By Royal Command

  James looked over at the Wilder Kaiser. A thick, flat, grey streak of cloud had obliterated the tops of the peaks, as if a frustrated painter had smeared a dirty brush across the top.

  They had to ski some way to get to the top of the run down into Kitzbühel, and there was a deal more walking involved. By the time they arrived, thin wisps of cloud were scudding by, and the peak of the Kitzbühler Horn on the far side of the valley was hidden in a murky haze that was creeping down its flanks towards the town.

  The mountain looked incredibly steep here and James felt a flutter of fear. Was he really good enough to cope with this run?

  ‘The weather can change very quickly,’ said Hannes once they were all lined up. ‘So we stay together and observe all the safety rules. The more dangerous parts are marked off with rope, so stay on the right track. I will lead and Mister Eastfield will follow behind.’

  Hannes zipped over the snow to James, smiling broadly.

  ‘If you can make it down here in one piece,’ he said, ‘then you can call yourself a skier. Some of the run is very steep indeed. Just remember: the steeper the slope, the faster you go, the more you must lean. You must constantly adjust your angle, like the needle of a compass, as the slope changes. Air resistance is nothing at slow speeds, but when you are travelling fast it is a very strong force, so you must lean well into it, until finally with great speed you will feel as if you are lying against the air.’

  He winked at James, shouted some encouragement to the others, then dug his sticks into the snow and pushed off down the slope. James was relieved to see that he didn’t schuss straight down, but cut across, then swished round in a long elegant curve and went back the other way. The more confident skiers were right behind him and the rest followed in ones and twos, keeping to the same path the instructor had taken.

  Now it was James’s turn – he could hold it off no longer. He pulled his goggles down over his eyes, leant forward and shunted himself on to the slope.

  He grinned as his skis rattled over the newly compacted snow. Gravity would take hold now and convey him all the way to the foot of the mountain. All he had to do was try not to fall over.

  For several minutes their progress was steady and straightforward, then they hit a narrow section of the run where turning was harder and they were forced to take a steeper path. They speeded up and James felt his heart race faster with his skis. He passed a couple of boys who had taken tumbles and was feeling like he was king of the mountain before his brief moment of elation came to an abrupt halt. Five boys had collided and fallen in a tangle of bodies and skis amidst much laughter.

  The whole party had to stop. The bindings had come away from one of the boy’s skis and Hannes set about trying to fix it. Everyone else sat around, and gradually their high spirits turned to moans and grumbles. Muttered complaints started to be levelled at the boys who had crashed.

  ‘You’ve held us all up now.’

  ‘Just when it was getting exciting.’

  ‘You’re really wasting our time.’

  ‘Back to the nursery slopes for you saps.’

  While Hannes was busy, and before anyone knew what was happening, thick cloud descended on them. Almost instantly the view was wiped out and all anyone could see was a milky whiteness. The cloud was cold and damp, and it muffled all sound. With white snow carpeting the ground, there was a ghostly, dreamlike quality to the scene.

  Hannes found Mr Eastwood.

  ‘We will have to sit it out,’ he explained. ‘It is too dangerous to ski in this fog.’

  ‘Should we not make our way back up to the cable-car?’ Eastwood asked.

  ‘It could take an hour, perhaps two. It may stop running before we get there and even walking back up might be dangerous. It is best to stay here and wait for a gap in the clouds. We will be all right.’

  Far from lifting, however, the cloud seemed to grow heavier as they waited, and then it started to snow. Thick flakes drifted lazily between the pine trees.

  Some chocolate was handed around to lift their spirits but the boys mostly ate in gloomy silence. James noticed Miles and his friends sitting apart and taking sneaky gulps from a silver drinking flask.

  They were giving up hope of ever moving on when the cloud suddenly lifted and they were surprised to see the view appear out of nowhere. It had been easy to forget that they were thousands of feet up on the side of a mountain and this sudden reminder was startling.

  Hannes and Mr Eastfield ran around shouting encouragement and getting everyone to hurry. They snapped their boots into their bindings, pulled on gloves and goggles, slung their backpacks over their shoulders, and the conditions were still fine as they at last set off again in a great unruly mass.

  They had not been going for five minutes, however, when they came to another pocket of cloud. James watched everyone ahead of him disappear into a white wall and he could do nothing but follow them. In the confusion, the group became scattered. There was shouting from all sides but it was impossible to tell who anyone was or which direction to go in. Then James spotted Miles scooting purposefully off to the right, and went after him, assuming he knew where he was going. He soon realised that Miles was lost, however, as the sounds of the skiing party faded behind them. James called after him and speeded up.

  ‘Hey, Miles, you’re going the wrong way!’

  He saw Miles turn and fall and he swooshed up to him, stopping in a flurry of snow.

  ‘Oi, watch out!’ said Miles. ‘You’ve covered me. And what do you mean by shouting at me like that? You made me fall.’

  James apologised. It was simpler than protesting.

  ‘I think my damned ski’s come loose,’ said Miles, and he started tugging at his bindings.

  ‘Don’t,’ said James. ‘You’re making it worse. Let me.’

  ‘I can manage, thank you,’ said Miles and he pushed James out of the way.

  James could do nothing but stand there watching as Miles fumbled and cursed at the straps and refitted his ski agonisingly slowly. The sound of the others had been swallowed up in the fog and James was becoming increasingly worried that they wouldn’t be able to find them again. He peered into the murk and strained his ears, but he had lost all sense of where they were. When he turned back Miles was taking a drink from his flask.

  ‘That won’t help,’ said James.

  ‘Warms you up,’ slurred Miles.

  ‘It also gets you drunk,’ said James. ‘I don’t think it’ll be very safe to be drunk up here in these conditions.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’ said Miles. ‘I don’t expect you’ve ever taken a proper drink in your life.’

  James didn’t respond to this jibe and merely said that they should hurry up. At last Miles got shakily to his feet and slipped the flask into the pocket of his wind-cheater.

  ‘This way,’ said James, turning round.

  ‘No, it’s this way,’ said Miles.

  ‘No,’ said James, ‘you were heading in the wrong direction.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I was doing,’ said Miles. ‘I’m a much more experienced skier than you.’

  Before James could stop him, Miles stubbornly set off almost straight down the slope, so fast that he was quickly out of sight. James had no choice but to follow him. He was getting very scared, but, left to himself, Miles might get into serious trouble.

  6

  There is More Than One Way to Come Down a Mountain

  James skied furiously after Miles until he had caught up with him. The snow here was deep and perfectly untouched, so he knew that they couldn’t be going the right way. He tried to get this through to Miles, who shouted him down and then veered off at a sharp angle – taking him even further away from where James reckoned the rest of the party should be. Almost immediately Miles cried out and when James caught up with him he saw he had skied in among some trees and got snarled on a root.

  James skied over to him and dragged him to his feet.

  ‘This is madness,’ he said.
‘You’re coming back with me, back to the others.’ He physically twisted Miles around and shoved him in the other direction. Miles grumbled under his breath, but carried on.

  They were traversing the mountain here and could walk on their skis between the trees. It was slow going and tiring with it.

  For several minutes they picked their way along. The trees thinned and gradually James’s hopes rose that they would soon come across the others.

  But then Miles stopped again.

  ‘What is it now?’ said James.

  ‘A rope.’

  Miles picked up a frayed end of rope. James saw the other end tied to a tree.

  ‘It marks the edge of the run,’ said James. ‘We must have crossed it somewhere up above. We’re back on track. We should start to head down again.’

  ‘We didn’t cross any ropes,’ Miles scoffed. ‘I knew you were taking me the wrong way. We must have gone right over to the far side of the run, we need to turn back round again.’

  James could see fear in Miles’s eyes. He could smell it coming off his damp skin. A mixture of sweat and alcohol and something animal. It was making him irrational. If he got too desperate there was no telling what he might do.

  ‘Look about the place,’ James pleaded. ‘This is the run. The snow ahead is clearer, there are no trees. That’s where we should be.’

  ‘If this is the run then where are the tracks?’ said Miles angrily. ‘They would have left tracks. The others are obviously back that way.’

  ‘Don’t talk rot,’ James snapped.

  ‘I am not talking rot,’ said Miles. ‘I know about these things. You should listen to me. I’ve been skiing many times before. I know about mountains and suchlike.’

  ‘You don’t know about anything,’ said James. ‘You’re a pompous, overblown windbag. And, what’s more, you’re drunk. I’m not taking orders from a drunk.’

  At this Miles lashed out at James and clipped him round the head with a clumsy punch. Taken unawares, James slipped over on his skis and struggled to get up again. By the time he had got to his feet he could just see Miles’s back as he sped off in completely the wrong direction.

  James spat blood from his mouth and saw it lying black on the snow.

  For a moment he considered letting Miles go. It was clear that this idiot was going to get them both killed. But James knew that he couldn’t leave him alone on the mountain. If anything did happen to him, he would never forgive himself.

  He called vainly for help a few times, his voice getting swallowed up in the fog. There was no answer but silence. He shouted one last time, then shook his head, pulled up his scarf, tucked into a crouch and set off after Miles, oblivious to the cold and the ache in his knees and ankles. He felt a fool for letting his temper flare up like that. It was important not to lose your head in these conditions.

  He had to stop Miles, calm him down and somehow get him back on to the right path, but that was easier said than done. There were a lot of rocks here, most of them hidden below the surface of the snow, and tree trunks would suddenly loom up out of the whiteness. Thin branches whipped at his face as he sped past. He leant well forward, his knees slightly bent, trying not to tense up, keeping his body loose and elastic, reacting to every bump and dip in the ground. Twice he fell over, landing face first in the snow, and each time he merely picked himself up, wiped his goggles clean and carried on.

  At least the only way Miles could go was down, so in one sense they were headed in the right direction, but they could have no idea of what lay ahead of them and Miles was taking a line closer and closer to the fall line. Soon he would be heading straight down the mountain, and not angling across the slopes at all.

  James’s only hope was that Miles would fall, but he seemed to have the luck of the devil. Or maybe he really was the world’s greatest skier as he had often boasted.

  James sped on; his eyes focused on the twin tramlines Miles had carved into the snow. He laughed – was it possible that the boy had found an easy way down the Hahnenkamm after all, and James’s fears had been unfounded?

  Suddenly he burst out of the clouds into an impossibly steep, wide-open patch of virgin snow. There were no trees here and James at last saw Miles up ahead. He was careering along, completely out of control, his arms waving, standing first on one ski and then the other, wobbling drunkenly from left to right. It was like a long, long fall. Miraculously, though, he stayed upright.

  James saw his chance to catch up with him. He would risk taking the fall line. He gripped his sticks tightly and leant so far forward that his nose was almost touching his skis, and then shot straight down the slope in a wild Schuss.

  This was like weightless sailing. He was almost flying over the snow crystals. He had mastered gravity. The pressure of the wind in his face was immense, however, and if he didn’t lean far enough into it he knew that it would flatten him.

  James was so intent on watching Miles, so keen to overtake him, so lost in the joy of speed that he wasn’t paying close enough attention to what lay ahead. He was brought brutally back to reality, however, when he heard Miles cry out in terror, and the next moment the ground beneath his feet rose sharply and then disappeared altogether.

  They had skied right off a cliff.

  Now he really was flying. He was high in the air above the clouds with a view right out across the valley and the only way was down. He knew that he was dead. The mountain had claimed him after all. For a second or two it was as if he was just hanging there, and then he dropped into the white fog with terrifying suddenness.

  He yelled, and then could make no sound at all as the air was sucked out of him. Tattered cloud tore past and he watched in horror as the ground rushed up to meet him. He held his nerve, though, keeping his balance, his skis parallel, the tips raised. In a flash he saw that he might have a chance. The slope was still very steep here; he would be landing at an angle. There was a slim possibility that he might just be able to land on his skis. He braced himself for the impact, and when he did land it was surprisingly gentle, his skis kissed the snow and he was thundering down unharmed. He gave a whoop of triumph and the next thing he knew he was tumbling head over heels down the slope.

  He had no idea how far he rolled, but when he finally came to a halt he lay there, alternately laughing like a madman and sobbing. Nobody would ever believe what he had just done, because nobody had seen it… except, perhaps, Miles.

  Miles? Where was he? James sat up and looked around. He had dropped right out the bottom of the cloud. Visibility was good, though the sky was darkening. His blood froze as he saw, not ten feet away from where he had stopped, a second drop that would have spelt certain death. He approached the edge. Below there were just jagged grey rocks. Had Miles gone over?

  He peered down. There was no sign of him. He called out. And then again. Louder this time. He waited. Had he heard something? A feeble response? He screamed Miles’s name, until his voice was hoarse. Yes. There it was. From further up the slope, a faint, quavering response.

  James chopped his way up sideways with little six-inch steps, keeping his skis straight and using his sticks for balance.

  ‘Keep calling!’ he shouted. ‘Let me know where you are, Miles.’

  ‘I’m here,’ came the weedy response. ‘I’m up here.’

  ‘Where?’ said James, trying to see into the ceiling of cloud above him. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

  Then a cold wind raced across the mountain and the clouds were ripped away. There was Miles, lying awkwardly in the snow among his sticks and skis, like a squashed black bug. It took James five more minutes to get to him, and he slumped down, exhausted, fighting for breath.

  ‘I thought you were dead for sure,’ he said.

  ‘So did I,’ said Miles. ‘I’m not really sure what happened. I think I must have knocked myself out for a moment.’

  ‘You skied off a cliff,’ said James. ‘Now will you believe that we’ve gone the wrong way?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Miles
. His skin was as white as the snow and his eyes a livid red.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ James asked.

  Miles looked at him, swallowed hard, then slowly nodded his head, fighting back tears.

  ‘Where?’ said James.

  ‘All over,’ said Miles. ‘But I’m worried about my leg. I’m scared to look, but it hurts like hell and I can’t move it. I think it might be broken.’

  James steeled himself, fearing the worst, then glanced down. Miles was right: his lower right shin was bent forward at an impossible angle. There didn’t appear to be any blood, or bone sticking out through his trousers, but there was no possibility that he would be able to ski any further. Particularly as one of his skis was missing altogether and the other, though still attached to his left foot, was snapped completely in half.

  ‘It’s bad, I’m afraid,’ said James, and now Miles burst into tears.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he wailed.

  ‘We’re going to get you down,’ said James. ‘And we’re going to get you to a hospital.’

  ‘Get down?’ Miles snapped angrily. ‘How? I can’t bloody move.’

  ‘Yes you can,’ said James hotly. ‘You’re going to bloody well have to. Unless you want to die up here.’

  ‘I’m not going to die, am I?’ said Miles fearfully, gripping on to James’s arm.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said James.

  ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Listen,’ said James. ‘If we work together you’ll be fine. But if you annoy me any more, I’ll leave you here. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. I’m just a little scared.’

  ‘We’re both scared,’ said James. ‘And we have a right to be. We’re both still alive, though, and I aim to keep it that way.’ So saying, he took off his scarf and tore it into three long strips.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Miles.

  ‘We need to make a splint for your leg.’

  ‘Don’t! You mustn’t touch it. I won’t let you…’

  ‘Be quiet and help me get this ski off,’ said James.