Snowwhere

By Heather Flood

Vinny Armstrong is thirteen. On a school skiing holiday to France an avalanche sucks him into a world beneath the snow. This is Snowwhere, dedicated to the supremacy of skiing. He is to help the Snowwhere 'authorities' rid the slopes of snowboarders. He meets a host of oddbods: the mysterious Sal O'Pet, his own 'chalet pet', a yeti and the daunting figure of Princess Bellaclava and Monty, an emperor penguin. But who is friend and who is foe And why are three other youngsters held captive Escape is the only answer, but first he has to face the snowboarders, ski for his life and outwit Allie Pine, the princess's right-hand woman.....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447577584

Book preview

978-1-44757-758-4

CHAPTER ONE

‘Race you to the bottom!’

‘I don’t think so.’

Vinny Armstrong, who had proposed the race, was a dark-haired boy with so many freckles it was a miracle he hadn’t earned the nickname ‘Measles’ or ‘Join-The-Dots’. Perhaps Vinny’s frank, blue-eyed gaze was what had spared him this humiliation.

Arthur Mow, who had turned the race down, was a round boy, the only Arthur in the school. As now, it was his habit of pausing to take a puff from his inhaler that had made everyone change his name to ‘`Alf a Mo’. Vinny hadn’t known him particularly well before this last week – they weren’t in the same class at school – but on this skiing holiday Arthur had become Vinny’s best friend.

This was why, after shakily strapping themselves into their boots, shouldering their skis and trekking with ski poles gripped in one free hand, they had trudged, not speaking, to the bottom of the nearest tow. Here they had slipped their skis on and had each – grimly – grappled with a tow button. Vinny had felt something like exhilaration as, gaining height, they were able to scan the multi-coloured figures zig-zagging downhill, but when he glimpsed Arthur’s woebegone face a flutter of fear tickled Vinny’s own tummy. At least now they were a short way down their descent. Arthur’s moans of a few moments ago had made Vinny shout ‘Snowplough!’

‘Crikey, it’s steep.’

Arthur had been avoiding looking too closely at the snow-covered drop in front of them. The two boys had left the nursery slopes for the first time today. Vinny had been more than a little irked by taunts across the hotel’s vast dining room at breakfast, taunts from Jez Riley and Frankie Manson: ‘Still in the nursery, eh, Vin?’ Theirs was not the only school party occupying the hotel; a host of unknown heads his own age had swivelled that very morning and Vinny, weaving with his tray to the table where Arthur was keeping a seat for him, wished he had the power to aim his bowl of cornflakes accurately at twenty metres right towards Frankie’s grinning maw. Aware of his hot cheeks, he had muttered to his friend:

‘Today’s the day, Art. We’re going up that hill.’

Toes pointing inwards, ski planks practically crossed in front, bodies wobbling with the strain that this action put on their legs, the boys had slithered to an awkward stop.

‘We weren’t even going fast.’ Vinny’s tone was almost accusing. Then he saw how grey Arthur was looking. He waited politely while Arthur finished using his inhaler, then said:

‘Hey, in no time, you’ll see, we’ll be back playing table football.’

‘Oh, couldn’t we sneak back early?’

‘GET OUT THE WAY!’ An angry adult grazed Arthur’s left sleeve. The boys were parked right in the path of other skiers.

‘Did you see who that was?’

‘Yeah, Mr. Taylor.’

‘Well, if the teachers are so wrapped up in their own performances…’ ‘Exactly. What’s new?’

‘…Then we won’t be noticed if we go back to the hotel.’

‘First there’s just the small matter of getting down.’ Vinny began to get into position. He was willing to give it a try. They had, after all, proved that they could stop. Arthur, as if suddenly driven by the prospect of a game of table football, manoeuvred himself with difficulty until he was poised, leaning on his poles, his short legs in alignment. Alarmed, Vinny yelled:

‘Just don’t go in a straight line!’ Too late; Arthur was a speck. Vinny was pretty sure he could hear him howl, although other sounds – the swish of skis and a very distant racket of rather soppy pop music played on the terrace of a café further down the hill – drowned the noise.

It was a bright March morning on that French Alpine slope. Vinny decided there was nothing he could do about Arthur. One of the other twenty or so pupils in his group would hopefully help him to pick himself up, for undoubtedly he would have fallen. Vinny realised he would have to take his time descending. And he was going to do it by skiing against the side of the hill, first sweeping to the left, then in a long loop, doubling back to the right. And for the next few minutes Vinny coasted happily across a glistening white stretch of snow, beneath a blue sky with peaks in the distance, lavender-coloured in the morning light. Looping was not as easy as it had been during the dry slope lessons he’d had before the trip, or for that matter throughout the previous few days on the nursery slope.

Vinny had managed to change direction twice now. His heart leapt into his mouth during each of his turns when his skis, propelled by gravity, did an ‘`Alf a Mo’ and invited him to plummet to the bottom. Vinny soon began taking longer to begin his turns. He was covering a great deal of ground as he glided horizontally along the hill. A line of trees to his left marked the western boundary of the slope he was on. None of the other skiers ventured out to this fringe. They had no need to; they knew how to get down by the correct method. The trees were getting closer. He would really have to make an effort now to switch direction… He had no need to make a decision. The next second he was somersaulting through a dark, earthy, frightening tunnel. Vinny’s ‘Aaarggh!’ turned to a shrill yell and he closed his eyes. He heard a thud then realised he himself had made the sound as he landed on the tunnel’s hard floor. Vinny, winded, kept his eyes closed. Shock made him stay very still. He had absolutely no idea whether he was curled in a ball or splayed out like a pinned butterfly. He opened his mouth to breathe and nothing happened. He was desperate to catch his breath. The effort forced him to open his eyes. He was on his back. Gingerly he gazed ahead of him. He was looking at a snow ceiling! This really was scary. He would have given anything to have `Alf A Mo’ join him; he wished now he had had the nerve to chase after his friend. Vinny looked up to find that there was no sign of the hole he had fallen through.

The next thing he saw was a tall person gesturing to him. Vinny realised that he wasn’t so much in a hole as in a passage. It was a passage carved through snow. White-walled, white-floored, white-roofed, it made the boy blink. He stared at the figure, a skinny individual in blue ski-suit with a long serious face, not cruel-looking, exactly, but not smiling. If he were to follow, where would he end up? There wasn’t a great deal of choice. He had landed with one leg buckled beneath him. He looked desperately upward again, unable to make out how on earth the hole he’d fallen through had somehow filled up or been smoothed over. And all there was was this gloomy, clammy corridor and the weird bloke wanting Vinny to follow him.

‘I’m Sal O’Pet,’ the man said now, his voice very smooth, even, unhurried, but cold. Vinny looked where he was pointing. Wide and low-ceilinged, the corridor stretched forever. A long walk lay ahead. It didn't appeal to Vinny. But then his guide snapped his fingers in an odd back-to-front manner and the floor beneath them began to move. As it did so, ski tow buttons swung past and Vinny was signalled to take hold of one of these. Rising gingerly to his feet, he slotted the button between his legs and leaned back. He was pulled gently along.

Vinny tore his eyes from Sal’s unusual long narrow back. He looked down at his own feet and couldn't believe that he still had his skis on. This had to be a miracle, after the fall he had suffered. Generally, in his limited skiing experience, the first things to go in an accident were the planks. If, against all the laws of physics, they stayed on, then the minimum damage was a badly sprained ankle. But Vinny was fine! He hadn't had time yet to take stock of where he was. He must be in shock, he decided. For here he was, obediently following the slim figure now gliding ahead, hardly leaning on his button. An odd thought came to him: ‘I’m me, but somehow I’m not quite me’. Who is this geezer, he wondered? What’s his game? But the words that came out of his mouth were different from the ones he had been thinking.

'State of the art, this transport system.' Vinny found he was speaking in a loud, bright voice. Yes, he sounded like someone else. Normally, if pushed, he might have muttered: 'Not bad bit of kit.' Where had the posh comment come from? Sal glanced round and down at Vinny and said: 'Hmm', as if teenage boys regularly paid such compliments. His school, Shoreham Comp., was far from well-to-do, but it had been able to organise this cut-price holiday using money left in the will of a past pupil. The deceased Ernest Walburton had been a keen skier himself, having spent part of the war hiding in the French Alps. Injured when his plane was shot down, Walburton the airman had been transported by his French Resistance rescuers on skis. That way, they had been able to cross less accessible terrain, away from the enemy's gaze. The experience had left him with a lifelong attachment to skiing, an unlikely pursuit for a rural Sussex lad.

Vinny and Arthur, through Ernest Walburton's generosity, had been among the pupils who had received three lessons on a dry ski slope. Vinny was a disaster on the football pitch; it gave him a good feeling to be doing something where the others didn’t jeer at him. He learnt as quickly as the others, initially, and was excited when he received the school’s letter with its reply slip inviting him on this trip. His parents could never normally have afforded a skiing holiday, but he was sure they would allow him to go on this cut-price trip.

His dad not unexpectedly commented in a gruff voice: 'The odd kick-around was good enough for me, and of course there's always the English Channel for free exercise.'

This had made Vinny stare in amazement. 'You never swam the Channel, Dad!'

'Don't be a dolt, son. I just meant it's a free swimming pool.'

It was supposedly the one great advantage of living in Shoreham that a mere pebble's throw away was the windswept, stony beach, which, for a total of around four weeks of the year, was actually a pleasant location for a bit of fun. Vinny rarely went to the beach. Today though he had almost begun to feel at home among the snow-covered Alps. That at least had been the case while he was still above ground.

To make matters still worse, in the tunnel a series of earth-shaking crashes sounded suddenly. Vinny jumped, both skis leaving the floor. He felt his mouth forming a phrase. He frowned as his lips tried to take over. What was he saying?

'I say!' was what he almost uttered, though he managed to stop himself. Where were all these unfamiliar words coming from?

'Sorry,' Sal threw over his shoulder. 'It's the avalanche machine going back into its shed. Now you're here it won't be needed for a while.'

Vinny didn’t begin to try to unravel this statement. He was concentrating on not thinking at all. That was his defence mechanism when things took a frightening turn. Now he looked up to see that the passage had at last come to an end. Sal was waiting. Vinny was forced to release his tow button before it yanked him of his feet. Sal was for the first time wearing a smile and holding out a bulbous drinking glass. The glass was blue and unusually thick. Taking it, Vinny realised that it was made of ice. The drink inside was syrupy and warm, however. It was the colour of mango flesh. There was a black straw made of liquorice. He seemed to have no choice but to suck on it.

'You'll feel fine in a moment.'

It was true that his ankle didn’t hurt a bit, but in the last moments he had developed a headache and was feeling horribly cold. Did Sal realise this? Or was he just referring to the ordeal of being dropped down a snow hole that had felt like the inside of the coldest chimney Father Christmas had ever encountered? Either way the headache went, Sal took back the glass, then smashed it on the ground, and Vinny simultaneously declared: 'Splendid.' He clapped a gloved hand over his mouth and the top end of his ski pole hit him on the cheek. Who or what had taken over his voice-box, he wanted to know?

At the end of the moving corridor was a round cavern. Its ceiling was a white dome of snow that was as smooth as alabaster. There were a number of doors, but the largest one bore a plaque with the name Mr. S. Lalom. Sal glided forward on his skis, his slim shoulders rocking from side to side slightly.

'This way, please.'

Vinny dug his ski poles into the snowy floor and was surprised to find he was propelling himself along at a cracking speed. Sal had opened the door with a split second to spare. Unceremoniously, Vinny sped past him and landed with both skis under S. Lalom's desk. He swung his arms wildly to try to maintain his balance. Then S. Lalom came into focus, and Vinny, bowing slightly, amazed himself again. For this time he said:

'Awfully sorry.'

'Think nothing of it, my boy,' the man's voice boomed back at him. S. Lalom's face broke into a broad grin and he chortled. 'That's exactly how I like to arrive in me own office meself. Follow me and we'll see what you're made of.' They passed Sal, who had taken up a position at the door with his arms folded. Vinny thought he saw a disapproving look on the long thin face.

The rear wall of S. Lalom's office had begun dramatically to split in two and the two halves were sliding back now to reveal a ski slope. Powdery snow was very gently falling and far above them tiny firs could be seen. Slithering forward across the flat floor towards the bottom of the slope, Vinny found it again uncannily easy to make progress. Now he and Mr. Lalom were going gently uphill and a slight push with his ski poles was all he needed. Together, Vinny and S. Lalom managed to get to the top of the slope without any mechanical assistance. Instead of a rude word escaping from his lips, Vinny found the words 'Goodness me!' slipping out.

This was no nursery slope. It was steeper even than the one Vinny had been skiing a short while before. Far below them, Sal could be seen standing stock-still. S.

Lalom's and Vinny’s skis had worn a snaking double path straight up from the office desk. S. Lalom now offered to lead the way down and as he moved off, he criss-crossed the straight lines the two of them had made, creating a snaking pattern, dipping and weaving and looking rather an odd sight in his business suit. S. Lalom was a bulky man, yet he was grace personified on the snow.

Vinny was wary. He had meant to set off before Mr. Lalom reached the bottom, but it was too late. His descent had been amazingly rapid. Now Vinny had an audience of two. Could he manage those same sweeping curves or would he do an embarrassing downhill sprint and ricochet off the fancy carved desk which at the moment was little more than a speck?

Vinny hadn’t been entirely happy with his hired skis throughout the trip. The right one tended to race ahead and the left one seemed to curve up at the front more than was normal. He had thought earlier that he might insist on a different pair tomorrow. Somehow now he doubted if he would ever again see the inside of the hire shop. Then again, perhaps he only had to pass this present test to be granted the opportunity to leave and re-join his fellow pupils. Not even the prospect of Frankie Manson’s ill-meaning grin across a dining table would faze him, if he could just return… Vinny glanced down nervously at his feet and willed the skis to behave. Then he took off.

This was skiing as he had never known it. His body wasn't that uncertain thing that could waver and fall at any moment. His ankles and knees, which earlier on the real slopes had been tense with the effort of holding himself in alignment, were soft and relaxed. He was a pendulum, swaying first left, then right, dipping towards the snow then lifting effortlessly as he changed direction. He carved satisfying s-bends and wished he could make this remarkable descent last as long as possible.

'Time: fourteen seconds,' Sal O'Pet announced. Although he was looking down at his stop-watch rather than at Vinny, the look of relief on his face was clear.

'That fast?' Vinny panted. He thought the experience had lasted much longer.

'Nice control,' Mr. Lalom commented. 'Just as I would have expected.'

That reminded Vinny. He wanted to know how and why he had been chosen to come here via, it appeared, an avalanche organised just for him. Why him and not Arthur, for example? He stopped grinning with pink-faced pride and attempted a look that said: I mean business.

'How did you know I would come down the Ben Hur slope today?' That was where he and Arthur had foolishly chosen to ski.

'Ah... You were with a school party from .....Shoreham, is it?'

Just hearing the name of his home town spoken by this bizarre man in this underground realm made tears prick somewhere deep in the recesses behind Vinny's eyeballs. Gravity had shot him into this place, but somehow he already suspected that getting out would be a hundred times harder than arriving.

'Ye..es. Can I go now?'

'Your party is due to return home in four days’ time,' S. Lalom continued, ignoring the request.

'That's right.'

'It was just a question of looking into the Snow Ball and gauging when to act.'

'I kept an eye on you too,' Sal interrupted. 'I noticed you messing about on the easier runs. Things got better when you ditched that other boy, the short one.’ These words gave Vinny a jolt. He also felt offended on `Alf A Mo’s behalf and scowled. Sal went on: ‘You clearly were being modest, not letting your classmates see how good you really are....'

'Er ....no!' Vinny wanted to say. He said nothing, however, fascinated by the tale that was unfolding. He wanted to hear what was meant by the 'Snow Ball'.

'But then you could stand it no longer,' S. Lalom said with a flourish. 'You just had to go up on Ben Hur when no one was looking and do some real skiing.'

Again, Vinny failed to correct him. The truth of course was that he and Arthur had simply queued at the nearest ski tow. It was too late when they found how long and steep the journey was. He wasn't too chuffed with himself for letting his friend be carted off by his skis. Then, with the sun shining, he had had that brief sense of elation. The next second of course he’d been smacked on the behind by the torrent of snow which his hosts had sent to up-end him. He gave S. Lalom a defiant look. He didn’t sound as blunt as he wanted to.

‘I’d rather appreciated being given a proper explanation.’

'Your mission begins tomorrow. Sal here will settle you in.'

'Er........ Right-o!' Vinny chimed cheerfully. What the real Vinny wanted to say was: 'Whaaa...? Who are you kiddin', mate?'

Mr. Lalom looked bracingly at Vinny, as though he had just offered him a dazzling prize. Vinny found himself grinning broadly. Meanwhile he’d been panicked by that word ‘mission’. Sal steered him out of the office by putting a skinny arm around his shoulders. In the domed lobby outside, Sal turned and said:

'I should have told you to say Slalom before and after your meeting with S.L. It's how he likes to be greeted.'

'Slalom?' Vince repeated.

'No, like this: Slalom.' Sal then managed a smile, visibly more relaxed now that he was away from his boss. 'Let's take a look at your chalet.'

This sounded good. A ski chalet was what Vinny and the rest of his school party had hoped for on the visit. Wood-panelled walls and roaring fires had filled their imaginations. In fact they were in a concrete hotel with a squeaking lift and that cold cavernous dining room. The only plus was the table-football game.

He and Sal ascended in a lift which moved noiselessly. It was extra large to accommodate passengers wearing skis. Its sides were blocks of ice, but unfortunately there was nothing to see. The lift shaft was solid snow. When they came out, a metal door barred their way. It had a keypad into which Sal typed a password. A camera lens protruded from a perch above the door. It whirred, clicked, then finally beeped before the door swung open. As they were being let through, Sal spoke sternly.

‘Every time you come through here the camera will check that you are authorised to pass. It has just taken your picture and it will to compare you with it on each future occasion. You must stand exactly where we just did. I shall give you the password now.’

Vinny waited expectantly.

‘It’s snowplough.’

‘Okay.’

‘You must keep it secret.’

‘Of course.’ Vinny was thinking: I do know what a password is.

Numerous doors faced them when Sal and Vinny exited. Outside each of these doors was a rack for placing skis.

'Monte Rosa. This is yours,' Sal announced. The chalet's name was carved into the door, which, like everything else, was made of snow. They deposited their four skis in the rack and Sal unlocked the chalet door. Inside it was magnificent. There was rosy wood everywhere. There were three broad stairs up to a seating area; further wide steps led towards the dining area to the left, and another shallower set led to the kitchen on the right where all the cabinets were made from carved highly varnished cherry wood. There was no roaring fire, however, just an obviously fake fireplace with a heavy wood mantle shelf. Best of all was the bedroom in what appeared to be a sort of turret, for the room was circular and had a panoramic view of the mountains. Multi-coloured skiing figures could be seen darting down the slopes and flashing out from behind clumps of evergreen trees. There were dramatic cliff faces and