The Rise and Fall of Mount Majestic

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The Rise and Fall of Mount Majestic Page 2

by Jennifer Trafton


  “No!” said Lucas.

  “Cinnamon?”

  “I want pepper.”

  “Right, right. Pepper. Well, the thing is, Your Highness, the thing—is—that—ha-ha! Well, you DO go through a lot of pepper in a day. Not that I blame you, of course! Pepper is, after all, one of the greatest delights in life. It just isn’t—um—one of the most—”

  “What? One of the most what?”

  “Abundant, Your Highness.”

  “Will you stop blabbering and tell me why my pepper shaker won’t work?”

  “Because there’s no more pepper.”

  “What?”

  “The pepper storeroom is clean empty, and I’m afraid it may be several weeks before we get a new supply from the pepper mill.”

  “Then they’ll just have to work harder. I need more pepper. I can’t live without pepper! Don’t you know that my thirteenth birthday is less than two weeks away? How can I have a birthday party without any pepper to serve my guests? It would be . . . It would be . . . It would be extremely discumbersomebubblating.”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but I believe you mean discombobulating.”

  “How dare you tell me what I mean, Nubbins?”

  “Of course, of course, forgive me! I did not hear you correctly at first. I often feel discumbersomebubblated myself.”

  “You do not. No one can feel discumbersomebubblated except a king.”

  “Your Highness,” the steward tried again, anxiously tying the thumbs of his gloves together, “the pepper mill workers are already working twenty hours a day. They barely have enough time to sleep, or eat, or see their families. Mr. Fulcrumb says he can get no more work out of them. Perhaps, Your Highness, if you go down there and see for yourself—”

  “Of course I won’t go down! Mr. Fulcrumb will just have to find more workers,” said Lucas. “Tell him to go out and capture a few dozen people to work in the mill, and if they refuse, they will be arrested for treason. If I don’t have a full pepper shaker soon, somebody is going to regret it.”

  The steward mumbled a promise and disappeared.

  King Lucas sank back in his chair and pushed his crown out of his eyes. “Oh, I am the most miserable person in the world!” he cried. He was in such low spirits that the only thing to do was to put on his best robe (the one embroidered with palm trees and studded with pearls where the coconuts should be), go to the very top of the highest tower in the castle, and look out over his kingdom.

  There were four windows at the top of this tower. By moving from one window to the other, King Lucas could see the entire island sloping down from Mount Majestic toward the sea. To the north, the orchards were ripe with bananas, oranges, mangoes, and papayas for his breakfast, and the fishermen’s boats drifted in the bay gathering tuna for his lunch. To the south, the fields teemed with vegetables and spices, and the villagers toiled to send him their finest wares. To the east, the forest lay like a thick green blanket, full of the loveliest wood for furniture and hand-carved frames for all of his portraits. To the west, goats grazed upon the grassy hills above the great stone cliffs where the waves sent thundering applause up to his listening ears.

  But tonight all of that beauty was overshadowed by darkness and battered by wind and rain.

  No more pepper! Why, it was worse than the most painful toothache. Worse than waking up to find a cockroach on your pillow. Worse than going swimming and being attacked by a stinging jellyfish and then dying very, very slowly. There was nothing in the world so terrible as expecting sweet potato soup with pepper and being left with only soup.

  Go down there and see for yourself? What an idea! He may as well strip naked and run into a field of mad cattle. No, it was being lofty that made a king a king. Down there he would just be a boy wearing a crown that was too big for him.

  Perhaps he was getting soft. Perhaps his people did not respect him enough. Very well, then, he would insist on having two pepper shakers at every meal. If the shoemaker brought him three pairs of boots, he would demand six. If a woodsman chopped down a tree, he would demand a forest.

  The thought of trees made him remember an annoying little event that had happened during supper the week before. A parchment had arrived at the castle strapped to the back of a large gopher, and this is what was written:To His Majesty King Lucas the Loftier, revered monarch over the Island at the Center of Everything and all the creatures that live within its shores:

  Long live the king, and may his towers never fall.

  We, the Leafeaters of Willowroot, humbly bring before the king’s eyes this list of grievances:

  Firstly and most reprehensibly, that you have been secretly cutting down trees in the Willow Woods, though you know full well that we depend on the leaves of these trees for our sustenance, livelihood, continuation, and indeed our very dinners.

  Secondly, that you have stolen our trees for the purpose of making chairs and tables and beds and clocks and picture frames to beautify your own castle, when you already had enough chairs and tables and beds and clocks and picture frames to satisfy a hundred kings, and then some.

  Thirdly, that you did not say “please” before you did it, nor did you say “thank you” afterward.

  Fourthly, that according to trustworthy reports you repeatedly use incorrect grammar, lick your plate at meals, interrupt others while they speak, and scorn centuries of hallowed tradition, and therefore you stand against everything that the Leafeater people hold most dear.

  For these reasons, it is with great sorrow that the Leafeaters, formerly your loyal subjects, must hereby demand an apology, the replanting of our lost trees, and an immediate stop to all such disgusting behaviors . . . or else.

  Yours respectfully,

  Rhule Rhodshod, the Chief of the Leafeaters

  How dare those tunnel-dwelling, cowardly, pompous sticks-in-the-mud tell him what to do and what not to do with his own trees?

  He had written a swift reply:To Rhule Rhodshod, the stuffed-shirt, leafeating idiot who calls himself a chief:

  Oh, shut up.

  Yours disdainfully, King Lucas the Loftier

  (that is, loftier than you)

  Well, he reflected now, at least in that circumstance he had acted in a proper kingly manner. He felt better. There at the tip-top of the castle, in the center of a storm, with nothing above him but the moon and the stars half hidden by black clouds, King Lucas basked in the knowledge that he was loftier than everything else that existed. Then he felt more than ever like “His Royal High-ness.”

  Of course, in order to be truly highest, he had to stand at the top of the tower at noon, when the peak of Mount Majestic reached its highest point. In the morning, the mountain was still swelling and rising, and after noon it sank slowly until midnight, when it would begin to rise again—and so on and so forth, rising and falling like a wave on the sea, every day since the beginning of time (or at least for as long as anyone could remember). When it was at its lowest point, the mountain was like a huge hill stretching across the island from the western cliffs to the Willow Woods. And when it was at its pinnacle, it was truly majestic indeed.

  To be sure, there were minor inconveniences to living on top of a moving mountain. The furniture had to be nailed to the floor and the china wrapped in cotton in the cupboards. Sometimes a sudden shift of the earth under the king’s feet sent him careening into his scullery maid’s arms, which was quite embarrassing, and sometimes his bowl of soup slid down to the opposite end of the table just as he was about to dip his spoon into it. And those who lived at the mountain’s foot had to build very strong roofs on their houses to protect against rockslides. Apart from these occasional mishaps, however, nobody bothered much about the mountain’s behavior. It had always been like this, and it always would be.

  Or so they believed.

  Chapter 3

  IN WHICH PERSIMMONY HEARS SOMETHING SHE SHOULDN’T

  It was very late before the thunder faded to a distant grumbling. Long before the su
n rose, Persimmony was nudged awake by a different sound.

  “Prunella, I’m trying to sleep,” she mumbled. Then the dampness of her dress and the discomfort of her position reminded her of where she was, and she realized that the voice she heard speaking did not belong to her sister.

  “There is nothing like the taste of green maple leaf stew,” the voice said, “when the leaves have been threshed by the wind and seasoned by spring rain.”

  “True,” said a second voice, “though I’ve always considered roasted pine needles to be a delicacy beyond compare. I ate nearly a whole wheelbarrow full of them after the last Ceremony of Tears . . . Here, do you need another sack? Yours is almost full.”

  The voices were only a few feet away, just beside the tree trunk in which Persimmony lay hidden. Leafeaters. Her mind was numb with sleepiness, but she was awake enough to feel a shiver of nervousness. Leafeaters posed no danger when she passed them in broad daylight in the Candlenut market, but if they found her alone at night in the woods—their woods—there was no telling what could happen.

  “Pardon me, distinguished beast, but will you kindly move aside to make room for an old friend with an aching back?” the first voice said more loudly. Then, with a polite snort (I’ve been assured there is such a thing, though I’ve never been privileged to hear it), the poison-tongued jumping tortoise plodded off into the forest. Two legs appeared right in front of Persimmony’s eyes—thin, stick-like legs, barely visible in the dim moonlight—and the trunk rocked slightly as someone sat down on top of it. “We’ll have to gather as many leaves as we can,” he continued. “There is no telling how long we’ll even have a forest, if the king keeps cutting down trees. That letter he wrote to our chief! Why, it’s an offense beyond all offenses the Leafeaters have suffered, and we have suffered many at the hands of those Sunspitters.”

  “There is nothing to worry about,” said the second voice. “He will get his comeuppance soon enough when we reach the center of the mountain. He was foolish if he thought he could keep the gold buried underneath the castle a secret!”

  “Yes, it’s disgraceful how Sunspitters never believe the prophecies of the Lyre-That-Never-Lies until it tells them something they want to hear,” said the first voice. “Well, we’ll beat him to his treasure and not give him any of it until he grants us what we ask. He’s more than a fool—he is a villain and he deserves to be whipped, scolded, hanged until he is thoroughly dead, and then sent to bed without supper.”

  “Now, now, remember rule number seventeen of the Code of Courtesy: ‘It is unkind to kill anything unless it is about to eat you. And if you are forced to kill any living thing, make sure you bow first.’”

  “I beg your pardon. Are you lecturing me? You’re barely a green bud on the family tree, Rheuben. When you have been alive as long as I have, you’ll realize that those aboveground have no sense of decency, no appreciation for beauty, and above all no manners. Give me ten years in a room with one of them, and I assure you I wouldn’t be able to teach him to say please to a beetle!”

  “I meant no disrespect, sir. I admit they do show an appalling disregard for proper speech. But there are many beautiful things aboveground. Once I saw a farmer pause in his field, gaze up at the purple sunset, and smile. Surely that shows a taste for loveliness?”

  “Smile? Beauty is a serious thing—utterly serious! That farmer was probably thinking of his supper.”

  “I’m sure these things are far above my understanding,” the second voice said soothingly.

  “Very well, you’re forgiven. Oh, my creaking knee! I’ll not be much use for leaf gathering if my rheumatism gets any worse. At least I’ve not been asked to help with the digging. How far have they progressed?”

  “The outskirts of Willowroot already lie under the westernmost edge of the woods. Chief Rhule says they will most likely penetrate the foot of the mountain in a matter of days. I only wish I could paint as fast as they can dig. My brushes are completely worn out, and I’ll need to go up to Candlenut to buy more very soon.”

  “Oh bother, I shall have to accompany you. I need more pepper. The diggers are working so hard that my cooks and I are barely making enough stew to feed them. These leaves we’ve gathered tonight will get us through another day, at least.”

  “Well, I have all I can carry for now. Shall we return?”

  The legs stirred and the tree trunk rocked again as the old Leafeater rose to his feet. “You first.”

  “No, no, I insist: You first.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. You go first.”

  “Unthinkable! I will not go before you.”

  “Oh, well, really, if it will make you happy.”

  “Yes . . . please.”

  The voices died away quickly—as though the owners had suddenly passed through a doorway rather than simply walked off into the woods. Something tugged at Persimmony’s mind—something important they had said—but she couldn’t remember what.

  She thought, The tortoise is gone. I should go home.

  She thought, I don’t think roasted pine needles would taste good at all.

  And then she fell back asleep.

  Chapter 4

  IN WHICH HOME IS WHERE THE HEARTACHE IS

  The storm clouds passed. The dawn broke. The sun rose, and so did the mountain.

  At the edge of the Willow Woods, a broom flew through the window of a cottage and landed in a mud puddle.

  “Oh, Mother, it wasn’t my fault!” wailed a girl who was normally quite pretty but whose face was now swollen with crying and buried in her apron. “I tried to do as you said, I really did. I dusted and washed and sorted and folded and mended. But Persimmony was daydreaming as usual and I only asked her to sweep the floor and then she threw the broom across the room and it broke the Giving Pot and by the time I had finished picking up all the little pieces she was gone. But I did find the sewing needle you lost three months ago.”

  “Prunella, my foolish child, my delight, my darling, my dolt of a daughter! I’d rather you had lost the sewing needle and found your sister!”

  Prunella broke down in another fit of crying. She had tried so hard. She really had. The teacups were so neatly stacked.

  Mrs. Smudge’s eyes were sharp, and her hair was swept back tightly in a bun and tied with a handkerchief that was an odd mixture of faded purple and yellow stripes. It had not taken her long to search the cottage for her missing child, since the room only contained three small, lumpy beds, a table with a broken leg, a wooden washbasin filled with newly cleaned dishes, and a huge fireplace with a pot for cooking. The rest of the space was taken up with piles of branches and vines waiting to be woven into baskets. Of course, there was also the hole in the corner and the ladder leading to the cellar underground—but Persimmony never went down there. It was too small to imagine in, she always said.

  There were no books in the cottage because Persimmony’s mother had a moral objection to education. She also had a moral objection to shoes, barbershops, dancing, oysters, and freckles, among other things. Since Persimmony insisted on playing outdoors and her fair skin was prone to freckles, Mrs. Smudge had finally overcome her moral objection to hats and bought one a week ago. It was the only one she could afford because it was a ridiculous thing and the shopkeeper was anxious to get rid of it.

  “So she took the hat, did she?” said Mrs. Smudge, seeing the bare hook on the wall. “Does she think I am made of money, that I can buy a new hat every time she decides to run off with one? Oh, the poor thing! What has become of her? She could have been eaten by a tortoise, or trampled by a restless mangrove, or kidnapped by the Leafeaters and dragged underground never to be seen again! At the very least she is soaking wet. Serves her right, the disobedient imp. Throw a broom and break my Giving Pot! She probably went to fetch a new one from old Theodore, hoping I wouldn’t notice. Oh, she is too much like her father, too much—always brave and never sensible! Well, she can’t have gotten far. Come, Prunella, we’ll find her before dinnertime, I�
��m sure. An acorn never falls far from the tree, and a hungry stomach never wanders far from the kitchen, that’s what I always say. But oh, my poor little lost lamb, my thoughtless, spoiled hooligan!”

  “But Mother, why are we going to look for acorns?” Prunella said, blowing her nose in her apron. “Are we going to eat them for dinner now that the Giving Pot won’t give us any more bread?”

  “We’re not looking for acorns,” Mrs. Smudge said impatiently, “we are looking for your sister.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Prunella Smudge!”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Persimmony’s mother and sister could have searched until many dinners had passed without ever finding Persimmony, who had awakened to a cold, clammy bed, a centipede crawling up her arm, and a cramp in her leg—not exactly the way to start off the morning on the right foot.

  The first thing she did was stretch out her cramped leg as far as she could into the hollow tree trunk. Her foot met something soft, and there was a muffled yelp.

  Persimmony bolted out of the hole into the sunshine. “Who’s there?” she exclaimed, backing away from the tree trunk.

  From the darkness of the hole came a hesitant reply: “W-W-W-Worvil.”

  Persimmony crept closer, straining to see the hidden speaker while still keeping a safe distance from the tree. She picked up a large stick. “Who are you?” she said. “Have you—have you been there all night?” A very unpleasant sensation traveled down her spine. “Come out so I can see you!”

  There was a long pause, then out of the hollow tree trunk came a pink, bald head with a deeply lined brow. Out came shoulders as stooped as if they bore the weight of an entire mountain. Out came a short body nearly swimming in clothes several sizes too big for it, with sleeves and trouser legs rolled up thickly and covered with mud and beetles. The wide, round, red-rimmed eyes that stared up into Persimmony’s were the eyes of someone who may have been happy once or twice in his life, but far too long ago to remember now. Though he was obviously not a child, he only came up to her shoulders—as if someone had taken a grown-up man and squashed him. He reminded her of a potato: small and lumpy and utterly unadventurous.

 

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