Eva Ibbotson - The Abominables

And then, while the younger monks went down to the village for help, the rest of them went back into the dining hall and waited for disgrace and ruin.

Con had known all along, really, what he had to do. When a child’s life was at stake, you had to take a chance. Even Lady Agatha, he knew, would have wanted him to let the yetis out. Only they could save Leo.

He went over to the fire where Ellen was helping to care for the delirious Mr. Letts as he rambled and blamed himself for the accident. Then the boy slipped out of the monastery and, with his head bent against the gale, ran back downhill toward the yellow lorry.

The yetis, when he reached them, understood at once. “Don’t worry, my boy,” said Uncle Otto reassuringly. “We shall find him. Remember, we can see in the dark.”

“After all, we are rescuing yetis,” said Ambrose smugly — and while Perry made his way down to the village to join a stretcher party, and Con set off for the monastery once more, the yetis padded up the steep sides of the quarry and were gone.

Even for the yetis it was bitterly cold on Death Peak. As they padded across the treacherous glacier, leaped crevasses, and peered into gullies, the snow beat against their faces and the wind scythed like a rapier through their fur. But they let nothing hinder them in their search for Leo. Patiently, clinging with their eight toes to knife edges of ice, they squeezed down chimneys of rock, dug into snowdrifts, raked the darkness with their saucer eyes …

There was nothing. No answer to their calls. No trace of the boy.

“I don’t want him to be dead,” said Ambrose in a quavery voice, clambering up a pinnacle of ice. “I don’t want anyone to be dead, ever .”

But things were beginning to look very bad for Leo. And now Grandma was in trouble. She was, after all, over four hundred years old. Shivering fits shook her, her breath came in painful gasps, and her legs felt like matchsticks.

“Come on, you stupid old yeti,” she scolded herself. “Here’s a poor child in trouble and you totter about like an old pudding.”

But though she was cross with herself, she couldn’t make her heart pump harder or her muscles pull her up the towering cliffs of rock.

“I’ll just rest for a moment,” said Grandma. “I’ll crawl into this little cave here and then I’ll be as right as rain.”

She dragged herself into the cave and flopped down on a slab of stone, but still she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Grandma did not often feel old and sad and useless, but she felt it now.

And then, in the back of the cave, she saw something stir: a fair blur; a faint, small shape. She moved closer, bent over it.

And after that she didn’t feel old and sad and useless anymore; she felt as happy as she’d ever felt in her life. She had found Leo.

And now a solemn procession wound itself down Death Peak toward the monastery below.

First came Uncle Otto: pathfinding, responsible, and serious. Then came Ambrose, beaming with pride because Grandma, who was still feeling rather tottery, had let him carry Leo. Tottery she might be, but not so tottery that she couldn’t constantly peer over Ambrose’s shoulder and tell him what to do with the boy.

“Gently, now, don’t let his neck hang like that. Support his head, that’s right. Mind that leg …”

Behind Grandma came Lucy, her gentle blue eyes full of pity for Leo, who lay, still as a leaf, with closed eyes in Ambrose’s arms.

They were just starting to cross the glacier when Clarence, who was bringing up the rear, suddenly stopped.

“’Og,” said Clarence firmly.

The others sighed. It was so important to bring the boy to safety quickly.

“No, Clarence, there’s no bog here. The ground’s as hard as nails,” said Lucy soothingly.

“And there certainly aren’t any logs ,” said Grandma. “We’re much too high for trees.”

But Clarence kept on pointing and suddenly they saw what he meant. Wedged between two boulders, lying flat on his back with his chilblained feet stuck in the air like table legs, was a large and frost-covered St. Bernard.

They had found Baker.

It was an embarrassing moment for the yetis. They knew that St. Bernards were famous for rescuing people, and it did not seem right just to pick the dog up as if he were a baby. But Baker, frenziedly wagging his tail, made it clear that he expected just that, and it was with a St. Bernard hanging like a gigantic snuffling muffler round Clarence’s neck that the party moved on.

They didn’t so much find Biscuit as fall over him. He was rolled into a whimpering ball of fur, half-covered in snow, and even when Lucy picked him up and hung him over her shoulders, he refused to open his eyes. No one was going to get Biscuit to look into that awful darkness.

Brutus and Bouncer were lying together under an outcrop of rock. Brutus must have got giddy and fallen from it because he had passed out cold. Bouncer was trying to dry his feet in Brutus’s armpits.

“This is a very strange mountain,” said Uncle Otto, picking up the dogs and tucking one under each arm. “It seems to erupt dogs.”

But the mountain had not finished with them yet.

As they came off the glacier onto the last stretch of scree before the monastery, they heard a most unexpected sound.

Somewhere close by, someone was hiccuping.

Like an old warhorse scenting battle, Grandma lifted her grizzled head. “Wait here for me,” she said grimly.

She stumped off down a little gully. When she came back, she was half dragging, half carrying the large, befuddled, and sheepish-looking Beelzebub.

“You disgusting brute,” she was yelling at him, “don’t you know what drink does to your liver? Do you want to end up in the gutter?” And all the way down the mountain, Grandma, her gray hand clamped like iron round Beelzebub’s collar, threatened him with an Early Grave, an Alcoholic Dogs’ Home, and a Beating He’d Never Forget.

But now they had arrived at the monastery gates. Very gently, Ambrose lowered Leo onto the ground beneath a clump of wind-gnarled firs. Then the others put down the dogs. This was hard to do because the dogs most definitely did not want to be put down, but the yetis were firm.

There was only one more thing to do, and Grandma did it. Filling her scrawny chest with air, she threw back her head and yodeled.

And then, carefully leaping from rock to rock so as not to leave footprints on the snowy ground, the yetis vanished.

And so when Con, with the monks at his heels, came rushing out, they found the five dogs clustered in a warm and sheltering huddle round the little boy — and no one else in sight.

“He’s safe! The dogs have rescued him!” cried Con, crossing his fingers inside the pocket of his jacket. “They must have done!”

“No … it can’t be,” stammered Brother Peter. “It would have to be a miracle.”

But the monks were men of God. They were used to miracles. If God could make five loaves and two fishes feed five thousand people — well, maybe he could make some of the silliest dogs in the world carry out the most heroic mountain rescue of the century. And as they carried the little boy gently into the warmth of the fire and put him down beside his joyful father, it was all the monks could do to stop dancing and singing and shouting, they were so happy.