• Always triple-check the weather and ensure you have the correct equipment, clothing and supplies before heading out. Take a fully charged phone
• Do all you can to minimise risk. Don’t be a hero
• Listen to your body and mind
Makena’s father had drummed these rules into her from an early age, and yet she’d escaped The Great Escape without thinking about any of them. All her backpack contained was an extra sweater, one bottle of water, Snow’s jar of melted snow (now freezing again), and the photos of her parents, removed from their frames. The banana and the mince pies had long since been devoured.
Starting out, she’d been quite pleased with her decision. The day had dawned fine and bright and she’d made rapid progress up the mountain. Her plan had been to head for the pass. She recalled seeing a petrol station about two kilometres beyond it. If she made it that far, she might be able to sneak aboard a lorry to Inverness or Edinburgh. What she’d do once she got there, she wasn’t sure. She’d come up with some ideas along the way.
But the weather had turned from sunny to stormy with disconcerting speed. Fast-moving clouds had gobbled the summit. Mist oozed from the crevices and gullies, and a bitter wind seemed intent on hurling her into space.
Makena knew from her father’s stories that fog was as deadly to climbers as any avalanche. Lose your bearings on a mountain and a hundred hazards lie in wait. From the ground, she’d been able to see a clear route up the mountain. Higher up, it was more difficult. The path kept merging with sheep trails. Rock falls confused things further. Twice she had to take detours around snowdrifts. When the path forked she had to use her best guess.
Now it split again. Makena went left. After battling uphill and sideways for another ten minutes, the trail ended at a frozen waterfall.
Trying not to panic, she retraced her steps. The path fizzled out. When she found another, it soon split into three.
Makena stopped to catch her breath. She had Elvis legs. That’s what climbers called it when their thighs and calves wouldn’t stop trembling. Her feet were rubbed raw and she had a raging thirst. Earlier, she’d seen the lights blink on in the faraway cottage. Imagining Helen waking on Christmas morning to find the girl in her care gone made Makena feel unwell.
Had the police been called? Would Helen regret writing the email or would she, like Uncle Edwin, be relieved that she had a good excuse for dispatching Makena back to Africa if and when she did reappear? But whatever was happening in the valley below was a mystery. Like Makena herself, it was lost in the mist.
It was snowing again. Hard. Makena let out a sob. She was going to die on the mountain and she’d have no one to blame but herself.
Terror threatened to overwhelm her. She fought it off by taking deep gulps of brutally cold air. She had to get a grip, as her father would say. The situation was fixable. She could turn back. Returning to the cottage would be humiliating but she’d be alive. And warm. She would insist that Helen return her to Nairobi on the next available plane.
She chose the path that looked most likely to wind its way downhill. As she rounded a tall, jagged rock, she stopped in fright. The silver fox was in her path. Against the snowy backdrop, it was nearly invisible except for one thing: it glowed.
Up close, it was evident that it was not a white version of a red fox but another species altogether, one with thick, soft fur, a pretty, pointed face and vivid blue eyes that seemed to stare right into her soul.
Once Makena had recovered, she was so relieved to see another living creature that she had to remind herself that it was a wild animal, not a sweet ginger cub like those in the shed. It could attack her. Still, its presence gave her a boost. As nightmarish as the situation was, at least she wasn’t alone.
Then the fox moved and she screamed. Not because she was afraid it was going to bite her but because she saw, through the swirling white, the cliff edge that lay beyond it. If it hadn’t blocked her way, she’d have fallen.
Staggered at how close she’d come to disaster, she turned to see the fox’s ghostly outline melting into the gloom. Makena scrambled after it. It had saved her life once and might do so again. If it was accustomed to getting treats from Ray it might lead her down the mountain to the cottage.
The fox followed a twisting trail visible only to itself. Sometimes it trotted so quickly and surely that Makena struggled to keep up. At other times it seemed to go in circles. She never lost faith that it knew where it was going nor that it wanted her to follow. Its shimmering tail shone through the blizzard like a guiding star.
She was near to collapse when a shepherd’s hut loomed out of the storm. Makena halted, breath steaming from her lungs in white puffs. Afraid that it might be a mirage, she took a hesitant step towards it. It seemed solid enough.
Helen had explained that, across the Highlands, there were bothies – basic shelters that could be used for refuge by hikers and climbers. They were free to anyone who needed them.
Makena broke into a tired run. The steps were piled with snow and the door so aged and swollen with moisture that at first she was convinced it was locked. Finally, it creaked open. Only when she stepped over the threshold did she glance back. The shining fox was gone.