Persimmony was trying to be patient as they picked their way slowly along. The elderly potter with his stooped back and his cane did not move quickly, no matter how urgent the mission was, and they had to stop often to let him catch his breath. Meanwhile Worvil was dragging his feet with every step, whimpering softly to himself and jumping with fright every time a squirrel or lizard darted across his path. It gave her plenty of time to think. “What did we ever do to them?”
“A long time ago,” the potter said, breathing hard, “the Leafeaters lived aboveground too. They were considered a very wise people, and kings and queens sought out their counsel before making any important decisions. But after the death of King Mumford the Modest, things changed. The rulers got richer and richer, and the people no longer cared about traditions and ceremonies and codes of courtesy and all the things that were important to the Leafeaters. One day, the Leafeaters were performing the Ceremony of Perpetual Wisdom for the coronation of King Lewis the Lighthearted. The entire kingdom was gathered, and the Chief of the Leafeaters was right in the middle of twirling the royal crown around his finger seven times, when the king suddenly laughed. Well, you can imagine what an insult that was. To a Leafeater, a ceremony is perhaps the most serious occasion there is. Furious, they outlawed all laughter amongst themselves and built a secret city underground called Willowroot, where no one else would ever bother them. The poison-tongued jumping tortoises took over the Willow Woods after that.”
Persimmony thought this sounded an awful lot like pouting in a corner. “I’m surprised they ever come up to the surface at all or go into the villages, if they hate us so much.”
“Well, they do need things—things you can’t get underground, like candle wax, or stockings that don’t itch, or certain spices. I suppose that even to a Leafeater leaves get a bit tasteless after a while—I’m sure a little paprika can do wonders to an acorn stew.”
“One of the Leafeaters said something about a Ceremony of Tears. What is that?”
“The Ceremony of Tears is one of their most important ceremonies. They spend an entire day weeping and collect all their tears in vessels. They believe their tears have healing powers.”
“I wish I had some of that!” said Persimmony, thinking of all of the bruises and scrapes she managed to get while climbing trees when she was supposed to be helping her mother. “I’d drink it every day.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” said Theodore. “If you or I were to drink the Leafeaters’ tears, we would be left speechless. We would not be able to say a single word.”
“Forever?” said Persimmony, shocked.
“No.” The potter laughed gently. “For a few days, depending on how much we drank. But for some people, to lose one’s voice even for an hour would be a tragedy worse than death!”
Persimmony chose to ignore this. “How do you know all this?”
“Books, my dear, books! You can learn a lot by reading.”
Persimmony sighed. Ever since she had heard about the gold, she had dreamed of all the books she could buy at the market, books full of adventures beyond what she could imagine on her own. “And do your books say anything about gold under the mountain?”
“No, but they have told me other things—things that make me certain we cannot keep this news of the Leafeaters’ plans to ourselves.”
“What things?”
But Theodore did not answer. Instead, he asked, “My child, why do you want this gold so badly?”
Persimmony blushed. “Well, I just thought maybe we could offer it to the Leafeaters in exchange for something we wanted—or someone—like a prisoner, maybe, that they had held captive for a long time—like, oh, seven years.”
Theodore looked at her sadly for a moment. “If you want to know where your father is, Persimmony, you should have a talk with your mother.”
“Well, I have, but all she says is—” Persimmony looked at him suspiciously. “Why? Do you know something?”
“Oh my, look how high the sun is getting! We’ve got to hurry, and here I am wasting my breath with talking. Worvil, keep up!”
“Theodore!”
But the potter had aimed his cane to the west with fierce energy and was wheezing loudly as he picked up the pace. Persimmony, surprised into silence, followed him.
Chapter 7
IN WHICH A SMUDGE GETS A GOOD WASHING
Twas deep in thought in the royal library and putting the finishing touches on my latest book, A Brief History of Famous People Eaten by Poison-Tongued Jumping Tortoises, when the door swung open with a loud bang and a shower of dust. King Lucas, Professor Quibble, Dustin Dexterhoof, and Guafnoggle squeezed in among the piles of books and papers and maps.
“Greetings, Your Highness,” I said, surprised.
“Why have I never seen you before?” Lucas demanded, taking in my shabby clothes and ink-stained hands with one sweeping glance.
“Because you have never summoned me before. And neither did your father, I might add.” I did not add that his father, King Lionel the Lofty, was a haughty and heartless man, who never shed a tear when his wife died in childbirth, who once had all the flowers on the island plucked and burned after a bouquet made him sneeze, and whose face was now painted on doormats in the villages and decorated with muddy footprints. I have found that most kings don’t want to know that much history.
“Then you must be a very unimportant person,” said Lucas.
“So I’ve been told, Your Highness,” I replied sadly.
“But the archaeologist insists that you may be able to help us answer an annoying question. Has anyone ever seen a giant under Mount Majestic?”
“Why, yes,” I said.
Professor Quibble, who had been absently thumbing through an atlas, looked up sharply. Dustin Dexterhoof stifled a smile. The king stared at me. “Yes?”
“It says so in your father’s diary. All royal diaries end up in the library eventually, and it is my job to read them, if you’ll excuse me.”
“My father knew about a giant?”
“He knew about a report of a giant. Seven years ago, a peppercorn picker apparently came to him claiming to have discovered the head of a giant in a cave on the Western Shore.”
Guafnoggle laughed in delight. “The Snoring Cave! The Snoring Cave! It was a giant snoring and we never knew—how funny, how marvelous, oh, wait until I tell the others!”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. What Snoring Cave?” asked King Lucas. “And what was a peppercorn picker doing on the Western Shore to begin with? No wonder I keep running out of pepper.”
Guafnoggle was climbing over stacks of historical records. “The Rumblebumps have always called it the Snoring Cave, but we never go inside because it is so long and dark and far away from the water, and of course we hate anything long and dark and far away from the water, and all these years we thought it was an underground wind that made that sound!”
“What sound?”
“Well, a sound a little like a growl and a little like the rain beating down on the rocks in a storm and a little like a very hungry stomach and a little like thunder and a whole lot like a snore.”
“Here,” I said, reaching for one particular book on the top shelf and flipping through the pages. “Listen for yourself.”
Thursday. Nothing much happened today. I ate lobster for lunch, rearranged the portraits in the great hall, and washed a peppercorn picker’s mouth out with soap. The last was especially bothersome. He had the nerve to come to me, sweaty and red-faced, blabbering something about a giant’s head in one of the caves. A giant! People who read fairy tales are never up to any good. And so I gave him the soap punishment for lying. Then I told him he is never under any circumstances to mention such a lie to anyone, or he would be locked in the dungeon and his family would be forced to eat nothing but soap until they all perished from extreme cleanliness. There, that is done. Let whoever finds this diary forever smudge out the memory of that ridiculous name SIMEON SMUDGE.
Despite his con
fusion, Lucas couldn’t help feeling proud. He didn’t remember very many things about his father, but if his father hadn’t believed such a silly rumor about a giant, then he didn’t need to either.
“I apologize for not following your father’s wishes, Your Highness, but a historian never smudges anything out. However, according to the Candlenut town records, Simeon Smudge has not reported for work in seven years. In fact, he is listed as ‘missing.’”
“And that’s it? No one else has ever mentioned a giant?”
“Well, no one except Theodore the Wise, a potter who now lives in the Willow Woods. He was exiled from the castle eighty years ago—by your grandfather, in fact, who didn’t appreciate the suggestion that there was anything bigger than himself in the world. If you ask my opinion—”
“I didn’t,” said Lucas.
“Of course not, Your Highness.”
Professor Quibble’s eyes opened wide. “The potter is still alive? He must be over a hundred years old. Your Highness, this is lucky indeed. Theodore the Wise discovered a way of making clay pots that produce whatever the owner asks.”
“Whatever the owner asks?” Lucas smiled and thought of his pepper shaker. “Give the order for the Willow Woods to be searched and Theodore the Wise to be captured and brought to the castle immediately—along with his pots. And then tell the cook I’m hungry. There are too many staircases in this castle.”
It was nearly noon by the time Persimmony, Worvil, and Theodore finally reached the grassy foot of Mount Majestic—and something else. Six armed soldiers bearing the royal crest were coming straight toward them, pulling a large wooden cart. “Halt!” barked the first soldier. “We are looking for Theodore the Wise, who lives in the Willow Woods. Can you tell us where to find him?”
“You’ve found him,” said the potter, stepping forward.
Having been warned to expect trouble, the soldiers were not sure how to react to this. “Theodore the Wise,” said the leader awkwardly, “we are, um, under direct orders from the king to escort you and your, uh, pottering stuff—to the castle immediately. If you resist, there will be, um, well, punishments beyond your worst nightmares.”
Worvil fainted. “Good grief,” said Persimmony, pinching and wiggling his nose until he woke up again. What could the king possibly want with Theodore? Could he have heard about the Leafeaters’ plot already from someone else? The potter simply shook his head, sighed, and patiently explained to the soldiers how to get to his cottage and where to find his pots. “Don’t break any!” he warned. Three of the soldiers departed with their cart into the woods. The others surrounded Theodore, Persimmony, and Worvil to accompany them the rest of the way to the castle.
“The mountain is at its highest now,” grumbled one of the soldiers. “Can’t we wait until it sinks so we won’t have to climb as far?”
“The king said immediately,” said another, and the company began the difficult trek up the mountain.
Chapter 8
IN WHICH PHILOSOPHY LEADS TO A TICKLISH CONCLUSION
King Lucas was in the middle of a philosophy lesson. At the moment, Professor Quibble was busy getting into the correct posture, which he had to get exactly right in order to concentrate as a philosopher needed to do. First he bent one knee upward and rested the foot on his other leg. Then he held the bridge of his nose delicately between his thumb and forefinger and raised the other arm upward in a graceful curve like a half moon. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes. We were about to discuss the most ancient philosophical question: Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
Philosophy required a lot of thinking, and it got tiring watching the professor think so much. So King Lucas was happy to be interrupted by a trumpeting so loud and long and grand that the very walls of the throne room seemed to quake at the sound.
“Visitors!” he exclaimed. He jumped to his feet and straightened his crown before calling out in a deep and dignified voice, “You may enter.”
The door opened and a nervous face peered into the throne room. “I’b sorry, your High-dess, but I was just blowing by dose.” The young man’s nose was as swollen and red as a tomato, and he held a large dirty handkerchief in his hand.
“What? Where’s Harold?” Lucas demanded.
“Harold had to clead his trubpet. After de archaeologist cabe, it would dot play a dote. He sedt be to take his place. I hab a cowd.” And he blew his nose again to demonstrate.
“I didn’t understand a word of that. What is your name?”
“Badley, Your High-dess.”
“Well, Badly—”
“Dot Badly,” said the poor fellow, struggling to pronounce his consonants. “Badley. Eb, ay, ed, el, ee, why.” (His name, of course, was really Manley, but unfortunately he has been called Badly ever since.)
“That’s what I said! Badly, I forbid you to blow your nose unless you are announcing visitors. It is very confusing.”
“Yes, Your High-dess.”
After the young man disappeared, King Lucas sighed and climbed back onto the throne again. “I was so hoping it would be Theodore with the pots that will give me whatever I want. I want pepper. There’s nothing in the world better than pepper.”
“Which brings us to our next philosophical question.” The professor smiled, striking the correct pose just in time to save the conversation. “Is something good because it is good for me, or because it is good for you?” He was cut short by another blast of trumpeting. Professor Quibble fell into a heap on the floor and put his head in his hands.
“Badly!” yelled Lucas as the door opened. “I’ll cut off your nose if you do that again!”
But this time Badly was not alone. He was followed by an old man leaning on a cane and a girl who was just about the dirtiest person Lucas had ever seen (except for the archaeologist, of course). An odd-looking man, crouched close to the floor, came in last. “Theodore de potter, Persibbody SssM-MMMnnggggPHPHPH”—(Badly buried his face in his handkerchief to stifle a sneeze)—“de basket baker’s daughter, add Worvil de . . . er . . . de worrier.”
Lucas rose to his feet and spread out his arms in welcome. “Come in! Come in! It is an honor to have Theodore the Wise and his assistants in the castle. You will be my guests for as long as you wish to stay.”
Persimmony marched straight into the throne room, ready to save the world—as soon as she found out what to save it from. In the midst of so much finery she realized how filthy she must look. Her dress was ripped from her race through the forest in a thunderstorm, she was covered with dried mud from her night in the hollow tree trunk, there were leaves stuck in her hair and clay stuck under her fingernails, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a bath. Well, there was nothing to do but pretend she was clean. She stepped toward the king. “I’m so pleased to meet—”
Lucas ignored her. “I hope your journey was pleasant,” he said to Theodore, “and that your—belongings—have arrived safely as well?” He laughed nervously and pushed up his crown.
“Your Highness, there is not a moment to lose,” said Theodore, still wheezing from his climb up the mountain. “The kingdom may be in peril.”
Lucas rolled his eyes. “I suppose you’re going to tell me about the giant.”
The potter was not expecting this. “You know about the giant?”
“Giant? What giant?” said Persimmony. Behind her she could hear Worvil mumbling under his breath, “Good day, Your Highness . . . I am your loyal servant . . . I have never met these two people in my life . . . You’re looking remarkably well . . . May I kiss your hand? . . . I’m allergic to dungeons . . . Treason? I would never dream of it ...” Since the new-comers had arrived, Guafnoggle had begun poking Worvil, trying to decide whether he was a man or a very large jellyfish. When Theodore said the word “peril,” however, Worvil broke free and threw himself at the king’s feet.
“I confess! I confess!” he sobbed. “I didn’t want to come and tell you. But I’ll tell you now. I’ll tell you everything.”
> “Your Highness,” Persimmony said, “Worvil is not quite himself right now. Well, actually, he is himself, unfortunately. But you’d better let me start from the beginning.”
“Tell me what?” Lucas asked suspiciously, trying to free his robes from Worvil’s hands.
Worvil’s words came pouring out. “Oh, the Leafeaters, the Leafeaters, they are a wicked and disloyal people. I would never do such a thing. The king’s gold is the king’s gold. Don’t blame Persimmony—she just heard them talking. She’s no traitor.”
“What on earth is this mad little man saying?”
“Under the earth, they’re under the earth,” wailed Worvil.
Persimmony stamped her foot. “Will someone please look at me?”
And Lucas did, reluctantly, as if she were a cabbage. He hated cabbages.
Then Persimmony explained, from beginning to end, how she and Worvil had come to be hidden in a tree trunk in the middle of the night when the Leafeaters came out, and what they had overheard. By the time she finished, King Lucas had turned several different shades of purple. His mouth opened and closed, his hands clenched and unclenched themselves, and his nose twitched so much that Persimmony didn’t know if he was going to cry or sneeze.
The visitors waited expectantly.
“How dare they?” Lucas finally burst out. “Traitors! Knaves! Villains! Conspirators! Double-crossing scoundrels!” He ran out of words and looked to the professor for help.
“Gold diggers?” the professor offered.
Guafnoggle suddenly began laughing and rolling around on the floor. “There’s no gold but a belt buckle and nothing under the mountain but a giant! A giant belt, a giant buckle, a giant belt buckle!” he crowed.
The Rise and Fall of Mount Majestic Page 5