Paw Prints in the Snow Page 5

  The dog’s barking grew louder and more insistent. It couldn’t have been more than a few metres away. Joe was petrified. He curled into a ball and held his breath.

  When the dog fell silent briefly, he heard the crunch of footsteps. Footsteps! A voice was issuing orders in Russian. Joe’s heart beat faster. This might be his only chance of rescue.

  ‘Help!’ he cried as loudly as he could. ‘HELP ME!’

  The barking calmed down briefly, only to resume more loudly than ever. Joe wished it would stop so that whoever was with the dog would hear his cries.

  ‘I’m here, behind the building,’ he shouted. ‘HELP ME!’

  At last, he saw a beam of light moving around above him. Before he could call again, a large black dog hurtled down the steps, stopped briefly to sniff at him, then stood at the basement door, barking frantically and trying to find a way underneath it. The beam of light reached the top of the steps and fell on Joe.

  ‘Help me, please,’ he cried weakly. ‘I think I’ve broken my leg.’

  There was a gruff exclamation of surprise and someone came towards him.

  ‘Joe?’ asked a voice. ‘Hurt?’

  It was Artem Klopov. Joe had never been so relieved in all his life. He bit his lip hard, trying not to burst into tears, and nodded, pointing at his leg.

  Artem bent down beside him. ‘Look bad,’ he said. ‘Much pain?’

  Joe nodded again. ‘Were you looking for me?’ he asked.

  ‘I have my dinner and I take Boris for a walk,’ Artem replied. ‘Lucky I find you.’

  Joe felt tearful again. ‘Mum and Dad will be worried. They don’t know where I am.’

  ‘I think so,’ said Artem. ‘I tell them.’

  Boris was still barking and scratching at the basement door. From inside came an aggressive roar, followed by a smaller growl of warning. Artem quickly stood up, listening.

  ‘Tiger!’ Artem said. ‘You find tiger!’

  ‘Tiger?’ Joe couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘You find tiger. Boris find scent. Boris find you.’

  ‘Tiger?’ Joe said again. He still couldn’t take it in.

  ‘Good dog, Boris,’ said Artem. ‘He learn.’

  ‘Do you mean there’s a tiger behind that door?’ Joe asked, incredulous.

  Artem stood on tiptoe and shone his torch through the glass panel at the top of the door.

  ‘Young male cub, I think,’ he said. ‘Not well. I find help, for you, for him. I tell your mother and father so they not worry.’

  Joe didn’t want Artem to leave. He didn’t want to be left on his own again, especially now he knew that the animal behind the door was a tiger. He had spent so many hours obsessed with the idea of seeing a wild tiger, but now that he was so close to one, he was scared it might get out, even if it was just a cub.

  ‘I am quick,’ Artem promised.

  He clambered back up the steps, taking Boris with him.

  Chapter 16

  There’s a tiger behind that door, Joe said to himself repeatedly. I’ve been lying next to a tiger and I didn’t even know.

  He knew he should have realised. There was the same acrid smell of spray that Iona had made him sniff in the reserve. He would have to sharpen up his act if he wanted to become a wildlife expert, or even a wildlife photographer. He shouldn’t have missed such a big clue, broken leg or no broken leg.

  To Joe’s intense relief, Artem returned in no time with two men from the village, who brought with them blankets and a home-made stretcher. They gathered him up as gently as they could.

  ‘Mother, Father, they come,’ Artem assured him. ‘You go hospital. Tiger too.’

  Joe smiled weakly at the idea of the tiger going with him to hospital and lying in a bed alongside. Now that he was safe, he wanted to see the animal before they carried it away.

  ‘Can I see him?’ he asked. ‘Can I see the tiger?’

  Artem shook his head. ‘Dangerous,’ he said. ‘Make him sleep first.’

  The pain grew unbearable again, heightened by Joe’s anxiety that the tiger might be taken away before he could even glimpse it. When his parents arrived at last, with Iona and a team of tiger experts, he couldn’t help but sob at the feared loss of his last opportunity to see a tiger in the wild. He begged to be allowed to watch while the tiger was sedated before being moved from the basement.

  Binti was distraught and wanted him to go straight to hospital.

  ‘He’s been lying here in the freezing cold for hours while we searched high and low. Who knows what might have happened if Artem hadn’t found him when he did,’ she said.

  Peter, however, thought a few more minutes wouldn’t do any harm. ‘Ever since we arrived in Russia, our son’s been obsessed with the idea of seeing a tiger. Let’s not deprive him when he’s so close to achieving his dream.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Binti reluctantly agreed.

  Joe could tell that she was shocked at what had happened to him and was blaming herself for not keeping a closer eye on him. ‘I was following a raccoon dog,’ he attempted to explain. ‘I was about to turn back when I heard a noise coming from the basement . . .’

  From his stretcher, he looked on anxiously as one of the tiger experts placed a ladder against the door of the basement and climbed up it, carrying a gun.

  ‘They’re going to tranquillise him,’ Peter told him. ‘Then your mother and the other vets will check him over before they take him away for treatment.’

  Joe suddenly remembered his camera. ‘Where’s my camera, Dad?’ he cried. ‘Is my camera all right? I want to take a photo. Please let me take a photo.’

  Artem handed Peter the camera case. ‘Tough,’ he said. ‘Like Joe.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Peter. He checked the camera over and passed it to Joe. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Joe. I might have taken photos from some strange places, but this beats the lot!’

  Joe smiled and felt a small glow of pride, then winced as the tranquilliser gun was fired.

  Everyone waited quietly. After a few moments, when the all-clear was given, they opened the door and shone a light into the room. Joe raised his head and stared. There he was – the young Amur tiger he had unknowingly spent the last few hours with.

  Joe was astonished at how big he was. When Artem had told him it was a cub, he had imagined something the size of a terrier. This young tiger was more the size of an Old English sheepdog.

  ‘He’s so handsome!’ Joe said. ‘Look how big his paws are!’

  He propped himself up against his father, raised his camera and pressed the button.

  ‘Happy now?’ Binti asked, stroking his hair.

  Joe nodded and relaxed, keeping his eyes on the sleeping cub.

  ‘He’s about nine months old, I should say,’ Iona told him. ‘One month for every year of your life. He has an injured leg too. He must have become separated from his mother for some reason and strayed into the village, so he’s had to fend for himself. He hasn’t managed very well by the look of it.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Joe. ‘What will happen to him now?’

  ‘We’ll take him to a rehabilitation centre, where he’ll be given a thorough check-up. Eventually, when he’s fit and strong again, he’ll be released back into the wild.’

  ‘A little bit like you then, Joe,’ joked his father.

  ‘You know it was Boris who saved us, don’t you?’ Joe told Iona. ‘He’s not as slow on the uptake as you thought.’

  Chapter 17

  Joe’s leg wasn’t badly broken and he was allowed to leave hospital two days later. He was quite proud of the cast that stretched from his knee to his foot. Several of the hospital staff had written on it in Russian, wishing him a speedy recovery. The fieldworkers at the park headquarters wrote on it too, requesting that he visit them again in the future because he had brought them good luck. One of them even drew a tiger on it.

  ‘We spend our lives tracking tigers and hoping for new ones to appear,’ the fi
eldworker told him. ‘You come here for a few days and – like magic – a cub we’ve never seen before arrives on our doorstep.’

  Joe grinned. ‘Perhaps it was because I wanted to see one so badly,’ he said.

  ‘And you think we don’t!’ the fieldworker replied.

  The person Joe really wanted to sign his cast was Artem.

  ‘So you’ve decided that walruses aren’t so bad after all.’ Peter grinned when Joe asked if he could meet up with him before they went back to England.

  ‘He’s cool,’ said Joe.

  He was delighted therefore when Iona called by later that day with Artem and Boris.

  ‘Artem is a shy man and doesn’t like a fuss,’ said Iona, ‘but he wants to say goodbye.’

  Boris came bounding over to Joe, tail wagging furiously, but he sat obediently at a sharp word from his master.

  ‘He’s learning quickly,’ remarked Joe.

  ‘Leg come good?’ Artem asked.

  Joe nodded and thanked him. ‘You saved my life,’ he said.

  Artem shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Boris.’

  ‘The tiger is already making good progress,’ Iona informed Joe. ‘He was very thin and undernourished, but after a few good meals he’ll be fine. Our main concern is that if his mother is no longer in the Lazovsky Nature Reserve, we may never know what happened to her.’

  ‘So will the poor cub be all on his own when you release him?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Tigers are solitary animals once they’re adults,’ Iona replied. ‘Unfortunately this cub is going to be on his own sooner than most, but we won’t release him until he’s ready. And we’re very lucky to have your mother here for another three weeks, because she’ll be helping the young vets to monitor his progress.’

  Once again, Joe felt proud of his mother and the important work she did.

  ‘When she leaves, please will you let us know how he gets on?’ Joe begged.

  ‘Of course,’ Iona reassured him. ‘And there’s one more thing. The cub needs a name.’

  Joe’s heart skipped a beat. Are they going to let me name him?

  ‘You tell him, Artem,’ said Iona.

  Joe held his breath and waited for Artem to speak.

  ‘Tiger name – we call him . . . Joe,’ Artem announced.

  Joe couldn’t believe his ears. Not only had he found a tiger in the wild, but the tiger had been named after him! He didn’t think it was possible to feel happier and he would have jumped for joy if he could.

  ‘Thank you!’ he cried. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’

  Just as Iona and Artem made to leave, Joe remembered why he had wanted to see Artem in the first place.

  ‘Please will you sign my cast before you go?’ he asked, holding out a pen.

  A flicker of a smile lit up Artem’s normally sombre face when he took the pen, before it disappeared again as he concentrated on the job in hand. While he was writing, Joe made a big fuss of Boris, and was reminded that Foggy would be waiting to greet them upon their return; Foggy, who had a nose for biscuits and not a lot else. Joe was looking forward to seeing him.

  As soon as they had thanked Artem once more and said their goodbyes, Joe asked Iona what he had written.

  ‘Come back soon. Your friend, the Walrus!?’ Iona read. ‘I don’t know what he means. Do you?’

  Joe blushed bright red. ‘It’s a secret.’

  Zoological Society of London

  ZSL London Zoo is a very famous part of the Zoological Society of London (ZSL).

  For almost two hundred years, we have been working tirelessly to provide hope and a home to thousands of animals.

  And it’s not just the animals at ZSL’s Zoos in London and Whipsnade that we are caring for. Our conservationists are working in more than 50 countries to help protect animals in the wild.

  In Russia, Bangladesh and Indonesia we are fighting to save the majestic and highly endangered tiger through vital conservation projects.

  But all of this wouldn’t be possible without your help. As a charity we rely entirely on the generosity of our supporters to continue this vital work.

  By buying this book, you have made an essential contribution to help protect animals.

  Thank you.

  Find out more at zsl.org/tigers

  Also by Sally Grindley

  Coming soon

  Shadows under the Sea

  Feathers in the Wind

  My Name Is Rose

  Bitter Chocolate

  Torn Pages

  Broken Glass

  Spilled Water

  Saving Finnegan

  Hurricane Wills

  Feather Wars

  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin, New York and Sydney

  First published in Great Britain in February 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

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  Manufactured and supplied under licence from the Zoological Society of London

  This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Text copyright © Sally Grindley 2012

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  With thanks to ZSL’s conservation team

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  ISBN 9781408826508

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