoof picks; linseed oil, leather cleaner and rags and a bunch of plastic buckets.

Now that my brain's working again, I notice the clipboard above the sink. There's a pen stuck through the clip and a note on the board.

R
ODE BOUNDARY FENCE
W
EDNESDAY – ALL WELL.

F
ED
S
NOWBALL AND
C
OCOA.

S
EE YOU SOON,
C
HERYL.

Snowball! That's got to be the white horse.

I like knowing his name.

I write a new note for the clipboard:

S
COTT AND
L
ILY ARE TRAPPED UNDER A ROCKFALL

AT
 
THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN.
P
LEASE PHONE 911

AND ALSO CALL
J
ENNY ON 456 6545.

I
AM BORROWING
S
NOWBALL.
I
WILL BRING HIM BACK

WHEN
I
'VE FOUND HELP.

Y
OURS SINCERELY

R
AVEN.

PS I'
M SORRY ABOUT THE WINDOW.
I
HAVE EATEN

SOME OATS AND BISCUITS TOO.
I
WILL PAY YOU BACK.

20
A LITTLE LATER SUNDAY MORNING

Snowball's saddle has got to be the one with white hairs on the blanket.

It's so heavy I can barely lift it.

I need that saddle!

But it doesn't matter how much I grunt and strain, I
 
can't swing it off the stand. I'll never be able to get it on his back.

I've always wanted to try riding bareback. Looks like I'll get my chance.

I take down the bridle hanging above it. The curb bit seems big and cold, and I don't know if Snowball will want it in his mouth.

The brown horse watches from the other side of the corral as I come out of the barn. I start rattling the oats. Snowball comes right away, his neck stretched towards the bucket.

‘That's why you're fatter than Cocoa!'

I loop the reins over his neck so he can't run away, and let him nuzzle oats from my hand. His rubbery lips tickle my palm; I'm so excited I can hardly breathe.

‘You'd like to take me for a ride, wouldn't you, Snowball?'

Looking deep into those brown eyes, I blow my own breath gently into his nostrils, so he'll know and trust me. He nibbles at the hay sticking out of my hair, and snorts.

‘I know I stink, but I really am a girl. Honest.'

Another handful of oats makes him believe me, so while he's chewing, I slip the bit into his mouth and the bridle over his head; do up the cheek strap, straighten the brow band . . . and he's perfect.

It's the first time I've bridled a horse.

‘Thank you,' I whisper, and lead him through the corral gate. My hands are so sweaty I have to wipe them on my jeans before I can lock it behind me.

I'm stealing a horse!

It's not too late; I could lead him straight back into the corral and no one would ever know that I was nearly a horse thief.

I loop the reins around his neck again, gather them in my left hand and line him up beside the fence.

It seems like part of me's flown free of who I thought I was. I can hardly remember the Raven who was afraid of what her sister would say, and who thought being wicked meant putting salt in Scott's coffee. This new Raven is a bruised, limping, bleeding, filthy, stinking, window-smashing, biscuit-stealing horse thief. The Raven who dances on mountain tops and treks down them on her own. The Raven who'd do anything to save her family.

Remember Bitsy?
says Jess.
What if he's a bucking
bronco?

Don't be stupid,
Amelia laughs.
Nobody calls a bucking bronco Snowball!

I climb onto the fence and slide onto his back.

Snowball is round but his backbone is pointy, and luckily, his mane's long enough to hold onto. He prances around a little, just to show me he can.

‘I don't care if you throw me once we find help,' I
 
tell him. ‘As long we get there!'

He tosses his head as if he'll have to think about it.

‘It's okay if you don't throw me, too!'

But the head tossing and eye rolling isn't about a skinny girl on his back: it's about what's coming in the sky.

The Rescue helicopter! I've got another chance!

Snowball's sidestepping and skittering. By the time I
 
let go of his mane to wave, the helicopter's gone. If they see me at all, they'll think I'm waving like a five-year-old at a train.

‘Dumb kid,' they'll be thinking. ‘Does she think Search and Rescue has time to wave at kids on ponies?'

But with a horse under me and chocolate-chip biscuits inside me, I've remembered how to hope. I'll be ready if the helicopter ever comes back
 
– or maybe by then I'll have found the truck and the phone by myself.

I stroke Snowball's neck till we're both calm, then turn him down the driveway.

The brown pony's galloping up and down the fence, whinnying wildly.

Snowball only turns his head to whicker once. I
 
don't know if he's saying, ‘It's okay, I'll be back soon,' or ‘
Nyah, nyah
, I'm going out and you're stuck at home!' He can be as rude as he likes to his friend, as long as he's nice to me. Bareback riding is slippery, the drive
–
way is long and twisty, and I want to stay on as long as possible. Luckily right now Snowball just wants to walk. Slowly.

‘Next time we'll go faster,' I promise.

There's not going to be a next time! You just better hope
you get to the end of the driveway before his owners see you
stealing him!

No, wait . . . that would be good.

It's hard to remember that even being arrested would be a good thing as long as I get to call Mum.

At the end of the driveway is a faded wooden sign of a galloping pinto.

It's the one Scott showed us on Thursday.

I'm on the road to the lake! This time nothing can go wrong. I won't have to drive the truck; I'll just grab that mobile phone and gallop down the road for help, like Paul Revere in the American Revolution, telling his friends that the British were coming.

Not long now!
I think to Lily and Scott.

Everyone in the family came for Mum and Scott's wedding: Gram, Aunt Carol and Uncle Jason, Mum's cousin from Nova Scotia, Scott's mum and dad who I guess are sort of our grand
–
parents now, Scott's brother and his wife and their sixteen-year-old twin daughters, his sister and her two little boys, and a bunch of cousins and their families.

Scott and his brother were standing at the front of the church.

We started down the aisle, Mum in front and Lily and me a step behind. Scott turned to watch, and I knew he was thinking that Mum was beautiful, because she was. Her dress was beautiful, and so were her flowers, but most of all, her face. She looked happy like I'd never seen her.

And then Scott cried. I never knew men could cry.

The helicopter noise starts suddenly, low down and straight ahead, as if it's landed and is taking off again. I
 
scrunch my eyes as tight as I can, but I can't see it. The good thing is that I'm too busy hanging on to get upset.

The road ends. We follow the track past more NO HUNTING signs and into the woods.

Driving down this trail in the truck, the trees seemed to be closing in on us, warning us we didn't belong. Now the leaves and branches are blurring and soft, and the horse and I are part of the forest. I can't hear the helicopter anymore; the world is still and quiet. I click to Snowball. This time he breaks straight into a canter, an easy cowpony lope.

It's as if we've been riding together forever. I can feel the muscles moving in his shoulders and the drumming of his hooves on the ground; my legs grip the warm barrel of his body and settle into the rhythm of his canter. It could almost be a dream, except I'm breathing in the warm smell of horse and I know it's real.

Now my raven is flying in front of us, guiding us through the cool green tunnel into a dazzle of sunshine. My dream in the cave makes sense now. Everything will be all right.

I can see Scott's truck, still safely parked in front of the rock pile at the other side of the clearing.

Down from the truck, closer to the lake's edge, is a huge old log nearly as big as the one I slept in with Hansel and Gretel. A black shape is tightrope walking along the top.

Something white leaps on him and knocks him to the ground. I can see the black and white blur as they tumble in and out of sight: it has to be Hansel and Gretel. I can't believe how happy I am to see them one last time.

No, no, no!

Lying under a tree, a man in a red plaid jacket is steadying his arm against a root, squinting down the sights of a rifle at the cubs.

Snowball pushes his front legs out hard and skids to a stop. I fly straight over his head.

I land on all fours like a bear. By the time I scramble to my feet, all I can see of Snowball is a flash of white disappearing down the track.

Another flash of white is coming down the hill towards me.

That's why Snowball bolted.

It's the second time in three days that the world's changed from fairytale to nightmare.

I'm between a charging bear and a man with a gun.

21
STILL SUNDAY MORNING

‘STOP! PLEASE STOP!'

I don't know if I'm screaming at Mama Bear or the man. Both.

It doesn't matter. The hunter's wearing earmuffs
 
– he can't hear me.

I grab a stone
 
– but what if I make him jump as he squeezes the trigger? What if he misses the cubs and hits me? And if he turns around he'll definitely shoot their mother. She's getting so close he can't possibly miss.

But the great white bear galloping through the woods isn't the gentle Mama Bear that let me sleep next to her cubs and left honey for me to find. This is a ferocious animal protecting her young, and the man on the ground might have a gun, but what he doesn't know is that right now he's the one being hunted.