She awoke after nine, so famished she could have gnawed her own arm off. Helen had breakfast ready. Porridge was one of Makena’s least favourite things (along with Eunice’s potluck gruel in Mathare Valley) but Helen topped it with apples stewed in cinnamon and a dash of maple syrup and it was delicious.
They ate in the warm kitchen. It was a brilliant blue morning and the sight of the mountains, white with creases of granite showing through, filled Makena’s chest with a feeling so strong it made her dizzy.
Her father had always told her that mountain air was in her blood. He and her mama had hiked to Point Lenana when Makena was still in the womb, and had often joked that Mount Kenya was in her DNA. Her earliest memory was watching her father return from a climbing trip with his coiled ropes slung round his shoulder and crampons, ice axes and other technical gear hung from, or stuffed into, his backpack. She’d taken it for granted that when she grew up she’d be a mountain guide like him.
But that dream was long gone. These days, her grandest ambition was getting through the next twenty-four hours. She did not see mountains in her future. If she had a future. Yet when she stared out at the sharp white ridge, its teeth biting into the clear sky, she couldn’t help but feel that familiar pull.
Helen came over with a glass of orange juice just as Makena was working up to her speech about hating Scotland and wanting to go back to Africa on the next plane.
‘A pair of sleepyheads, you and my father are, Makena. I’m glad. I’m sure you needed it after your epic journey. I might check on Dad, though. He’s always been one of those annoying early risers; as perky at four a.m. in a snowstorm as the average person is at ten in summer. Since Mum died, he’s been lying in a lot more. Some days I get the feeling he can’t be bothered to get up. But nine-thirty is late even by his new standards.’
She reappeared in a hurry, phone in hand. ‘He’s burning up. I’m calling the doctor. I think he has a fever.’
It all came back to Makena then, Ray and the five foxes. The four playful youngsters and the regal silver one. She’d wondered if she’d dreamed the whole thing. What if Ray had caught pneumonia, hanging out in the snow in his PJs?
Makena was in an agony of indecision. Should she say anything or not? She decided against it. For some reason it felt disloyal.
As soon as breakfast was over, Helen began preparing some minestrone soup for her father. ‘Another recipe of my grandmother’s. Best tonic I know. If this doesn’t cure him, I don’t know what will.’
‘Would it be okay if I go out to see the snow?’ Makena asked shyly. If she was to leave Scotland soon, she wanted to fill Snow’s jar. Then she’d have honoured her promise to her friend.
‘Of course! But are you sure you don’t want to wait until I can come with you? I was so looking forward to sharing it with you.’
Makena didn’t answer. Snow was sacred. It was the bond between her and Baba and her best friend. When she touched it for the first time, she wanted to be alone.
A flicker of hurt flashed across Helen’s face, but she covered it with a smile. ‘Wrap up warm, honey, and stay where I can see you, in front of the conservatory window.’
Makena had imagined snow for so long that its rice crispy crunch and the way it swallowed her boots came as no surprise. But the pearly sparkle of it did. She kneeled in it, not caring that it soaked through her jeans. She made a snowball, packing it tight and juggling it from hand to cold hand.
Hot tears came into her eyes. In Nairobi, she’d wished so much that the snow in her jar had stayed as frozen and pristine as it had been on the peak of Batian. Now she’d have done anything to have her old jar of melted snow, turning slightly green, if it meant her mama and baba were still alive, still loving her.
There was a knock at the conservatory window. ‘Makena, won’t you come inside now before I have two invalids on my hands? I’ve made you a cup of hot chocolate. With marshmallows on top!’
Makena saw that the snow in her hands was melting between her fingers. She got to her feet, feeling a thousand years old. She realised that she’d forgotten to bring the jam jar down from her room. Before she left Scotland, she’d have to find time to fill it up.
Ray’s condition worsened rapidly. Helen played it down but was clearly alarmed. Dr Brodie, a man with a red beard abundant enough to house a family of mice, came and went at regular intervals. He’d diagnosed bronchitis. Hospital was mentioned but Ray refused to consider it.
Curled up by the fire with a mystery novel, Makena couldn’t help overhearing the heated debate. The doctor’s broad Scottish accent boomed down the stairs.
‘The bad news is, he’s more stubborn than an arthritic mule. On the plus side, he has years of healthy living behind him. At the peak of his guiding career, he was the fittest man I’d ever met. Muscles like granite. Lungs like a dolphin. Keep feeding him nettle tea and minestrone soup and he’ll get through it.’
That night, Makena couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about Ray and how he was ill because he’d been playing with the orphaned foxes in the snow. Had he also been taking them food? If so, wouldn’t they be ravenous by now?
Makena jumped out of bed and pulled on all the winter clothes she possessed. Thanks to Helen, there were a lot. She crept downstairs. In the kitchen, she paused and listened. Not a peep. She opened the fridge. What did fox cubs eat? More importantly, what could she take that wouldn’t be missed?
In the end, she tore up four slices of bread and put the pieces in a bowl with a few raw eggs. It looked disgusting but then she wasn’t a fox.
Getting out of the cottage was the scariest part. When she opened the back door, she was as nervous as a burglar on the brink of cracking a safe. If it was alarmed, she’d be in trouble.
It turned out it wasn’t even locked. ‘Not a lot of crime in these parts,’ Helen had told her. Remembering the lawlessness of Mathare, Makena couldn’t understand how she’d coped.
Makena set off across the snowy garden, clutching the torch she’d found on a shelf in the hallway. With every step she expected to hear a shout, but the cottage stayed dark.
Only when she reached the shed did she dare turn on the torch. Four terrified ginger faces peered up at her from a nest of blankets. She’d worried that they’d refuse to take food from a stranger, but they were too famished to care. They yapped with delight when she set the bowl down. Makena sat and watched them eat till their bellies were bursting.
Something kindled inside her, a forgotten feeling of joy. Before it could take hold she stood abruptly. As she hurried to the cottage, hoping that the falling snow would conceal her footsteps, she noticed Ray’s curtains move. She squinted up at the window but saw nothing further.
In the kitchen, she washed and dried the bowl before tiptoeing back to bed. It was a while before she could sleep. She was far from Kenya, in one of the coldest places on earth, but all of a sudden her heart felt warm.
