Ice Claw

2

The Xtreme sports competition’s heats had been held over the previous week. Three events: cross-country mountain biking on the lower slopes of the mountains, wildwater kayaking and freestyle snowboarding. The points system for each event quickly decided who went through to the next stage. Max was one of the youngest competitors, each of whom had to be between fifteen and eighteen and attend school in Europe. Bobby Morrell, ex-U.S. junior champion, was leading the points board so far. He attended the International School near Toulouse in southern France. Max knew he was the boy to beat. Thankfully, because of the costs involved, the mountain bikes and kayaks were provided by the organizers and were all standard. There was no unfair equipment advantage; success was down to a competitor’s skills. But the snowboarding was another matter. The really good riders had specialist boards for different events. Max would have to make do with his own, modest, middle-of-the-road board-if he got through the kayak race in good-enough time.

The water roared.

“Max Gordon?” a steward shouted.

“Here!”

The previous heats had determined who was who time-wise, and at this stage of the competition the fastest kayakers went last. And that was Max and Bobby.

The American shook his hand and they touched knuckles. “Good luck, Max. Remember, watch that drop at the halfway mark. You get it wrong and it’ll force you to the left where the river splits. Don’t get pushed down there. That’s damned near a grade four river in these conditions. It’s dangerous enough to put you under and kill you, Max. Okay?”

Max nodded. He liked the American. The eighteen-year-old champion always passed on his experience to the younger competitors. They both wanted to win, but for Bobby it was nowhere near as big a deal as it was for Max. The five-thousand-euro prize money would go a long way towards helping Max buy equipment and pay for travel expenses if he wanted to continue competing in these events in the future. His dad didn’t have much money to speak of, and although the school had managed to secure a grant for him to stay on and study, any extras were up to Max.

He fitted the splash apron around the kayak, then nodded to the stewards that he was ready. The roaring water almost deafened him to the beeps of the electronic starter. A steward helped with the countdown, spreading his fingers wide, the palm of his hand towards Max’s face. Five fingers, four, three, two …

Max’s shoulders bunched; his grip tightened on the double-bladed paddle. A deep breath. Charge the energy. Win this thing. Go fast … go fast … go …

One!

The start Klaxon shrieked and Max plunged the kayak into the first swirling wave.

He immediately realized the water was trickier than that of the previous time trials. It twisted and pounded him. The snowmelt farther up the peaks meant the heavy runoff was being funneled like water down a narrow drain.

He thrust the paddle’s blades left and right and threw his body from side to side for balance. It was all about countering the strength of the river with skill and judgment. Wildwater kayaks are long and narrow; their rounded hulls made them fast, but unstable and hard to turn.

Water thundered over him. He’d misjudged one of the eddies and nearly rolled, his helmet deflecting him from the boulder that was the cause of the spurting power. He had to use the curved boat to his advantage. The river was widening. Slower water nearer the bank gently swelled into calmer pools. Max stayed in the rough and tumble, curving turns-using the boat to pick up the energy of the water and hurtle him along. The dangerous bend wasn’t far now. No one would be on that side of the river anyway-not by choice. The rapids were treacherous there.

Max saw the foaming water snarl angrily past hidden boulders; these were the fastest jets, the edge of the wave train. He took the curve and felt the lift and surge as the tongue of water powered him along, its roar muffling his shout of joy.

The cold, stinging water lashed his face, and as he turned to shake his head free of it, he saw another kayak, protected by a promontory, clear the calmer-flowing water near the riverbank.

It couldn’t be Bobby, he’d never have passed him this far downriver. Besides, he wouldn’t start his run until Max was across the finishing line. Maybe there’d been a problem with the previous competitor, a German girl who was doing well in all the events. Had she got caught up? Had a problem? Hadn’t they relayed the information back to the start line? His mind raced as he battled the crashing water. No, this was a more rugged kayak than the Xtreme competitors were using, carbon-fiber-made, and it certainly took the rapids in its stride. Whoever was in the kayak was pounding across the current, which meant he had a lot of strength and skill. And he was coming straight at Max.

Collision course.

He was going to sink him!

It was Sharkface.

Max dug in the paddle, forced the water around it, threw his body weight to one side and sideslipped the kayak so that the attacking boat glanced off.

It shuddered into him, nearly rolling him over.

The two boys fought the confused water almost side by side. Sharkface swung his paddle in a backward slash, catching Max off balance. Max’s boat spun, nearly capsized, and was saved only by Max counterbalancing in the opposite direction, but in doing so he was vulnerable. The scarred boy held his paddle above his head and, like a mighty sword blow, hammered it down onto Max.

Max braced for the impact, held his paddle across him and took the blow square on. Now it was the other kid who had lost his balance and was vulnerable. Max powered the paddle into the water and in a couple of strokes took the fight to him.

Side by side they thundered down the white water, and for every stroke in the water that kept them upright, another was hammered into their opponent. Like two swordsmen on horseback, they cut, slashed and battered. A glancing blow sliced beneath Max’s helmet, the edge of Sharkface’s paddle cutting into his forehead. Blood mixed with the cold water, closing his eye.

A surge of anger almost lifted Max out of the kayak as he yelled and slammed his body weight and paddle down onto the boy.

Sharkface slumped. The water sucked his uncontrolled boat away. Max balanced his own kayak and wiped the blood from his eye. He was still going fast, but now he was looking at the back of his attacker. The unconscious boy had still not lifted his head. His paddle was churned away in the water and both kayaks were at the dangerous bend. Sharkface was on the wrong side of the river. If he got sucked down there, even if he was conscious, odds were he would drown. As unprovoked and vicious as the attack had been, Max wasn’t a killer.

He saw a curving channel of water, paddled furiously and felt the nose of his kayak lift, then settle, as the faster, stronger and more dangerous current took control.

Within seconds he reached the other boy, the kayaks now side by side as Max shielded the uncontrolled boat from the rapids. If he could dig in his paddle and slow the pace he could force both of them away from the side tributary that now exerted a huge pressure on the river’s flow.

Max’s shoulder tendons felt as though they were tearing, but he kept the paddle in the water, throwing his weight against Sharkface’s kayak, taking the strain for them both.

And then the river eased, the noise lessened, and slower water gave Max the chance to control his own kayak’s progress by letting the other boat slip away. It nudged the bank, the water acting as a buffer, making it roll over gently on its side.

Max steered past, aiming for the center of the main river again. With a final backward glance he saw Sharkface clamber groggily from the kayak and slump down on the bank. Someone hadn’t liked the fact that Max had helped Sophie last night. And she was right-they were paying a lot of money to give these violent kids whatever they wanted, and to buy their obedience.

The adrenaline kept Max going, but in his heart he knew the attack had cost him valuable time.

As he rounded the final bend, the finish line was two hundred meters away, crowded with spectators and officials. He caught a glint of sunlight on the road that snaked up the mountain pass.

A stationary black car and two men, both in black leather coats, stood watching. One held a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

Max heard the spectators shouting.

He focused on the finish line and flexed his arm muscles in an almighty surge of power. Seconds later he heard the electronic buzz as he passed through the time gate.

He eased towards the bank, and eager hands helped steady the kayak. Using the paddle for support, he pulled himself out. Exhausted, he gasped for oxygen. One of the stewards shouted for a paramedic.

Max ignored the stewards’ fuss and pushed his way through the crowd to get a clear view of the time board.

It wasn’t his best, but he had still beaten two of the others. He’d get through to the snowboarding final on those points. Had he made better time and accumulated more points he would have been in with a stronger chance for the last phase of the competition. Now it was going to take something extraordinary in his freestyle event to snatch back those points.

He looked up towards the mountain pass.

The men and the car had gone.

The organizers bused the competitors back up the valley and gave them two hours to eat and prepare themselves for the final event of the day. This last week had been pretty relentless because it was about stamina as well as skill. Bobby Morrell was the clear favorite now, as he’d achieved a scorching time on the river. There were three other contenders besides Bobby and Max: the German girl, who had trained on the custom-built snowboard course in Munich; a French seventeen-year-old who was clearly the favorite of the home crowd; and a Dutch boy who had surprised Max by managing to reach this stage. A Hungarian girl, lithe and beautiful like a gymnast, and who looked Californian with her modern, short hairstyle, had originally been a favorite. Always smiling, she was also well liked by everyone, especially the boys, but they kept a respectful distance when they learned that she and Bobby were a couple. Her name was Potyncza Jozsa, and she seemed more competitive than most. Even Bobby would stand back and shake his head at her focused determination. Her name was a tongue-twister, so she always introduced herself, and then added, “But call me Peaches; everyone does.” And that was how everyone knew her.

Initially she seemed to have had the Dutch kid beaten hands down, but she’d blown it at the kayak event with a stupid mistake. Bobby had tried to console her, but she was too angry with herself. With a kiss for luck, she left Bobby to concentrate on the competition and went back to the hotel for a hot bath and probably, Max reckoned, a good cry out of everyone’s sight. In a way he was relieved she’d lost her placing. Peaches would have been a lot tougher to beat than the Dutch boy. He wasn’t too much of a threat, because he had even less experience than Max at freestyle snowboarding. So, five contenders remaining; two runs each to battle it out for the championship.

Max needed four stitches to close the cut over his eye. The medic decided that a Steri-Strip would not staunch the bleeding and did the needlework in the field tent as Bobby Morrell stood watching.

“You could ask for a late start for the final, Max,” Bobby said.

“No. I want to get on with it. Did you see a loose kayak on the big bend?”

“Yeah, black with a white scattered design.”

Max nodded. “Anyone in it?”

“No. I thought it must have broken loose earlier in the day. The marshals should have checked the river. A loose boat like that could’ve caused big problems. There were tough conditions today.”

Max winced as the antiseptic and sutures stung; the medic apologized.

Morrell studied him a moment. “Was that kayak out there a problem for you? Is that how you got cut? Listen, you can ask for a rerun. I won’t object, and I bet the others won’t either.”

The French medic dabbed the wound. “It’s done. Don’t worry-the girls, they like a scar,” he said.

Max pulled on his ski jacket. Bobby was right. He could ask for another go at the river if he wanted. He shook his head.

The mountain was waiting.

The specially constructed snowboard run was a long, sloping drop from the start gate until the end, where the sculpted curve flared upwards for takeoff. The accumulated points from the previous Xtreme events meant Max was in third place. There was no time for regrets about the wildwater-he was still in with a chance. The Dutch boy had done a fairly mediocre jump, leaving a deficit of points that could not be made up on his next attempt. He was out.

Max readied himself. Tingling nerves, deep breaths, good old-fashioned stage fright, which he settled into a concentrated visualization. He was cool. This was it. Go!

Jump one-pile on the speed, focus on the middle of the ramp, hit air. He needed a big ollie-a high jump-so he hit the ramp hard, kicked the tail of his snowboard down and lifted the front with his leading boot. He pulled his knees up high, carrying the momentum, and grabbed the toe-edge of the board with his trailing hand. It was silent. No scrape of snow on board. No wind. Nothing. He threw his arm high, needing a backside 360-a big one: a huge, stylish spin of 360 degrees. He felt the swish of air on his face; saw the blurred crowd, then the mountain, then the slope as he spun. He’d done it! His legs dropped and the board hit the slope.

The energy rush was great. When he slid into the finish area, Bobby Morrell gave him a high five. It had been a well-executed jump with something he had had little practice at. In its simplest form it was not considered too difficult a feat, but Max had taken a slow, high twist, and that was all about style.

The German girl was next, and then Bobby.

Max watched as the girl gave a stunning performance. The crowd roared, whooping and cheering. His heart sank at her skill and the points that illuminated the board. Max was now pushed into fourth place, but when Bobby Morrell dazzled everyone his score pushed Max into fifth place. After all that effort, he was one ride away from being out of the competition.

Max needed something so spectacular that it would wow the judges. He had seen a blistering jump made the previous year by a top-class American snowboarder-a high-speed exit from the start gate, hitting the ramp fast, and a double flip. A single inversion was relatively easy using the body’s natural tilt as the board hit the ramp’s wall, but to somersault twice in the air? To succeed, Max needed a lot of height and a perfectly balanced landing-and a lot of experience. By the time he stood at the jump-off gate again, he had made up his mind.

He was going for the big one.

The crowd’s faces blurred, the curving downhill run seemed narrower and snow began to fall, thick leaflike flakes spiraling downwards. The mountains would have fresh powder-nice, deep, unspoiled conditions. It’d be quiet up there, not like here; no cheering and screaming going on from all those faces, knowing that this was his make-or-break jump.

Max had a knack of being able to replicate what others could do. It was as if he had a camera in his brain that clicked a million frames a second and fed the information to his body. A muscle memory. Don’t take your body where your mind hasn’t already been, his dad once told him. See the problems, see the route, work it-then go. It may take only the blink of an eye, but let the mind go there first.

Max knew he could do this jump.

His run-in was fast; he soared up the snow wall and, easing the pressure on the toe-edge of his board, he kept his head high and squared his body. He was airborne. Throwing his rear shoulder at an angle, he reached down for the edge of his board, grabbing it between the foot bindings. He had to hold on, against the pull of the somersault. Bringing his legs up into his body, he felt the tug of air on his jacket’s fabric as he completed another backward curl. He gripped his fist even more tightly on the board’s edge, heard a muted, almost hypnotic roar from the crowd as they realized what he was doing. Another rotation! His fingers were slipping from the board’s edge; if he lost his grip now he’d fall badly onto his back and neck. Clamping his hand tighter, knuckles aching and leg muscles coiled, he felt the final somersault complete. Earth and snow-speckled sky smudged his vision. The big hit was in the landing. He had to take the shock through his legs, but it was his stomach muscles that needed to be tight to keep his body balanced. His snowboard thumped onto the ground, his arms went out for balance, but his center of gravity had shifted and he tumbled backwards.

In that instant he knew it was over. Max grunted in pain as his back hit the ground and his body slid, uncontrolled, towards the crowd.

He had dared to win-and lost.

Bobby Morrell was the first to help him up and release the bindings. His look said everything. It had been an awesome jump, and if the landing had worked out as planned, Max would have gone to the top of the leader board. Bobby put his hand behind Max’s neck and touched Max’s forehead with his own. A small, intimate gesture of friendship and respect.

“Another year of this and no one will touch you, man. I swear,” Bobby said quietly. “Not even me.” He gave Max an encouraging smile and went to take his place for his next run.

As Max sat and eased the stiffness out of his leg, a few people leaned forward and patted his shoulder. Some murmured encouragement, others commiserations. They were a good crowd. And most of them knew that even though Max had thrown away the championship, none of them could have achieved what he had done.

Max had wanted so badly to win. He held on to his disappointment. He couldn’t show it in front of everyone. The other board riders were better than him; more experienced, older, had better equipment. That was all true, but his mind was starting to make excuses, and he swore at himself to shut up. He’d done his best. Leave it at that, he told himself, and watch the others as they fight for the final three places.

He stayed for the awards ceremony. Bobby Morrell won, the German girl came second and the French boy third. Max told Bobby he was cutting out for a few hours, while there was still light, but that he’d join the party later.

He slipped quietly away, took the ski lift up to the top of a run and carved his way through the deep, freshly fallen snow. The mountains soared thousands of meters above him, and now that the snowstorm had swept through the valleys, Max found himself in a pristine wilderness.

He went fast, making long, sweeping turns-happiness surging back. He stopped and let his gaze take in the quiet, majestic beauty. No matter what happened in any future competition, it was free-riding up here in these massive snowfields that made him feel this good.

With a gentle rush of the board through knee-deep perfect snow, Max curved a line down the valley. He suddenly realized he was close to the avalanche area where he and Sayid had been the day before.

The snowfall had sculpted the landscape into windswept angles so finely shaped it made everything look sleek and fast, like the leading edge on the bodywork of a fast car. As beautiful as it was, Max knew that avalanches were still a danger, especially if anyone else was on the slopes. He had some mountain knowledge and knew more than most other free-riders just what to look for in these high, dangerous conditions. That was what Sayid had failed to realize yesterday. He saw the off-trail run and wanted to cut up the snow and enjoy the thrill of the deep powder.

Max scanned the rock faces and mountain peaks. In the distance Le Pic du Midi d’Ossau soared like a gargantuan reptile’s head, the slashed summit like a jaw gasping for air at nearly three thousand meters. The malevolent eye of the mountain stared heavenward, ignoring the puny human being on the valley floor.

Max checked the deep gullies above him. There was one couloir, a narrow chute formed by rocks at the top of a cliff, that whispered puffs of snowflakes. Max reasoned that they were due to an updraft of air twisting through the narrow crevices.

Everything seemed fine, but his instincts were prickling, warning him of something being not quite right. He had learned to follow those primal feelings when he was in Africa, where he had grappled with death and survived its swirling darkness. But now … What was it? What was wrong here? Still no sign of movement. The snow embedded the silence. Perhaps he was being overcautious; maybe he was still emotionally uneasy because of losing the competition. No, it was more than that-but he didn’t know what. He glanced down at his father’s watch and realized there was something he could salvage out of the failure.

It was a calculated risk, but he’d try and find Sayid’s beads.

Max took a final glance across the shimmering valley. Satisfied that all appeared to be safe, he eased his board down into the deep snow. Like crushed diamonds, it flurried away as he rode towards the tree line that Sayid had plowed through. Bending down and searching the lower branches, Max spotted the dark shapes against the white backdrop. Draped like a forgotten Christmas-tree decoration, Sayid’s misbaha dangled from a branch. Max picked it up carefully and tucked the ninety-nine strung beads into the pocket of his ski jacket.

It was time to leave; to get Sayid out of the hospital; to pack their bags and go home.

A sudden blur of movement startled him so that he crouched quickly in anticipation of a perceived danger. Three hundred meters away a skier plunged from a high crevice; a black, billowing figure, he dropped ten meters or more, hit the snow with enormous skill and turned his skis in a furious dash across the face of the mountain.

It was one of the weirdest things Max had ever seen.

A bare-headed man, a monk, with a bushy gray beard. His shoulder-length hair streamed behind him, as thick and wild as a horse’s mane. He wore only a cassock, which flapped wildly as the air buffeted him, the hood acting almost like a drogue parachute behind his head. His concentration was so intense he glanced neither left nor right and didn’t see Max.

Moments later, dropping from the same couloir, was another figure. As bizarre as the monk had been, so this skier was menacing-like the Grim Reaper stalking his victim. Sleek, carbon-smooth through the snow, the second man was a phantom, a silent Fury. The only sound he made was that of his skis slashing the surface. Max could barely see him, for as the skier tore through the white shower, he seemed to disappear from view, before suddenly appearing another ten meters down the hill. The ski ghost wore a body-hugging, one-piece ski suit, black helmet and visor; even the skis were black. The reason Max could not see him clearly was that his outfit was fragmented by a disruptive pattern, white shreds of crinkled lines, like the veins of a leaf. It was perfect snow camouflage.

Max hadn’t moved. The monk and his pursuer were level with his line of sight when the phantom, without losing a moment’s pace, lifted one arm quickly behind his neck, grabbed something and brought it forward. It was a rifle, camouflaged with black-and-white stripes, like those used by soldiers and marines for winter warfare. With a practiced, rapid movement he brought the rifle to his shoulder while still skiing at speed.

“No!” Max screamed, his yell echoing across the valley.

In an instant both skiers turned their faces in his direction, but the gunman was the first to react. He stopped in a shower of snow. The rifle never left his shoulder, and Max heard the frightening crack of the gunshot.

The monk floundered and, like a beginner on skis, seemed suddenly disjointed. He stayed upright, fighting the sudden loss of coordination. Max knew he had been hit. And he needed help. Max took off towards the wounded monk, crouching low on his board, his hand skimming the snow to balance his speed. He zigzagged in anticipation of a shot from the gunman, but it never came. Instead, a more frightening roar, like a massive wave breaking on the shore, swept over him.

The blast of ice-cold air hit his face. It seemed that the whole mountainside roared. The gunman executed a fast, sharp turn away from Max, the monk and the wall of snow thundering down towards him.

The wounded man looked right at Max. And pointed with a ski pole-the trees! They had to get below the trees if they were to have any chance of survival. Max could see the escape route and the monk was already pushing downhill as hard as he could to outrun the mountain god’s wrath.

Max’s dad had always told him it was natural to be scared, that fear had a purpose and could be overcome. But what he hadn’t told him was that anything could be this terrifying.

His gasping, rapid breath was drowned by the increasing roar behind him. His muscles ached with the effort of speed and maneuver, but he stayed focused on the spot he had to reach. The mighty fist of wind behind him was pushing him off balance. Max wasn’t laughing now. The avalanche wasn’t any distance away this time. It was raging all around him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the trees being flattened, snapping and cracking like kindling wood-the snow wave was overtaking him.

And then the monster hit him.

Swept into a maelstrom of confusion, he felt his snowboard’s bindings being ripped from his boots. Ice-cold fingers snatched at his face, tearing away his ski mask and, like grains of wet sand, snow was forced into his ears and mouth.

Memory kicked in. Some long-forgotten lesson from his father. Snatches of words. Survival. All about survival. Remember! Don’t ever go skiing alone in the mountains. Rule one-broken. Never go skiing where there have been avalanches. Rule two-broken. Avalanches happen where there’s new snow clinging to the mountain on the side facing away from the wind. He knew that! He knew it! And he had ignored it all in his stupid reaction to losing the competition.

As fast as the snow hurled him along, this secret voice in his mind taunted him. Survive! How?

Swim! Stay on top of the snow as if you were doing a front crawl.

Max churned his arms, trying to keep his face upwards towards the fleeting glimpses of sky visible through the snowstorm. He spat snow from his mouth, shook his head. Keep looking at the sky! The avalanche’s energy vibrated through him. Like a dog with a rat, it savaged him, shook him and then spat him free. For a moment the silence engulfed him. It wasn’t that the avalanche had stopped but that the wet snow had compacted in his ears.

A glimmer of hope. Blue sky. A deep breath. His arm lunged for the golden line of light. A sunbeam. A narrow band between the blue sky and the whiteout. Breathe! Suck in the air! Reach for it! Break free from this crushing monster and live! Darkness engulfed him.

Savage teeth bit into him again as he went head over heels, tumbled left to right. He was totally disoriented.

Finally the mayhem ended. Max was trapped, spread-eagled. A huge weight crushed his chest. Blue-tinged snow told him he must be lying on his back, facing the sky. How deep was he buried? If only he could scoop away the snow from his face and create space to breathe, but his arms were trapped. He must be a meter or more below the surface. He began to panic. He knew that if he fought the weight of the snow the energy would be sucked out of him. He had to take control of his mind. He had to calm down. Max tried to move his head, but managed only a few centimeters. Avalanche snow wasn’t fine and powdery; it was wet, heavy and compacted. How much longer would the small area above his face allow him to breathe? The weight of the snow was crushing his chest, settling heavier by the second.

There was, he realized, no way of escape. What would kill him first? The cold or having the life squeezed out of him? He would lie frozen in this tomb, and when the snow melted his body would be washed down into the river where, only hours earlier, he had fought Sharkface. Like flash photography, his mind showed him pictures of the kayak attack. The same white, scattered design on the kayak that the killer had on his ski outfit. The gunman-slightly built-fast and light on the snow, quick to maneuver. Young? Couldn’t tell. Sharkface? No. Sharkface was more thickset-had broader shoulders-didn’t have that fast, fluid movement of the skier.

Max’s mind was wandering. The exhaustion and lack of oxygen dragged his consciousness down an underground passageway. Colors swirled: purple, brown, blue-a kaleidoscope blurring his senses.

When Max was in Africa, a lethal poison had taken him through death’s door. A shaman had saved him. The medicine man was a BaKoko, a shapeshifter, and had given Max a power that both confused and frightened him. When his concentration was centered, and his breathing slow and deep, he was sometimes able to project himself as an animal.

Max’s dad had taught him never to reject primitive beliefs, and Max vividly recalled flying as a falcon and running as a jackal. But he did not know how to trigger the transformation at will. And what animal could escape from where he was now? Buried alive.

A gentle warmth washed over him. He was falling asleep. His core body heat, essential if he was to live, was seeping away. Sleep was bad. Sleep was death. Now there were memory snatches of Sophie. Warm cafe. Smeared window. Hard, tough men gazing at him. Angels of death maybe. Was that what they were? Angels of death come to find him? The bear, Sophie had said. She was looking for a bear, stolen and shipped and probably destined to be shot.

A bear would hibernate. Sleep deep in a snow hole. It would roll and claw its way out into the spring sunshine and sniff the sweet, clean air. Max’s hand felt as though it clutched an ice pick. Impossible. He didn’t have one. The swirling colors merged, sucking him into a vortex. Max fought the sensation but his thoughts were being broken up into tiny pieces. And then he felt a surge of strength.

He struck out, felt, rather than heard, something rasp against the packed snow. His senses sharpened. A musty tang of sweat, like a wet dog smell, fur and stale air, filled his nostrils and caught at the back of his throat. An instinct made him grunt with effort as snow fell from the space he’d scooped out in front of his face. Through the indefinite light the ice pick looked like a claw-a bear’s paw that raked the snow-his paw!

The sky seeped its blue more deeply into the crystal particles. It seemed he was going to burst through, but his chest and legs were still crushed by the pressure of the compacted snow, an invisible hand squeezing the life out of him. He was losing consciousness.

Someone smashed through the packed crust. A face. Wild. Spittle and snot clinging to a snow-caked beard. A madman dressed in black. His arm reached in, like a poacher snatching a rabbit from a snare, and he slapped Max’s face. Max gasped, spat out snow and focused. The man’s mouth, with its old broken teeth, made shapes but no noise came from it. Max’s ears were still packed with snow. It was the monk, now digging furiously with his bare hands.

The monk grabbed Max by the front of his jacket and heaved. Max kicked and wriggled in an attempt to reach the daylight. Cold air stung his face. The monk’s calloused hand wiped away the snow caked around Max’s eyes. Max clambered out of the hole. The landscape had changed, but he knew he must have tumbled hundreds of meters down the mountainside, swept perilously close to the sheer drop that existed about halfway up the mountain. The monk’s cassock, matted with snow, looked cumbersome. The old man sat back, exhausted. A pink stain snaked across the snowfield behind him for twenty or thirty meters, showing where he had crawled, which told Max that the man was bleeding badly. Thankfully the monk had seen where Max went under the avalanche.

Max took a few moments to settle his breathing. Slumped on his knees, he carefully checked his arms and legs. Nothing broken. The old man was muttering something. Max pulled off a glove and tried to dig the freezing wet muck out of his ears.

“I’ll help you!” Max shouted. But he couldn’t hear his own words. The cold must have done something to his eardrums.

Clumsily, he staggered the few steps through the loose snow to the old monk. Now that he was closer, Max could see he was a big man. And he was barefoot. The avalanche must have ripped away his boots and skis. His tangled hair fell across his face; his beard-snarled strands of white and gray, like lichen-was congealed and matted. Through the blanket-like thickness of the monk’s cassock Max saw a spreading bloodstain.

Marbles of snow scattered around Max’s feet. There was another tremor. The mountain was still unsafe. The monk was shaking his head, still muttering, pulling the hair from his mouth and eyes, fixing Max with a frightening, almost demented stare. He tried to get to his feet but fell, unable to wade through the deep snow. Max staggered closer, but fear suddenly gripped him. The monk had slid a meter away. The snow was shifting like sand on a steep dune. The monk’s eyes widened: he knew what was happening and fell forward, trying to lie horizontally, hoping his legs wouldn’t be pulled from under him.

The movement settled. Max lay as flat as he could, as if lying on ice, trying to rescue someone from going under.

“Don’t move! I’ll grab you. I’ll get you down.” He could just about hear his own voice now as it boomed inside his head. But as he yelled he had no idea how he would get himself down from the mountain, never mind the wounded man.

The monk snarled in his effort to reach Max; blood-flecked spittle caught his whiskers. His eyes locked onto the boy’s as he reached out. Max grabbed his wrist and realized for the first time that the man’s other arm was injured, from either the avalanche or the gunshot, and he must have overcome tremendous pain to dig Max out.

And then the slope moved again. A huge sheet of snow, like an ice floe, shifted away. Max held tight. The old monk growled. Max was holding him against the pull of the snow. He jammed his legs into it for grip and realized his chest and stomach were pressing against a boulder just beneath the surface. That was why the spot where he lay was not moving.

“Ez ihure ere fida-eheke hari ere,” the monk shouted in a language Max had never heard before.

“I don’t understand! Je ne comprend pas!” Max yelled, hoping the man understood French.

The monk’s grip loosened, so Max tried to take a firmer hold. The bare arms below the cassock were muscled and sinewy, but they were slippery with blood and sweat and gave him nothing to grab effectively.

Max stared in horror.

Two hundred meters away, silently and without warning, a massive chunk of snow disappeared. It had dropped into a void. And then other huge slabs followed and vanished. The slope they clung to was false. The snow had dammed itself up over the top of a massive chasm and this last tremor had released the pressure. Gravity sucked the crust of snow down, and the snowfield the size of a football pitch had disappeared into nowhere.

The monk saw the terror in Max’s eyes. He twisted his head and squeezed Max’s arm tighter. If another slab fell away they would both be dead-a drop of at least five hundred meters had opened up, like the mouth of a volcano, and it belched powdered clouds from the weight of the snow as it impacted far below.

The monk shook his head. It was useless. He knew he was going to die. His wounds were draining his strength and life force.

“Don’t let go!” Max screamed.

But the monk’s hand, slippery with blood, was losing its grip.

Max’s arm felt as though it was being torn out of its socket, and his ribs hurt from the pounding he’d taken, but despite the pain he pressed himself against the hidden boulder and pulled on the man’s weight as hard as he could.

The monk shouted again, the desperation as strident as before, this time in French, but a sucking, collapsing roar overtook the first words, and all Max heard was a broken cry. “… allez … Abb … aye! … le crocodile et le serpent!”

Max stared in disbelief. There were only twenty meters of snow left behind the monk, the rest had gone. When this slab dropped, they would both die, plunging into a gray, mist-shrouded nothingness.

The monk’s other arm snatched something from around his neck, broke the cord that held it and threw it at Max. It was a crucifix and what looked like a medallion, but Max’s eyes were on the wounded man’s as they pleaded, and his faint, desperate words reached out again. “Ez ihure ere fida-eheke hari ere.”

Max shook his head. Why didn’t the man realize he could not understand him? And then the remaining block of snow fell, and the monk with it, sucked from Max’s grip. His eyes stayed on the boy’s as his clawing fingers ripped away Max’s glove, his father’s watch; nails raked his skin.

In the fraction of a second it took before the monk was swallowed by the churning mist, he shouted one word that Max had no problem understanding.

“Lucifer!”