The International Yeti Collective Read online

  But now there were only nineteen left and the story behind that was drummed into every youngling. How one of Earth Mother’s children abandoned her slabs – the one called human. And now, many cycles later, she didn’t even look like a yeti at all. Humans had lost most of their fur and they didn’t have a smell beyond the mildest whiff. They had even forgotten how to tree-stride.

  So why had Tick’s mum tangled with them?

  You need to find out, buzzed the idea fly.

  “Stop pestering,” answered Tick aloud.

  “What did you say?” asked Plumm beside him.

  “Nothing.”

  Dahl thumped the floor with his great staff just once and the hall fell silent. Silent apart from the constant growling and rumbling of dozens of yeti stomachs. Greatrex rose to his feet, his silver hair long and his face as dark as night itself. He touched his hand to his chest, and then to his head. The yeti stood as one and returned his greeting. Greatrex waited for the gathering to take their seats again. He rested his hands on the slabs as he spoke, as if gaining strength from their wisdom.

  “Malodorous yeti, before the joyous naming custom begins, we must turn our thoughts to a serious matter.” Greatrex peered over the gathered throng to make sure they were listening. “No doubt you’ve all caught wind of humans coming to the mountain. Dahl, with his own eyes, discovered them from a distance yestermoon.” This brought a round of anxious burbling.

  Greatrex silenced the crowd once more. “It is written that, long ago, people and yeti were one and the same. But not now. Humans want to hunt us down, find our setts and expose us to their world. Beware: the toad does not come into sunlight without good reason.”

  There were anxious murmurs of agreement throughout the cavern at the silverback’s words.

  Greatrex raised his hand. “I’m putting the sett on the hush. The mountain is out of bounds. No tree-striding, no foraging, no rummaging, no mooching, no wandering – not so much as a stroll. So it is written in the slabs. Hear me as I speak.”

  Again the cavern filled with grumbles.

  Flabb (he with stomach like boulder) raised a long, hairy arm. “But what of our grub? What will we eat?” He patted his enormous bulk and there were worried noises from some of the others.

  Greatrex raised his hand. “Rest easy. The kitchen assures me that even after tonight’s feast we will have enough grub to last us more than a few moons.” He nodded over at Nosh (she who makes nibbles) in her apron. “And tomorrow Dahl will lead a collecting team on a secret gathering trip. We shall draw stalks.”

  Greatrex held up a hollow tree stump filled with grass stalks. Each one was marked with the scent of a yeti in the sett.

  “I hope it’s not either of us,” Plumm whispered but Tick’s fingers drummed on his knee, over and over.

  “Pick me!” they said. “Pick me!”

  Greatrex shook the tree stump, rattling the stalks, and then drew out the first one.

  Dahl ran it underneath his large, wide nostrils. “Dulle,” he announced (she with blank stare), followed by Gabb (she who prattles) and Itch (he with skin complaint).

  Dahl took the final stalk and breathed in. “Tick,” he intoned at last.

  Tick’s head buzzed. Now you can go and see the humans for yourself, said the idea fly. You know that’s why you wanted to be chosen.

  You think I should? thought Tick.

  “Let the naming custom begin!” Greatrex commanded, to loud cheers from the crowd.

  *

  Once the guard yeti had returned the slabs to the council chambers, helpers brought sacks full of green pine needles into the hall and placed them round the room.

  At the front of the cavern stood a small yeti, her youngling coat barely sprouted, holding her parents’ hands, her eyes fixed on the floor. Tick felt for her. He remembered just how jittery he’d been at his own naming.

  There was a fanfare of yodelling as Retch (he with upset tummy) marched into the hall, his arms outstretched like wings, a piece of wood in one hand, a blindfold of moss around his eyes. “Greetings, sweet-smelling beasts!” Retch bellowed. “I implore you – begin the needling!”

  At this, the yeti swarmed round the sacks of pine needles, grabbing handfuls of the sharp green leaves and hurling them at Retch. A green cloud filled the cavern as more and more needles flew through the air. They stuck to Retch’s hair as they fell, covering his head, his arms and his chest until there wasn’t a single bit of the yeti visible. A couple of eager younglings picked up a sack and poured the contents over his head.

  Then Dahl thumped the cavern floor with his Rumble Stick again, and the commotion died down. Retch stood there, arms still outstretched, blanketed in green. He had become the green creature spoken of in the carvings – he was the Leaf Yeti. The bringer of names.

  Tick saw the worried youngling cowering at the sight of him.

  “Hail the Leaf Yeti,” commanded Greatrex.

  “Hail!” replied the cavern.

  “I have the naming bark,” announced the Leaf Yeti. He held the piece of wood above his head to great cheers. The youngling’s mother came up to receive it.

  “What says the bark?”

  The mother read, “She who picks the best fruit.”

  The Leaf Yeti thought for a moment. “Come forth, youngling,” he ordered. The small yeti shuffled forward. The Leaf Yeti placed his hand on her head. “From this moon forth you shall be known as Pluk, she who picks the best fruit.”

  “Greetings, Pluk!” shouted Tick, Plumm and the others.

  Now the cavern broke into great yodelling:

  “She has her own name, she has her own na-a-a-me!

  Pluk the yeti, she has her own name!”

  Pluk gave an uncertain smile and waved at the crowd, while her parents accepted the congratulations of nearby well-wishers. There was applause all round as the Leaf Yeti took his seat at the head of the cavern.

  “Yeti, without further delay, let us feast!” announced Greatrex.

  The next morning, at first horn, Tick reported for duty at the boulder blocking the sett exit. The truth was he’d overdone it with the spicy beetles at the feast, and his stomach was still grouchy. Tick studied the others in the collecting team, and Dahl – who always seemed to be on his case. Dahl was what you’d call a serious yeti.

  The Guardian clenched his massive jaw and banged his Rumble Stick, calling them to attention. The fur along his spine bristled. “Right, yeti, you might like to think this is just another amble in the woods looking for flowers, but with humans out there it’s a risky business. As of now, you’re in super-super-secret mode.”

  Tick grunted to himself. This was much better than being stuck underground, turning dirt.

  “Not a snapping twig, not a rustle,” Dahl continued. “We don’t crack our knuckles. Nothing louder than a whisper passes your lips. Keep your eyes and nostrils open. We blend in with the trees as if we’re trees ourselves. We don’t go anywhere near the south face, and we definitely don’t pass wind. Understand?” Tick nodded.

  Dahl gave out his instructions. “Dulle, you take the gully and head towards Jagged Rock – find as many fowl eggs as you can. Gabb, you’re at Grub Hill – Nosh wants a big sack of juicy wrigglers. Tick and Itch, you aim for the mulberry patch in Fir Tree Clearing – enough for everybody.”

  “And where will you be?” asked Tick.

  “Where you least expect me, that’s where.”

  Dahl gave the word, and the entrance guards heaved and pushed against the boulder, grunting and groaning. At last, they rolled it to the side. All of a sudden, a gust of fresh mountain air blew into the sett, carrying the sweet smell of trees. Tick breathed in – the scent helping to steady his nerves. Dahl stuck his head out from between the rocks and, making sure the coast was clear, he led the collecting team out on to the mountainside. Dahl gestured to the guards, who came out of the tunnel and moved some thick bushes into place to hide the entrance.

  They were up on a ridge on the north face o
f the mountain, looking down at the sweep of the forest below. It was good to be outside, thought Tick as he gazed at the greenery blanketing the mountain. To feel the warmth of the sun on his fur, and hear the whistle of the birds. And down below on the other side of the mountain, on the south face, there were humans by the riverbank. Actual humans. Tick’s stomach gave a little lurch.

  “We meet back here before the sun reaches its peak,” said Dahl. “And, when you’re out there, remember: when a mouth is closed, mosquitoes cannot enter.” With a murmur of agreement, the collecting party slunk away into the forest.

  “Come on, Tick,” said Itch as he dropped off the ridge and headed down the slope.

  Tick waved goodbye to the watchful Dahl leaning on his Rumble Stick, and turned downhill to follow his partner. The soft, leathery soles of Tick’s feet met the earth as if they were greeting an old friend and he kept his gait steady, rolling – his arms swinging low as he bounded along the forest floor. Tick glided through the whispering trees, seeking out the shade cast by their trunks, stepping from shadow to shadow, not leaving behind so much as a bent twig or a twisted leaf. He was at one with the earth and the forest – tree-striding the way yeti were born to.

  With steady striding, Itch and Tick soon reached Fir Tree Clearing and the thick tangle of mulberry trees. Even though the season had almost passed, there were still enough shiny dark fruit glistening in the sunshine to fill their bags.

  The two yeti got to work, plucking the mulberries and putting them in the carry sacks slung over their shoulders. They worked facing each other, the way they had learned as younglings. Easier to watch their backs that way. It occurred to Tick that yeti were always watching their backs. Sometimes he wished they were bolder.

  Once both yeti had filled their sacks, Itch started back for the trail. “I’m going up a bit,” he said. “I know where there are plenty of crickets – big, fat crunchy ones!”

  “You go ahead. I’m going to stay down here and pick a few more mulberries. I’ll be there in a tick.”

  “In a tick! Very funny. Well, suit yourself. Just keep an eye on the sun.” Itch pointed up at the sky. “Or Dahl will have your hide for a rug.”

  As soon as Itch was out of sight, Tick stopped pretending he was collecting berries. What luck! He’d been trying to work out all morning how to get away from his gathering partner. Tick swallowed hard, attempting to calm the thumping in his chest. He had a plan brewing. Tick waited for a moment, wondering if he still dared to try to get a closer look at the humans. He knew he shouldn’t – it went against every word Greatrex had spoken just last night.

  But Tick had to go to them. To find out why his mum had broken the rule of the slabs. What had she known about humans that he didn’t? Maybe he could prove she’d been trying to do the right thing, then the elders might let her come back. Tick allowed himself to dream that perhaps he could even find her again and bring her home. That was what he wanted more than anything. And it was worth the risk.

  Tick made up his mind. He left the clearing, taking the trail that led round the base of the mountain. If he was swift, he could tree-stride to the south face, where he knew there was a rocky ledge looking down on the river. He’d have a quick peek to see what was going on, then double back and scramble straight up the mountain to the boulder at the north entrance. He’d be back before anyone knew he’d gone.

  Now that’s a plan, buzzed the fly inside his head.

  Tick lengthened his stride, dipping in and out of the shadows, darting from tree to tree as if each was an island – running as fast as he could. He covered a thousand strides in no time at all, making barely a sound as he went.

  Soon the ground became dry and hard, the path rocky. Tick slowed down – he was close. Now he could see the bend in the river and, just below on the clearing by the riverbank, a sight that made his heart race. It was the cluster of human cocoons.

  Reaching the rocky ledge, Tick leaped into the nearest bush, dropping down low and holding his breath. The wind was blowing in the right direction so his scent wouldn’t carry – he made sure of that. But what would Dahl say if he knew Tick was here? Too late to think about that now. Gathering up his nerve, Tick pushed to the front of the bush, and peered out through the leaves.

  What abnormal things the human cocoons were – flaming orange and bright blue, ruffling in the wind like the feathers of the rainbow bird. There were four of them, with the biggest one in the middle. A fire burned in a small pit, the smoke catching on the wind. Nearby there were flat, round things which Tick guessed were something to do with eating, and strange objects made out of a hard, shiny material. Several yak wandered the clearing, munching on grass.

  Then the cocoons burst open and a pair of humans emerged. How strange they were! Tick could hear them grunting to each other in an odd tongue. They staggered over to the river’s edge, stamping their feet, and kneeled down by the water and began splashing their faces and necks. Then the pair went and sat by the fire, shivering.

  There was a rustle from one of the other cocoons, and another human emerged into the sunshine. It was a small female. Judging by her size, she was a youngling, no older than him. The girl had long brown head hair, curious wide eyes, and a tiny nose as small as a pebble. Tick inhaled – but he couldn’t smell a thing.

  The pebble-nose girl tripped her way over to the river’s edge. There Tick watched her pick up some river rocks and fling them into the water so that they made a plop as they disappeared. The girl managed to make one or two of them skip over the surface and crash into the riverbank just below Tick’s bush. The girl followed where they had landed and her gaze drifted up the cliff. Her eyes stopped at the rocky ledge, and Tick pulled back into the bush, his heart throbbing.

  He waited before peeking his face out again, watching as the girl wandered over to the yak. Now she seemed to be talking to them, and giving their noses a gentle rub. This human spoke yak? That was a surprise. Tick could tell the pebble-nose girl was special. The way she seemed to breathe the forest in, her kindness to the animals. He’d keep an eye on her.

  After making sure she gave each yak a handful of weeds pulled from the slopes, Ella stopped and gave Shaan a scratch between his horns. Shaan was her favourite in their small herd. Jet-black, with a crest of white on his forehead, he was clearly the leader. Just like Uncle Jack, thought Ella.

  There’d been a couple of times on the trek down here where she’d almost slipped on the loose rock, and had to reach out to Shaan beside her to stop from falling, his bulk warm and reassuring. There was something comforting about his smell too – like dried grass in the summer. Who’d have guessed?

  Now Ella leaned in and whispered in Shaan’s ear. “Thanks again for getting me here.”

  The yak gave a little toss of his head and carried on munching.

  Ella went over to Ana and Walker by the fire and raised the lid on the blue enamel teapot that hung over the flames. Seeing a healthy puff of steam, she took a cloth and lifted it off, pouring everyone a cup. While she drank her tea, Ella listened to the birds in the trees. One in particular stood out, repeating its shrill squeaking call in bursts. Peep-peep-peep. Pause. Peep-peep-peep. Ana heard it too, and rummaged around in the backpack by her feet, pulling out a pair of binoculars and scanning the trees.

  “There you are,” she murmured, breaking into a smile. “Over there, Ella. Picking at the moss growing on that big branch.”

  Ella ran to her tent and got her camera, then zoomed in to where Ana had pointed. Ella caught a flash of amber tail feathers bobbing up and down along the branch. The bird – a bit like a pheasant – had bright shimmering blue plumage on its wings and a little bobble on its head.

  “Wow, it’s like a rainbow. What kind of bird is that?”

  “A Himalayan monal. Beautiful, isn’t he?”

  Ella’s camera whirred.

  There was a rustle from the tent behind them, and Jack came out, running a brush through his hair. He was wearing long black boots and camo gear,
with a utility belt that jangled as he walked. He stood there for a moment, his legs planted wide, hands resting on his hips.

  “Morning, Uncle Jack. There’s a monal in the trees,” said Ella.

  “Tell me about it,” Jack grumbled. “I was munched all night. And that’s after I covered myself in insect repellent.”

  “Stop pulling my leg! You know the monal is a bird,” Ella chuckled, showing him the image on her camera screen.

  “Oh, that monal,” said Jack, glancing at the photograph briefly. He turned to Walker. “Ready to film those establishing scenes?”

  “I’m on it, Jack.”

  “Then a close-up of me waking up in the morning – a little bit of me talking to camera, then hand-held tracking of me going bush on the trail of the beast. Sound good?”

  Ella sighed and switched off her camera. She could see Uncle Jack was busy. But, as Walker set up his gear, Ella felt her heart lift. Filming! They were filming!

  *

  Soon after, on the edge of the forest and out of sight of the tents, Walker was ready behind the camera. Jack appeared from the trees, his long hair tousled, his face streaked with mud.

  “It’s just after daybreak,” he whispered, “and I’ve spent yet another night in the bush, with just a few flimsy branches and a handful of moss for a bed. My only companion, the Himalayan monal and its delightful song.” Jack rummaged around in his backpack and pulled out what looked like a piece of bark. “This dried goat jerky is the only thing I have to look forward to for breakfast today. But no time to whinge. It’s part and parcel of being Jack Stern … yeti hunter.”