The Abominable Snowman, Page 2

  “It must have been a full-grown snowman,” said Tence. “Let’s get after it! Look at those footprints!” Bill looked. There in the snow were prints nearly three feet long, each with three toes.

  “Er,” he said. “Oh well, I suppose we’d better go.”

  The others relit the fire and sat around it in a circle with their backs to it, on guard, as Tence and Bill, bundled up in thick clothes and carrying a gun apiece, set out up Ben Drumlin.

  The footprints scrambled around rocks, leaped over crevasses, sidled along narrow ledges, and disappeared, around about lunchtime, into a cave.

  Tence bent down and picked up Twist’s bowler hat. “He’s in there somewhere,” he said sadly.

  “After you, then,” said Bill, who was no fool.

  They sidled into the cave. Tence took a flashlight out of his pack, but all they saw by its light were icicles and damp walls.

  They tiptoed on, and there was no sound but their breathing.

  Suddenly Tence tapped Bill on the shoulder. At least, that’s what Bill thought, until he realized that Tence was in front of him. What he thought then can be represented by a little sum. He thought:

  Tence = in front of me

  Therefore he’s not behind me.

  Therefore it’s someone else.

  + This is an abominable snowman’s cave.

  Therefore the person who just tapped me on the shoulder is a—

  “Gah!” he screamed, and spun around. It was an abominable snowman, a large ball of fur over six feet high with the biggest feet Bill had ever seen. And there were other snowmen behind it.

  The leading snowman stepped forward and said something in a language made up of squeaks and grunts.

  “Pardon?” said Bill.

  Furry hands gripped them firmly and pushed them along into a cave lit by candles.

  Twist was sitting against one wall, drinking soup out of a bowl.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said. “This is a bit presumptuous, isn’t it? They’ve taken me prisoner.”

  Tence and Bill stared around the cave. It was full of abominable snowmen.

  The leading snowman stepped forward with a stick in its paw and started to draw in the dust at Bill’s feet. It carefully drew a series of little pictures. The first showed a small snowman running out of the cave. The second was a rough drawing of the explorers’ camp.

  Then there was a drawing of Twist and the small snowman. The snowman pointed at the picture and started waving his arms around.

  “I may be wrong,” said Tence, “but I think he’s trying to say that they’re holding Twist hostage until the baby snowman is returned. . . .”

  “Yes, but we didn’t kidnap him,” said Bill. “He wandered into our camp.”

  The snowman started to draw again. He made it clear that unless Bill went alone to fetch the little snowman, Tence and Twist would be pushed down a cliff when the sun went down.

  “Oh,” said Tence. “Well, that’s clear enough. Hurry back!”

  The snowmen led Bill out of the cave and watched him hurry down the mountain. He skidded across glaciers, leaped over gaping crevasses, slid down great drifts of frozen snow, tumbled into icy caves, and, finally, puffing and panting, and with blue and pink stars bursting inside his head, he staggered into the camp.

  Mrs. Glupp was trying to feed the snowman a sort of porridge made out of crushed biscuits.

  Gasping for breath, Bill grabbed the little furry creature and rushed back up the slopes of Ben Drumlin. It made frightened squeaking noises but clung to Bill’s backpack as he climbed sheer cliffs holding on with nothing but two fingernails and a toe. Finally he reached the cave, just as the sun began to set.

  “Hold everything!” he panted. “Here he is!”

  There was a great commotion and the baby was hurried away by some snowwomen. It was the chieftain’s son, explained Tence.

  The chieftain trotted forward and shook Tence’s hand. He pointed at the camera.

  “Pictures!” said Tence. “Of course.”

  During the next half hour he took photographs of abominable snowmen standing in formal groups, abominable snowmen with their arms around Bill’s shoulders, abominable snowmen wearing Twist’s bowler hat, abominable snowmen standing on their heads, abominable snowmen jumping up and down, and abominable snowmen looking serious.*

  They didn’t actually look very abominable . . . but Tence seemed happy enough.

  “Just wait till I publish these,” he said. “They’ll make me president of the Royal Zoological Society for this!”

  Then they all shook hands and set off back to their camp. Twist was thinking relieved thoughts, and Tence was thinking excited thoughts, and Bill was thinking, I wonder how long it will be before the Joke Monks tell the last joke.

  They can’t have done it yet, anyway.

  *In one photo, an abominable snowman is making bunny ears behind Tence’s head with his big paws. This always seems to happen when photos are taken of groups of people.

  More delights from the master!

  These fourteen funny and inventive tales feature “characters heroic or hiss-worthy, pranks and battles aplenty, sly twists on familiar tropes, and Pratchett’s trademark mix of silly humor and acute moral commentary.” (Kirkus Reviews)

  “Pratchett’s signature warmth, wit, and intelligence light up these stories. Highly recommended for reading aloud.” (Booklist)

  Visit www.hmhco.com or your favorite retailer to order the book.

  About the Author

  SIR TERRY PRATCHETT is the bestselling and multi-award-winning author of more than fifty novels for children and adults. He wrote his first published short story when he was thirteen. At seventeen, he went to work for his local paper, where, in addition to reportage, he also wrote stories for the paper’s “Children’s Corner.” It is from these pages that Dragons at Crumbling Castle was created.

  Terry Pratchett’s many children’s books include The Carpet People, The Wee Free Men, and the Printz Honor winners Nation and Dodger. His phenomenally popular books for adults center on his satiric novels about the fantastical flat planet Discworld.

  In 2009, Sir Terry was knighted for “services to literature.” Published in more than three dozen languages, his books have sold more than 85 million copies (give or take a couple million). He lives in England.

  www.terrypratchettbooks.com