And while the children ate their soup, the friendly monks, clustering round, told them — in a jumble of languages — the story of the dogs.
For a long time, they explained, people had stopped using dogs for mountain rescue work because they were so expensive to train and modern devices like helicopters and radar seemed to make them unnecessary. But a very rich and kind American, an oil millionaire from Texas, who had come to Feldenberg for a holiday, had been so upset to think that those wonderful dogs were no longer bred and trained, that he had sent the monks a litter of five of the most highly bred St Bernards in America — and given the monastery a huge sum of money to be used each year for the feeding and training of the dogs.
“How marvellous!” said Con, scratching the ear of an enormous white-and-liver-coloured brute who had fallen asleep across his feet. “And have they rescued anyone yet?”
The monks looked at each other and said, no. Fortunately, the Death Peak was a very dangerous mountain which people treated with respect, so nobody had needed rescuing. A silence fell. And then, suddenly, perhaps because Con and Ellen had very listening faces, it all came out.
The dogs, said Brother Peter (and all the others nodded to show that they agreed with him) were the most charming, gentle animals that anyone could wish for. The monks adored them; they couldn’t bear to think of life without them. There was only one snag. They were absolutely useless at rescuing anyone from anything.
The children found this almost impossible to believe.
“But I thought… all St Bernards…” stammered Con.
The monks shook their heads and sighed. Most, perhaps, but not all. Certainly not Baker or Brutus or Biscuit and quite definitely not Bouncer or Beelzebub.
And one by one, kind Brother Peter, who was in charge of the kennels, introduced the dogs and explained their little troubles.
Baker, it seemed, suffered from chilblains — nasty big pink lumps which came up as soon as he set foot in the snow. Brutus, on the other hand, couldn’t stand heights. They had lifted Brutus on to a table once to have his toenails cut and he had very nearly fainted. Biscuit was terrified of the dark and had to have a night light in his kennel. Bouncer, a real bruiser of a dog whose muscles beneath his brindled fur rippled like steel, cried like a baby when he had to wet his feet.
“But that one?” said Ellen. “That huge dark one over there?”
The monks blushed. What was wrong with Beelzebub seemed to be a little different. Then, very shyly, Brother Peter leaned forward and whispered: “He drinks.”
And he explained that every St Bernard was sent off with a keg of brandy round his neck so that when the lost traveller was found he could have a healing sip. Beelzebub, however, was driven so mad by the smell of brandy that he simply shattered the keg against the first rock he could find, lapped up the contents — and had to be carried home and put to bed.
And because the monks were good and honest men they had decided that it wasn’t fair to go on deceiving the people of Feldenberg and taking the American’s money, so they had decided to send the dogs away the very next day. “But it will be like giving away our children,” said Brother Peter, and all the monks looked so sad, that for a moment, Con and Ellen, used as they were to yetis, expected them all to burst into tears.
“But if no one ever needs rescuing,” said Ellen, who couldn’t bear anyone to be unhappy, “what does it matter?”
What happened next was just like a play or a film. There was a violent pounding on the door and a man stumbled forward into the room. He was dressed in climbing clothes, his face was badly cut and bruised and his leg dragged as he came forward.
“Help! I must have help quickly! It’s my son, my little Leo. He’s lost on the Death Peak. Send out the dogs to save him! Please… quickly… send out… the dogs,” said Mr Letts — and Brother Peter was just in time to catch him as he fell.
8
On Death Peak
The monks put out the dogs. What else could they do? They pushed out Biscuit, howling because of the terrifying darkness, and Baker, trying to keep his chilblained feet out of the snow. They pushed out Brutus, who got giddy on a kitchen table, and the whimpering Bouncer and boozy Beelzebub with his barrel…
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 he slipped out of the monastery and, with his head bent against the gale, ran back downhill towards 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 the Death Peak. As they padded across the treacherous glacier, leaped crevasses, peered into gulleys, 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 on 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, 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 blancmange.”
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 any more; she felt as happy as she’d ever felt in her life. She had found Leo.
And now a solemn procession wound itself down the Death Peak towards the monastery below.
First came Uncle Otto; path-finding, 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.