Wild Moose Chase (8 page)

The Dam Dive

(Three days to go…)

The next day dawned bright and clear. The bouncy castle was floating in a calm lake with the sun just beginning to peep over a ragged mountain. Mr Zola was lying flat on his back in the middle of the bouncy castle, murmuring gently in his sleep.

“Monty, I love you…”

Bert nudged Cam and pointed to the mumbling Mr Zola. She began to giggle as Bert knelt down beside him.

“Monty, I want to marry you,” he whispered in Mr Zola's ear.

Cam burst out laughing and Mr Zola's eyes pinged open. He sat up sharply and glared at Bert.

“How dare you suggest things to Monty whilst I'm sleeping,” he grumbled.

“Sorry!” chuckled Bert. “Don't be angry. Here, have a moose biscuit.”

Mr Zola grudgingly took the biscuit. “Woken up by a cheddar-urchin with a dung biscuit,” he sighed. “On the positive side, I think those must be the Khangai Mountains. I have single-handedly navigated the mighty Yenisey River and brought us safely to Mongolia.”

“What are you talking about?” said Bert. “All you did was cling to the side like a soggy lettuce leaf!”

Mr Zola pretended not to hear and looked out at the view.

The river stretched out behind them. The lake was sandwiched between two rocky mountains which rose up sharply either side. The castle was drifting backwards.

“We need to turn the castle around,” said Cam. “To see where we're going.”

There was a gentle bump and the bouncy castle came to a complete standstill.

“We've hit something,” said Bert, trying to look over the back wall. “I can't see anything. It's just space.”

“What do you mean,
it's just space
?” asked Mr Zola. “It can't be.”

“If we all run round in a circle, it should rotate the castle,” said Cam. “C'mon. I'll chase Bert, and Bert chases Mr Zola, and Mr Zola chases me.”

The three of them began running round the outside of the castle close to the walls. It slowly began to turn in a complete circle. Mr Zola fell into the middle.

“I can't do it any more,” he said. “Monty's too dizzy.”

The twins joined him and they all sat down, watching as the castle slowly rotated, revealing the top edge of a huge dam.

A giant slope of grey concrete fell away beneath them, vertically at first, then curving gently out to meet a fast-flowing, bubbling river below. The tip of a wall poked out of the water in front of the castle, just about preventing them from sliding over the top.

Bert's heart felt like it was doing a little drum roll inside his rib cage.

“Does this thing come with seat belts?” he joked. But his voice sounded high and unnatural.

Cam swallowed deeply and looked over the edge. This was all her fault. She had forged the letter from Gramps and now they were in terrible trouble – again.

“Try not to make any sudden movements,” she breathed. “We're going to have to try and paddle very gently to the far bank. Are you ready, Mr Zola … Mr Zola? Are you all right?

Mr Zola had buried his head into the soft rubber of the bouncy castle. “We're all going to die,” he wailed. “It's not fair! I can't take any more!” He began pummelling his hands and feet against the floor.

“I don't want to be balancing on the edge of a colossal dam in a bouncy castle with soggy smelling salts!” he yelled, pulling the bottle from his battered man-bag and tossing it over the edge of the dam. “Soggy smelling salts are about as useful as half a moustache!”

The twins looked at each other in alarm. Cam reached over and took his hand.

“Mr Zola, you must try to keep still!”

“He's finally lost it,” said Bert.

“Lost it?” repeated Mr Zola. “Lost it? OF COURSE I'VE LOST IT! I've lost the Crown Balloon, half a moustache, my smelling salts, my cheese hat, and my…”

“Mind!”

“Shush, Bert! Mr Zola, you need to calm down. You're wobbling the castle over the edge of the dam.”

Mr Zola's pummelling had bounced the lip of the castle over the top of the wall.

“I don't care!” he screamed, beating his hands down like a toddler. “I don't care about anything any more!”

The castle bounced forward and teetered on the edge of the dam. Half of it was on the water, half of it dangling in space. It slowly began to tip.

“WE'RE GOING!” shrieked Cam.

“HANG ON TO SOMETHING!” shouted Bert, diving on to one of the rubber air-plugs. Cam grabbed hold of her brother as Mr Zola grasped the other plug.

The bouncy castle did a final see-saw before tipping ninety degrees and plunging vertically down the smooth concrete. Cam's long hair flew out behind her and she gasped for breath as her stomach flipped. She closed her eyes and clung on to the back of Bert's coat. She could hear Mr Zola screeching in terror and Bert whooping excitedly. Finally, the concrete wall began to curve round and level out. The castle shot off the end of the dam wall and continued whizzing across the top of the bubbling water.

“We've made it!” she yelled.

“Not quite,” shouted Bert. “Don't let go!”

The force of their descent propelled them down the white rapids. The river coursed through huge boulders, knocking the bouncy castle from one bank to the other. Cam could hear the water getting louder in front of them.

“WATERFALL!” she screamed, as they crashed down a sharp slope of water.

The bouncy castle ricocheted off a rock, hitting a jagged tree trunk protruding from the riverbank. There was a loud BANG as it gouged a large hole in the side. The castle took off as the air from inside gushed out. The twins were flung out on to the bank unharmed, but Mr Zola remained clinging to the castle. The loudest raspberry noise filled the valley as the bouncy castle whizzed around the air like a popped balloon.

TTTTTHHHHHHHHHBBBBBBBBBBLLL-
LUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

“THAT WASN'T ME!” shrieked Mr Zola, as he flew over the twins' heads, his body jerking from side to side as the deflating castle spiralled out of sight.

 

The Yak Festival

The twins scrambled down the side of the mountain, following the distant raspberry noise and faint screams of “Help!” They just caught sight of the deflated bouncy castle with Mr Zola still clinging to it, making a final skyward soar before dropping in between a group of large round tents in the middle of a vast grassy plain. Cam and Bert staggered towards them as fast as they could.

“Poor Mr Zola,” panted Cam. “I hope he's OK. I don't think he can take much more.”

“I'm not sure I can either,” moaned Bert. “That might have been the best water slide ever, but I'm exhausted. I need something to eat other than moose biscuits.”

As they got closer they could see that the tents were surrounded by enormous holding pens full of huge hairy cows with large curved horns.

“Buffalo!” shouted Bert.

“They're yaks, you dummy,” said Cam. “This must be the festival.”

Several people dressed in brightly coloured robes had surrounded the flattened bouncy castle. As the twins approached, they could hear “God Save the Queen” begin to play from beneath the shrivelled pile of rubber. Bert pushed through the crowd and pulled back a deflated wall, revealing a crumpled Mr Zola beneath. The remaining half of Monty was stuck to the right side of his cheek like a squashed spider and his dusty hair was poking out in random tufts. He pulled out the red phone with a trembling hand.

“Your Majesty,” he croaked. “…Yes, I got here eventually, ma'am … dam trouble… No, I'm not swearing … I flew the last part… Yes, it was extremely fast … the leader? Primula Mold, ma'am… Not yet, ma'am… I will, ma'am… Of course, ma'am … straight away, ma'am.”

He put the phone back and stared blankly ahead of him. Cam and Bert grabbed his hands and pulled him to his feet.

“Are you OK?” asked Bert.

“Yes, ma'am,” mumbled Mr Zola.

“I'm not the Queen!”

“No, ma'am.”

Cam looked around at the astonished crowd surrounding them. “Can somebody help us?” she asked. “I think our friend has had a knock to the head.”

A lady dressed in a green robe and a fur-trimmed hat came forward.

“
Sain baina uu
,” she said, smiling.

“That's the problem,” said Bert, pointing to Mr Zola. “He's not sane. In fact, he's completely insane – nuttier than a vegetarian roast dinner, loopier than a hula hoop, madder than a—”

“
Sain baina uu
means ‘hello',” she interrupted. “Come and rest in my yurt. You
all
look a little crazy.”

Cam glanced across at Bert. His face was filthy and his jacket was ripped in several places. His fair hair had turned a muddy brown and was sticking up in large clumps. She put her hand up to her own hair. Half of it was bundled on top of her head in a thick matted lump. She pulled out a long piece of grass.

“We've been travelling a long way,” she explained. “We're very tired and hungry.”

The lady nodded and led them to a large round tent. It was similar to one of the marquees at home, with a pole in the middle holding up the main frame. The floor was covered in thick rugs with large cushions scattered on top. To one side was a small cooking stove with a pot bubbling on the top.

“My name is Saran,” she said, as they all sank on to the soft cushions. “This is my yurt. I sell things made from yak hair – cushions, rugs and bags mainly.”

“I'm sorry but we haven't got any money,” sighed Cam.

“I don't want to sell you anything,” said Saran. “You look exhausted, poor children. You need to rest. Would you like some soup?”

Cam and Bert nodded enthusiastically.

“You're very kind,” said Bert.

She smiled and ladled out two bowls of steaming noodle soup from the pot.

“I have plenty,” she said, handing them the bowls with a large slice of pitta bread. “What about your friend?”

Mr Zola was staring into space, muttering under his breath.

“He's had a nasty shock – lost half his moustache, amongst other things,” mumbled Cam through a mouthful of bread. “Do you have any smelling salts?”

“I don't. But I could fix his moustache.”

Mr Zola blinked and turned to face Saran. “What did you say?”

“That's if you want a whole one,” she said. “I have the softest black yak hair that I could weave into the other half. It would make a fine moustache.”

Mr Zola smiled broadly. “I suddenly feel much better,” he said, propping himself up. “You're a lifesaver, dear lady. But I must insist on paying. I have some Mongolian currency in case of an emergency such as this.”

Saran smiled and pulled a clump of black yak hair from a large knitted bag. “Many westerners visit our festival,” she said, teasing the fibres apart. “You have strange customs. Today I meet a man with half a moustache…”

Mr Zola brought his hand up and shielded Monty protectively.

“…and earlier I met an old lady with a mouldy cheese around her neck.”

Bert nearly choked on his soup. “Primula Mold!” he coughed.

Mr Zola checked his Cheesemaker-Locator.

“According to this, she's now heading west towards Kazakhstan,” he sighed. “I'm never going to catch her up.”

“She won a yak race and left,” said Saran. “She was very good for her age. Very strong.”

“Very strong smelling,” muttered Bert. “Fancy Primula Mold racing a yak. I wonder why?”

“She wanted the prize, of course,” said Saran. “All our winners receive the rarest delicacy produced by a yak – rennet from the fourth stomach.”

The twins looked at each other in dismay, their hearts sinking.

“How do you get to race a yak?” asked Bert.

“There's a race starting soon,” said Saran. “Why don't you watch while I finish your friend's moustache?”

 

The twins finished their soup and washed their faces and hands in a bowl of warm soapy water that Saran gave them. Cam brushed her hair and tied it back with twine made of yak hair. They left Mr Zola with Saran and walked out into the festival feeling much better. Colourful flags were strung from tent to tent and wound around the holding pens full of yaks.

“I wonder where we go to watch the yak races?” said Cam.

“There's no point just watching,” snorted Bert. “I'm going to see if I can take part in the next race.”

“Not without me!”

They walked through the crowded stalls. It was very busy. Huge pots of vegetable soups and mutton stews bubbled on large cooking stoves. Children ran past with paper bags overflowing with little round balls of cheese.

“I wish we had some money,” said Bert. “I could murder a cheese ball.”

They passed a small white tent and peered in. It was full of shelves, each one packed with round clay pots. A man in a purple pointed hat beckoned them in.

“Rennet for sale,” he said. “All types of rennet.”

The twin's eyes widened.

“Do you sell rennet from the fourth stomach of a yak?” asked Bert.

The man laughed loudly, his deep voice resonating through the small tent. “I have just been asked that by two men dressed as dogs,” he said. “And before that, by an old woman with a strange medallion.”

Bert and Cam swapped an ominous look.

“Rennet from the fourth stomach is the most precious of ingredients because it doesn't occur in normal yaks,” continued the man, “only from the rare albino yak of Outer Mongolia. Some say it has magical healing properties. Others believe that one mouthful will bring you good fortune for the rest of your life. But you cannot buy it –You have to achieve it. I have other yak rennet if you're interested. This one is from the first stomach – perfect for a fuller flavoured cheese. This one is from the second – low in fat and mild in taste. And this one…” He held up a red pot with a black skull and crossbones on the label. “This one is from the third stomach. Highly dangerous, but perfect for poisoning unwanted rodents.”

“You use it to make poisoned cheese to kill rats?” asked Bert. “That's a bit unfair.”

“Not when the rats are nibbling your yak cheese!”

“The only rennet we need is from the fourth stomach,” said Cam.

“Then you must find Attila,” said the man. “And race one of his yaks to victory. You will find him in the blue yurt with the gold trim next to the largest of the yak pens.”

 

They left the small tent and looked around for the blue yurt. They walked past a wrestling competition. Two men dressed in nothing but red pants, blue sleeves, boots and round hats with a small tower on top were locked together, furiously trying to push the other to the ground. Bert asked if he could have a go but then decided he didn't want to reveal his pants to the surrounding crowd.

They skirted round an archery competition. Ten men and women in gold and crimson robes were standing with their feet astride and their bows held up to their faces. The targets were so far away, Cam and Bert could hardly see them. They wanted to stop and watch but knowing Primula Mold was ahead of them meant they had to hurry on.

Eventually they came to a large pen filled with yaks of every size and shape. A giant of a man in plain brown robes and with a plaited black beard was inside the pen patting the yaks and checking their horns and hooves. Bert climbed up on to the side fence and was immediately surrounded by several yaks all mooing gently and snuffling against him. The man looked up and watched as Bert stroked their large hairy ears and talked gently to them.

“
Sain baina uu
,” called the man.

“Soon boona ee,” said Bert, feeling slightly embarrassed at his first attempt at speaking Mongolian. “We're looking for a man called Attila. Do you know where we can find him?”

“You just have,” he said, bowing low.

Bert bowed back. “My name is Bert Curd and this is my sister, Cam,” he said. “The man in the rennet tent said I might be able to race one of your yaks. I need to win some special rennet.”

“Me too,” murmured Cam, shyly.

Attila pushed his way through his animals and sat on the side of the pen next to Bert.

“Are you experienced yak racers?” he asked.

“Back home we have cows,” said Cam.

“Yes, we love cow racing,” added Bert, turning slightly pink. “Do it all the time. The cow sprint, the cow cross-country, the cow sack race. My particular favourite is the cow seven-legged race. When you tie the legs of two cows together and—”

“All right, Bert,” whispered Cam. “You're overdoing it.”

They both looked up hopefully at Attila.

“How much will you pay?” he asked.

“Four moose biscuits,” said Bert, feeling around in his pockets.

Attila gave a great snort of laughter and jumped back into the pen. “I'm afraid that is not enough, young man. My yaks are all very precious to me.”

“Four moose biscuits and a conker?” asked Bert, digging deeper in his pocket.

Attila's rich laugh filled the pen. “I admire your spirit,” he said, patting a particularly large yak. “But Genghis here doesn't eat moose biscuits or conkers.”

“I think Genghis prefers eating children,” whispered Bert, looking up at the huge beast.

“What if we share the prize with you?” asked Cam, jumping up on to the fence. “We'll give you half the special rennet.”

Attila stopped laughing and nodded slowly. “And if you don't win?” he asked.

“I will win,” she said. “I have to. But when Bert loses, he can muck out the yak pen for you.”

“Hey!” cried Bert. “I can beat you with my eyes closed. Even if I had the tiniest yak, I could outrun you.”

“You wish! I'm going to leave you standing!”

“Yeah – standing at the finish line waiting for you!”

Attila made his way back to the twins. “I can see how determined you are to beat each other,” he said, “but there will be others in the race. How will you defeat them?”

“You don't understand how much is resting on this race,” said Cam. “I have to win that rennet.”

“So do I,” cried Bert, “and I'm going to.”

Attila looked from one twin to the other. “You are bold – I like that,” he said, holding out his hand. “It's a deal. With twins, I have two chances of winning.”

“How did you know we were twins?” asked Bert. “We don't look anything like each other.”

Attila laughed. “If you say so,” he said. “But if either of you win, then you give me half the rennet, and if you lose, then you will both be shovelling yak pats.”

He turned and began to look for two suitable animals for the twins.

“I am so gonna win,” said Bert. “How hard can it be? The yaks do all the running, all I have to do is hold on.”

Attila led Genghis out of the pen and handed his rope to Bert.