Raven's Mountain Read online

  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.

  RODE BOUNDARY FENCE WEDNESDAY – ALL WELL.

  FED SNOWBALL AND COCOA.

  SEE YOU SOON, CHERYL.

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

  I like knowing his name.

  I write a new note for the clipboard:

  SCOTT AND LILY ARE TRAPPED UNDER A ROCKFALL

  AT THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN. PLEASE PHONE 911

  AND ALSO CALL JENNY ON 456 6545.

  I AM BORROWING SNOWBALL. I WILL BRING HIM BACK

  WHEN I’VE FOUND HELP.

  YOURS SINCERELY

  RAVEN.

  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 p
ony’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.

  She’s moving fast.

  The scream bursts out of me, flapping birds up from trees, freezing the cubs behind their log, and even shuddering the hunter and his rifle.

  The only thing it doesn’t stop is Mama Bear. She shakes her head – and keeps on coming.

  The can of bear spray is out of the holster and in my hand. I don’t even know how it got there.

  ‘NO! Go back! You can’t kill people!’

  I’m pointing the can at Mama Bear. She’s ten metres away, and I can hear the terrible clicking of her chattering teeth.

  There’s no way out.

  I’ve released the safety catch. My finger is on the nozzle.

  ‘You’re blocking my shot!’ the hunter screams.

  I’m frozen in place; I couldn’t drop to the ground even if Scott had said it was what I was supposed to do.

  ‘She’ll kill you!’

  ‘STOP!’ I shout, to Mama Bear, to the hunter, to the whole world.

  The strange thing is that I’ve stopped being afraid.

  I’ve gone right through fear and out the other side. All those millions of atoms of fear in my body have condensed into a tiny black hole of terror, about the size of an acorn, and buried themselves deep inside my stomach.

  The world holds its breath. It seems like a lifetime since I flew over Snowball’s neck, and yet the hunter is still frozen on the ground. His face is a Halloween mask of horror.

  Mama Bear is two springs away whichever way I go.

  I hold my breath, and push the spray can’s trigger.

  A ghost-green mist shoots out over the great white bear. She stops as suddenly as Snowball.

  The mist trickles to nothing.

  The bear’s shaking her head, huffing anxiously.

  The can’s empty.

  She’s deciding whether or not she’s going to charge me again.

  There’s nothing I can do.

  Back away!

  I’m backing, I’m backing, but I’m a long way from the truck. There’s nowhere to hide. The smell of the spray is drifting back towards me; I’m coughing and crying, I can taste dirt from the muddy creek running down my face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama Bear!’

  The hunter will shoot her – and then he might shoot me, because I’ve seen him hunting where there are NO HUNTING signs. Or Mama Bear might get me first anyway. The hunter is scrambling to his feet, coughing too and grabbing his gun.

  Mama Bear turns and gallops past us towards the log where Hansel and Gretel are hiding. The cubs follow her into the woods, and all three disappear.

  I know I’ll never see them again.

  If anyone had told me that I’d actually have to use my bear spray, I’d have thought I’d be too afraid to remember how.

  And if they’d said that I’d have to use it on Mama Bear, I’d have said, ‘No way!’ I’d have known I’d feel too bad to even try, because the three bears are part of the whole sto
ry of coming down the mountain.

  In fact they’re so much part of my life that I’d have laughed if anyone had told me that I’d save someone trying to shoot the cubs.

  Thinking about it is different from being here. What I cared most about was me: I didn’t want to be shot by a hunter or mauled by a bear. But no matter how much I hated the hunter, I didn’t want to see Mama Bear attack him.

  The hunter thumps to the ground as if someone’s pulled his chair away. ‘You’re crazy, kid! You’re absolutely nuts!’

  He’s probably right, but I don’t have time to think about it. That acorn of fear in my stomach has just exploded. My nubbly oats and chocolate-chip biscuit breakfast explodes with it. It’s splattering and disgusting, and it doesn’t quite miss my jeans.

  ‘Raven!’

  The voice sounds exactly like my mum.

  22

  MAYBE LUNCHTIME, SUNDAY

  There’s a silver 4WD parked at the edge of the clearing and Mum is charging over the grass towards me. I don’t have to see her face to know it’s her.

  I never knew she could run so fast.

  ‘What are you doing with my daughter?’ she screams.

  I never knew she could sound so scary.

  ‘Put that gun down and let the kid go!’ shouts a man behind her.

  My dad! My real dad’s come to rescue me like I always knew he would!

  He’s tall and fit, with straight black hair and dark eyes, and he’d be good looking except right now he looks nearly as mad as Mum. He’s exactly how I’ve always wanted my dad to look. Or one of the ways I’ve always wanted my dad to look.

  He’s not my dad.

  Knowing floods through me like a creek bursting free of a dam: my dad, my real runaway dad, is not a crocodile hunter or any sort of hero. He’s a skinny redhaired man who works in a computer store in Australia and goes to the beach with his new family, just like he said in the only Christmas card he ever sent me. Maybe I’ll get to meet him one day, but if he didn’t care enough to see me when I was born, he’s not going to magically turn up just because I need him now.

  It’s my mum who’s come to find me.