Wild Moose Chase (5 page)

St Basil's Cathedral

After spending the night floating across the north European sky under the fur rug, the twins were jolted awake by a loud crash. Their blanket was thrown off and they toppled over each other, landing on top of a sleepy Mr Zola.

“Watch the whiskers,” he grunted, pushing the twins off.

The basket was tilting at a worrying angle. They all looked up into the dawn sky to see the flame above the gas canister had gone out and the huge Crown Balloon was slowly deflating.

“The fire's out!” screamed Mr Zola. “We're going to crash!”

“But we're not moving,” said Bert, getting to his feet. “And look, we're surrounded by other hot air balloons.”

Right beside the basket were the tops of several large domes. They looked like giant onions, each with a bulbous middle tapering smoothly to a point. They were beautifully ornate. Some were dotted with gold, green and crimson, and others were striped yellow and green, or blue and white.

“Why aren't we plummeting to our deaths?” asked Mr Zola, clutching his smelling salts in one hand and Monty in the other.

Cam peeped over the edge of the basket. “These aren't balloons,” she gasped. “They're the tops of towers. We've crashed into an enormous building.”

Bert and Mr Zola joined Cam and looked down at the city below.

“I do believe that we have landed in Red Square, Moscow,” announced Mr Zola, inhaling deeply from his smelling salts. “And we are dangling precariously from St Basil's Cathedral. We must have blown off course last night.”

“Where's Moscow?” asked Bert.

“It's the capital of Russia,” said Cam.

“Know-it-all,” muttered Bert.

“And St Basil's Cathedral is the jewel in Moscow's crown,” continued Cam. “It was built on the city's geometric centre, four hundred and fifty years ago, by Ivan the Terrible.”

“Well, he wasn't terrible at building cathedrals,” said Bert. “It's amazing.”

“B-beautiful it may be,” stuttered Mr Zola. “But how are we going to get down? We must be at least fifty metres off the ground.”

Bert felt his stomach tighten as he looked over the edge. He wasn't scared of heights and he knew Cam wasn't either. But if anything happened to them, then Gramps would be left on his own and the farm could be lost. He wasn't going to let that happen.

“How many ties has this balloon got?” he asked, picking up one of the red satin ropes that secured the balloon to the ground.

“Four,” replied Mr Zola. “But please don't tell me you're thinking of climbing down St Basil's on a rope.”

“No, not climb.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

“Abseil!”

Mr Zola's eyes widened and his hands flew up to his moustache.

“Monty doesn't like heights,” he said in a small voice.

Cam looked down at the ground below, a small gasp escaping from her diagonal mouth.

“OK,” she said slowly. “We've got to get down somehow. I'll need some of that rope to make harnesses.”

Bert began to cut the other three ropes and tie them securely together.

“It's all right, Mr Zola,” he said. “Once we've got the ropes all fitted, there should only be about a seven-metre drop to the ground – about the same as the first storey of a house.”

There was a thump as Mr Zola's legs buckled.

“He needs those smelling salts tied around his neck,” whispered Cam.

 

Eventually the long single rope was lowered over the basket and the three of them stood with their makeshift harnesses around their waists.

“Don't be scared, Mr Zola,” said Cam, patting him encouragingly on the back. “Bert and I do lots of climbing and abseiling where we live in Cheddar Gorge.”

“I'm f-fine,” stammered Mr Zola. “It's M-Monty I'm worried about.”

The twins exchanged a look before Bert climbed out of the basket.

“We're going to have to use an old-fashioned method of abseiling,” he said. “You have to wrap your harness around the top of your legs and waist to make a seat and firmly tie it to the main rope. The friction between the two ropes should stop you falling. Then, lean back and gently ease yourself down, using your legs to bounce off the walls. I'll go first as I'm the best abseiler.”

“You are not!” snapped Cam. “I'm best, I should go first.”

She tried to climb over Bert but he wouldn't let her pass.

“I'm going first! This was my idea,” yelled Bert.

There was an awkward scuffle and the basket lurched dangerously to one side, knocking Mr Zola off his feet.

“Stop fighting!” he screamed. “Camilla, you must go last. I need to be in the middle of you both. Now, let's get going before Monty changes his mind!”

They set off down the rope, Bert first, followed by Mr Zola and Cam last. The wind whistled through their hair. Nobody dared to look down. The rope swayed from side to side, knocking them against the cathedral wall. It was hard work and their hands were sore. About halfway along, the basket above them jolted and slipped down. Cam lost her grip and slid down the rope, bumping against the top of Mr Zola's head.

“You clumsy oaf,” he squawked. “The situation is bad enough without you squashing my cheese hat.”

Just then, the red phone in Mr Zola's man-bag started to play “God Save the Queen”.

“I don't believe it,” he spluttered. “It's her!”

He carefully pulled out the phone with one hand while gripping tightly to the rope with the other.

“Your Majesty… Yes, everything is fine,” he said, looking down at the lethal drop below him. “I'm just … hanging around in Moscow… The Crown Balloon, ma'am? … Erm, I need to talk to you about that… Yes, of course… I will be there as soon as possible … no more delays … goodbye, ma'am.”

He replaced the phone. “I've got to get to Siberia immediately,” he said. “But I couldn't bring myself to tell her about the Crown Balloon just yet. She's going to be furious.”

“There's nothing you can do about it now,” said Cam. “Let's just get to the ground. I can feel the basket wobbling above us. It doesn't feel very safe.”

Mr Zola closed his eyes and clung tightly to his rope. “You're scaring Monty,” he whimpered.

“There's nothing to worry about,” called Bert from below. “Only twenty-five per cent of all climbing deaths happen while abseiling.”

“THAT'S NOT HELPING!” screamed Mr Zola.

 

After spending several minutes urging Mr Zola to loosen his grip, they slowly continued their descent of St Basil's Cathedral. The twins marvelled at the intricate patterns made by the red brickwork and the shiny globes that topped the numerous domes like golden cherries. They caught glimpses of bright mosaics through the narrow windows and called to Mr Zola to open his eyes and look. But he kept them tightly shut the whole way.

“We're nearly at the bottom,” shouted Bert, after several minutes. “And it looks like we've got a welcoming committee.”

Cam looked down to see that a small crowd had gathered below. She could hear them chattering in Russian. Suddenly, one of the crowd screamed and pointed up at the cathedral. Cam heard a rumble and felt the rope go slack. She looked up to see the golden basket slip from its mooring. But before she could gather her thoughts, she dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Moose Fleas

Cam opened her eyes. It was pitch black. A dull ache drifted up her legs, but luckily it felt like she had landed on something soft. She reached beneath her to see what it was. Her hand touched something warm and hairy.

“Lay off the lip warmer,” said a voice.

“Mr Zola! Are you all right?”

The basket that covered them began to tip up and light came streaming in. Cam found herself sitting on top of Mr Zola, who was laid out flat on his back. Bert, helped by several people, was pushing the basket over.

“Cam!” he shouted. “You're OK!”

“Yes,” she said, “but I'm not sure about Mr Zola. What happened?”

“We were closer to the ground than I thought,” said Bert. “I managed to dive out of the way when the basket fell on top of you two. Thank goodness it landed upside down.”

Mr Zola groaned and sat up. “I'm OK,” he moaned. “But I think Monty might have broken a bristle. Someone call an ambulance.”

“Monty looks fine,” said Cam. “But listen. I can hear sirens. Someone must have called an ambulance already.”

The wailing of the siren got louder and the excited crowd opened up to let the vehicle through. But it wasn't an ambulance. It was a car with the white, blue and red flag of Russia emblazoned on the bonnet and the word POLITSIYA underneath. A blue and orange light flashed on the roof.

“It's the police,” said Mr Zola, staggering to his feet. “Let me handle this; my Russian is pretty good.”

Two officers got out of the car dressed in light blue shirts and large caps with red bands round the middle. A woman from the crowd stepped forward. She was talking quickly in Russian, pointing up at St Basil's Cathedral and then at the twins and the basket. Mr Zola stepped between them and cleared his throat. He was still wearing his cheese hat, although it was crumpled and covered in dust. He started speaking Russian. There were lots of pauses and “um”s and “er”s but the twins thought he was doing very well. The police officers were frowning as they listened and occasionally glanced over at the twins and then at each other. One of them held his hand up for Mr Zola to stop talking and approached the children.

“Are you OK?” he asked, in a thick Russian accent.

“Yes,” said the twins together.

“My name is Officer Sergei and I speak a little English.”

He gestured to Mr Zola. “Your father is mad, no?”

“He isn't our father,” said Cam.

“But he
is
mad,” added Bert.

“He tell us he make fleas for the Queen of England and she has sent him on a mission to find a moose flea. Is this correct?”

“No,” cried Bert. “It's cheese – moose cheese.”

“Ah,” said Officer Sergei, looking Mr Zola up and down. “He also claims to have pet moustache.”

“I'm afraid that's correct,” sighed Cam.

“I did not say ‘pet',” gasped Mr Zola. “He is my friend and loyal companion.”

Officer Sergei shook his head and pulled out some handcuffs.

“OK, I have heard enough about moose fleas and friendly moustaches,” he said. “I take you to police station for questioning. You enter my country illegally and may have damaged our precious cathedral. The children will come too.”

“What?” screeched Mr Zola. “But I'm telling the truth! We are part of the Great Moose Cheese Chase. The Queen has cleared our arrival in Siberia with your president.”

“This is not Siberia,” stated Officer Sergei, fastening a handcuff to Mr Zola's wrist.

The twins watched in alarm.

“We weren't meant to land here,” said Bert. “We blew off course.”

“And it's true about the Queen,” added Cam. “So if we've accidentally caused any damage then she'll pay for everything.”

Officer Sergei attached the other handcuff to his own wrist.

“My colleague is checking your story with the authorities,” he said, looking over at the other policeman, who was deep in conversation on his radio. “For now, you come to police station.”

He began pulling Mr Zola towards the police car.

“But I have to get to Siberia,” wailed Mr Zola.

Officer Sergei opened the car door just as his colleague replaced the receiver. The two policemen began talking rapidly in Russian. After a minute Officer Sergei unlocked the handcuffs.

“It seems you tell truth,” he said. “My colleague has confirmed your story with Buckingham Palace, Interpol and Intercheese. But you must still get in car. Your queen is not happy about balloon.”

He pointed up at the deflated canopy that waved from one of St Basil's towers like a huge flag.

“We have instructions to take you to station.”

“Are you going to arrest us?” asked Bert.

“Arrest? No! I take you to
train
station. You are heading north on world-famous Trans-Siberian Railway.”

Cam clapped her hands. She had read about the Trans-Siberian Railway – the longest track in the world, with links running as far as China to the east and Mongolia to the south. It passed through some of the most beautiful and rugged terrain on earth.

“Wait a minute,” cried Mr Zola. “It's me that the Queen needs to get to Siberia, not these two.” He stood in front of the car door, blocking their way. “They're just stowaways.”

Officer Sergei frowned deeply. “What am I supposed to do with them?” he asked.

“I don't know,” said Mr Zola. “They're not my responsibility.”

Officer Sergei took his hat off and glared at Mr Zola.

“Sir,” he said, sternly, “you arrive in my country with two children and a pet moustache. Are you going to tell me that the moustache is no longer your responsibility too?”

“Of course not,” answered Mr Zola, grabbing Monty defensively.

“Then you leave with the moustache
and
the two children. They are all your responsibility now.”

Mr Zola grudgingly moved aside so the twins could climb into the back of the police car and squeezed in beside them.

“If I must,” he sighed.

 

The car set off, sirens blasting and lights flashing.

“Woohoo!” shouted Bert. “I've always wanted a ride in a speeding police car.”

“Ow!” cried Cam. “Mr Zola, you're hurting my arm.”

Mr Zola was clinging to Cam's arm as they sped through the streets of Moscow.

“Don't tell me,” she said, “Monty doesn't like going fast.”

“You're getting to know him very well,” whispered Mr Zola. “Do we really need to go at this pace?”

“Yes, we do,” called Officer Sergei from the driver's seat. “Your queen has made clear you cannot be missing nine fifteen train from Moscow Central. It leaves in two minutes. The next one isn't till day after tomorrow. If we fail, she cut off my head.”

He turned and winked at Cam.

“How long till we get there?” shrieked Mr Zola as they skidded round a corner, knocking a bin flying and scattering the pedestrians.

“About three minutes,” said Officer Sergei.

“But I thought you said the train left in two.”

“Yes, but I have plan.”

“Are you going to call ahead and delay departure?” asked Mr Zola, resuming his hold on Cam's bruised arm.

“No, no!” shouted Officer Sergei. “No one, not even your queen, can delay Trans-Siberian train. We catch it up and drive beside at exactly the same speed. Then I open hatch in roof of car and you climb out and jump aboard. Easy!”

“Are you mad?” cried Mr Zola. “We can't do that!”

“Then you must wait for next train.”

Bert tried to swallow, but his mouth was completely dry.

“We can't wait that long,” he croaked. “We have no choice.”

Cam nodded slowly as Mr Zola crumpled in a heap on her lap.

 

After a couple of minutes the road turned a bend and ran directly beside the railway track.

“There she is,” called Officer Sergei.

The twins looked out of the window to see a train speeding along the track ahead of them. The carriages were white on top, blue in the middle and red on the bottom, just like the Russian flag.

“We're catching it up,” cried Bert. “Have you revived Mr Zola yet?”

“He's getting there,” said Cam, popping the top back on to the smelling salts. “Mr Zola, if you miss this train then the Queen's going to be in a right royal rage. We've got to do it.”

Mr Zola sat up and looked at the speeding train. His face was white.

“OK, we're up to speed,” shouted Officer Sergei. “Out you go! Good luck!”

Cam was suddenly glad of Mr Zola's clinging fingers. The discomfort in her arm was taking her mind off what was to come. Now was definitely not the time to be clumsy. But she had to get to Siberia, and she had to get there fast.

“I'm going first,” she said, breaking away from Mr Zola and poking her head through the sunroof.

“No, I am,” cried Bert, pulling her back in. “You'll just fall off.”

“I will not!”

“You're too clumsy.”

“I am not! It's my turn to go first!”

“For goodness' sake!” shouted Mr Zola. “I would rather die than listen to you two bicker again! No wonder your poor grandfather sent you to Siberia! I will go first!”

He pushed past Cam and pulled himself through the hatch and on to the roof of the car. “This is for my dear Papa!” he called.

“And for our dear Gramps,” gulped Cam, scrambling up after him. Bert followed close behind. The wind screeched past their faces, whipping up their hair. The sound of the roaring train beside them was deafening. Mr Zola was holding on to the flashing light on top of the car. He had secured his cheese hat firmly to his head with the two ear flaps, but Monty was flapping dangerously around his terrified face. He held out his hand to Cam, who in turn grabbed Bert. They managed to get to their feet.

“OK!” yelled Mr Zola. “JUUUUUUUMP!”