‘A really charming and thrilling story, written with grace and poise.’

Amanda Craig, The Times

‘In a spellbinding and mesmerising debut novel, Lauren St John weaves a captivating tale of love, loss, friendship and the richly evoked history of Africa.’

Publishing News

‘A thoughtful, heartwarming read for the summer. When Martine sees the mystical creature from her bedroom window, it is the start of a beautiful adventure.’

Nikki Gamble, The Bookseller

‘St John brings Africa to vivid life in this tale of a young girl sent to a new life; Martine’s sense of cold alienation set against the hot safari landscape … the white giraffe, an albino rarity prized by game hunters – the perfect leit-motif for this fragile stirring story.’

Dina Rabinovitch, The Guardian

‘Enthralling …’

South China Morning Post

‘A real treat … This book has the hallmark of a children’s classic.’

Armadillo Magazine

‘St John brings Africa to vivid life in this … stirring story.’

The Guardian

‘A genuinely gripping tale that will warm even the coldest of hearts.’

Waterstones Books Quarterly

‘Intense and evocative’

Daily Mail

‘Steeped in the magic of Africa.’

Irish Examiner

Also by Lauren St John

The White Giraffe series

The White Giraffe

Dolphin Song

The Last Leopard

The Elephant’s Tale

Operation Rhino

The Lion Cub’s Secret

The Laura Marlin Mysteries

Dead Man’s Cove

Kidnap in the Caribbean

Kentucky Thriller

Rendezvous in Russia

The Secret of Supernatural Creek

The Wolfe & Lamb series

Kat Wolfe Investigates

Kat Wolfe Takes the Case

The One Dollar Horse Trilogy

The One Dollar Horse

Race the Wind

Fire Storm

Other Titles

The Glory

The Snow Angel

Wave Riders

Finding Wonder

www.hachettechildrens.co.uk

For Lucia, Rachel, David and Alice Quinney Mee,
With love and immense gratitude for a journey
shared on the page

1

WILD GOOSE

People like to say that things come in threes, but the way Martine looked at it that all depends on when you start counting and when you stop. For instance, she could say that one bad thing happened along with three good things, but the truth was, the one bad thing was the very worst thing in the whole world, two good things were so small she didn’t really notice them at the time, and something else that she first thought of as a disaster later turned out to be the best kind of fortune anyone could wish for. Whichever way you added it up, though, one thing was certain. The night Martine Allen turned eleven years old was the night her life changed absolutely totally, and completely, and was never the same again.

It was New Year’s Eve. At the time, Martine was asleep in bed and she was dreaming about a place she’d never been to before. The reason she was so positive was because it was too beautiful ever to forget. As far as the eye could see, there were lawns lined with exotic flowers and trees. Behind them, rising into a clear sky, was a mountain made majestic by granite cliffs and lush green forests. Children were laughing and playing chase through beds of dusky-pink flowers. In the distance, Martine could hear drums and soaring voices. But for some reason she felt apprehensive. Dread prickled her skin.

All at once, the sky began to boil with a stormy violet light and a tablecloth of cloud spread over the mountain. The day turned from sunny to sinister in seconds. Then one of the children shouted, ‘Hey, look what I found!’

It was a wild goose with a broken wing. But instead of helping it, some of the kids began tormenting it. Martine, who could never bear to see any creature hurt, tried to stop them. In the dream, they turned on her instead. Next she knew, she was on the ground crying and the injured goose was in her arms.

Then something peculiar happened. Her hands, holding the wild goose, heated up to the point where they were practically glowing. Electricity crackled through her. Through a swirl of smoke, she saw dancers in animal masks, and heard voices as old as Time. They tried to speak to her, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Suddenly, the wild goose she was holding stirred to life. Martine opened her palms. It shook out its wings and flew into the turbulent sky.

In the dream, she looked up smiling, but the other children didn’t smile back. They stared at her with a mixture of horror and disbelief. ‘Witch!’ they chanted, ‘witch, witch, witch.’ They began to chase her. Martine fled in terror. She struggled up the steep mountain path, into a dark forest. But her legs were unimaginably heavy, hooked thorns tore at her ankles and she was losing her way in the fog. And all the while it was getting hotter and hotter. Then a hand grabbed her, and she began to scream and scream and scream.

It was the sound of her own screams that finally woke Martine. She shot up in bed. It was pitch dark and it took a few seconds for her to realise she’d been asleep. None of it had happened. There was no mountain and no bird. She was safely in her bed in Hampshire, England, with her parents sleeping soundly across the corridor. Heart pounding, she sank back into the pillows. She was a bit dizzy and she still felt very, very hot.

Hot? How could it possibly be hot? It was midwinter. Martine’s eyes flew open. Something was wrong. Frantically, she fumbled for the bedside lamp, but for some reason it wasn’t working. She sat up again. An orange light was flickering beneath the bedroom door and ribbons of smoke were drifting up from it.

‘Fire!’ yelled Martine. ‘Fire!’

She leapt out of bed, caught her foot in the blankets and crashed to the ground. Tears of panic sprang into her eyes. She wiped them away roughly. If I don’t think clearly, she told herself, I’ll never get out alive. The corner of the door turned molten red and broke away and smoke poured in after it. Martine began coughing violently. She clawed at the floor for yesterday’s sweatshirt, discarded there when she put on her pyjamas. Almost cheering with thankfulness when she found it immediately, she tied it round her face. Then she scrambled to her feet, heaved up the window and leaned out into the starless night. What was she supposed to do – jump?

Martine was paralysed with terror. Far below, the snow glinted in the darkness. Behind her, the room was filling with smoke and fumes and the fire was roaring like a factory furnace. It was blisteringly, murderously hot – so hot that she felt as if her pyjamas were melting off her back. The window was the only way out. Swinging her legs over the sill, she reached out and grabbed a clump of ivy. It was as wet as lettuce and came away in her hand. Martine almost toppled after it. She tried again, this time knocking away the packed snow and groping behind the vine for a pipe or a crevice or anything at all that would give her a handhold. Nothing!

Martine’s eyes streamed. Moments remained between her and disaster, but she jumped back into the room, snatched the sheets off the bed and knotted them together, tying one end to the bed leg nearest the window. There was no time to test it. She just had to hope that it would hold. As fast as she dared, she climbed out of the window, clinging to the sheet-rope with both hands. She knew very well that it wouldn’t reach the ground but it might get her a little closer.

She was still high in the air when her hands, stiff as fish fingers in the gusting Arctic wind, lost their grip. She crashed into the snow. Martine dragged herself upright, shivering, and hobbled along the fence, out of reach of the flames, into the front garden. She was soaked to the skin and one wrist was aching, but as soon as she rounded the corner, the cold and pain were forgotten. She was too busy taking in the appalling scene before her.

Her home was a raging inferno. Flames leapt in every window and coils of smoke billowed into the night sky. A crowd had gathered on the lawn. Along the street, doors were opening as more people rushed to join them. Sirens announced the approach of the fire brigade.

‘Mum! Dad!’ yelled Martine, and she ran back to her blazing home.

Shocked faces turned in her direction. There was a collective gasp. The Allens’ next-door neighbour opened her mouth when she saw Martine rushing across the lawn, but no sound came out. Mr and Mrs Morrison, who lived further up the street, were also rooted to the spot, but Mr Morrison, a burly former rugby player, leapt into action at the last moment and managed to catch Martine as she flew by.

‘Let me go,’ sobbed Martine, but it was too late. The walls of the house were collapsing in a molten heap. Within minutes, there was nothing left. The fire brigade had arrived, but the most they could do was put the flames out.

Mrs Morrison wrapped her arms around Martine and held her tightly. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Others came over to console her, and Mr Morrison gave her his coat to put on over her pyjamas.

Through the screen of Martine’s tears, the embers and bubbles of firemen’s foam gleamed like rubies and diamonds in the fading night. Only a few hours ago, she’d been enjoying a birthday dinner with her parents. They’d made pancakes and filled them with almonds, bananas and melted chocolate, and shaped them into cones they could eat with their hands. Martine and her mum had laughed at her dad, David, who was talking so much that he hadn’t noticed that his pancake was leaking chocolate down his shirt. Only one thing had happened that Martine now thought strange.

They’d been on their way up to bed. Martine’s mum had kissed her and gone on ahead. Martine was walking up the stairs with her dad. When they reached her bedroom door, he hugged her goodnight, ruffled her hair and told her he loved her, just as he always did. But then he’d said something odd.

‘You have to trust, Martine. Everything happens for a reason.’

And Martine had smiled at him and thought how lovely her parents were, even if they were sometimes a little weird, and she’d gone into her room, not knowing that they were the last words he would ever say to her. Not knowing that she’d never see either of her parents ever again.