The Rise and Fall of Mount Majestic

by Jennifer Trafton

  “I think,” said Persimmony, “that everyone should take a different doorway. By lunchtime we’ll all meet back here and tell the others what we found. But we’ll wear disguises so the Leafeaters won’t recognize us and we can follow them secretly to the place where they’re digging. And then we can take off our disguises and rush at them all at once with our swords raised, yelling, ‘STOP DIGGING, IN THE NAME OF THE KING! THERE’S A GIANT UNDER THERE!’ And they’ll be so surprised they’ll drop their shovels and surrender.”

  Captain Gidding and the soldiers stared at her with something a little like awe.

  “The rest can split up,” said the captain, “but you and I will go together. I have sworn to protect you. You might never find your way back out again, and then how would I explain to the king that I lost one of his subjects?”

  “He would probably give you a medal of honor.”

  “But how are we going to disguise ourselves?” asked one of the soldiers.

  Persimmony smiled. “I have an idea.”

  Chapter 19

  IN WHICH THE RUMBLEBUMPS INVENT A NEW GAME AND WORVIL GAINS PERSPECTIVE

  Around the same time that Persimmony awoke in the woods, Worvil was awakened by a drop of water falling on his chin. His head ached. Rumblebumps, with their thick hair and many layers of clothing, had little need for mattresses or pillows or blankets, but Worvil’s night on the cold stone floor of the cliff-side cave had been as comfortable as sleeping on a lump of ice, and about as wet.

  He also had indigestion. It was hard enough to be forced out of politeness (and fear of starvation) to eat a seven-course meal of seaweed cooked and served in every imaginable fashion. But then all the Rumblebump children had taken turns playing leapfrog over his head, and the women had swung him around helplessly in a wild dance despite his protests, and Guafnoggle had picked him up and carried him through the surf to bob and sputter in a freezing ocean while the rest of the Rumblebumps swam in a mirror of stars and Sallyroo chased the reflection of the moon, hoping to catch it in her pocket.

  Worvil was certain that his stomach had permanently turned upside down, and he definitely felt a case of Green Intestinitis Agoniosis coming on. He wondered if Persimmony was worrying yet.

  He sat up very carefully and tested his stiff neck to make sure it would still bend upward (the most important movement for seeing a giant in time to escape). Around him on the floor were the remnants of last night’s most solemn activity, if anything the Rumblebumps did could be called “solemn”: A crown of seaweed had been passed on to him by the previous Grand Stomper. The little orange starfish itself was lying innocently in a conch shell filled with sea water.

  Oh, how he hated that starfish! And yet, if he hadn’t found it, then he never would have been able to stop the Rumblebumps from waking the giant.

  The rest of the cave was filled from wall to wall with sleeping Rumblebumps curled up on top of each other like rabbits. Hoping to find some form of breakfast other than seaweed, Worvil tiptoed past his new followers and out of the cave. The warm, salty air hit his face.

  There, sitting on a rock only a few feet away from the cave, a wet, bedraggled figure was sobbing uncontrollably. Normally Worvil would never have dared to approach a stranger, but then again, anyone more miserable than Worvil was surely not too much of a threat.

  The young man jumped at the touch of Worvil’s tentative hand on his shoulder. As he looked up, Worvil saw that his nose was red and swollen. “Oh sure, go ahead,” said the stranger. “Pick od be. Igdore by udhealthy coddition. Forget that I’ve got a bessage frob the kig. Just throw be back id the sea agaid, add baybe I’ll just float away for good.” He held a soggy handkerchief to his nose and blew. The blast made Worvil jump and scared away a flock of pigeons that had been sunning nearby.

  For it was poor Badly, and if anyone had had a worse night than Worvil, it was he. In between blasts into the handkerchief, and with a lot of repeating, he managed to explain that he had been sent to warn the Rumblebumps that an army of pepper mill workers had attacked the king and was coming to the Western Shore. On the way, however, he had been overtaken by the rebels themselves, who thought he was a spy and held him captive the entire night for questioning. After they found that torturing him with pepper had no effect on his clogged nostrils, they dragged him down the cliffs and tossed him into the water, leaving him to swim back on his own. He’d been shivering and sobbing ever since.

  “But where are they now?” cried Worvil.

  Badly pointed to the left, and Worvil could just see in the distance a large group of people scurrying over the rocks in different directions. “They’re searchig all the caves lookig for gold.”

  Worvil’s upside-down stomach turned inside out, split into a dozen pieces, and started a civil war.

  He ran back into the Rumblebumps’ cave. “Wake up! Danger! Threat! Emergency! Oh, what shall we do? What shall we do?” The Rumblebumps didn’t need to be told twice. The threat of danger didn’t bother them, but it was always so much fun to wake up, after all. They jumped up and nearly flattened Worvil to the ground in their excitement to get out of the cave and into the morning light. Sallyroo came out carrying the conch shell. “Grand Stomper, you’ve forgotten your starfish,” she cried happily, thrusting it into Worvil’s trembling hands. “Don’t you remember you have to carry it everywhere for a whole week, and then you throw it back to the sea!”

  “Listen to me!” said Worvil, and they did.

  “Yes, Grand Stomper?” said Guafnoggle when Worvil hesitated.

  Worvil gulped. “There’s a big problem. A really big problem. Do you see that group of people way over there jumping around on the rocks? They’re trying to—I mean, they—” He stopped again. How in the world was he going to make the Rumblebumps understand how serious this situation was? “They’re trying to find the Snoring Cave, and—and it’s very important that we stop them from finding it!”

  Guafnoggle’s eyes lit up. “You mean like a game?” The Rumblebumps burst into cheers. “Go, Grand Stomper! Go, Grand Stomper! Go, Grand Stomper ...”

  “Shhhh!” Worvil saw one of the searchers lift his head at the noise and look in the direction of the Rumblebumps. “Yes, yes, it’s a game. Whatever you do, don’t let them into the Snoring Cave.”

  The Rumblebumps began discussing the rules of the game in voices much louder than Worvil wished. It was finally decided that ten points would be awarded for stepping on the foot of one of the pepper mill workers, five points for getting one to fall into a tide pool, and two points for tying one up with seaweed.

  By the time they finished talking, the pepper mill workers were crawling over the rocks toward them like clumsy cockroaches. The Rumblebumps stomped their feet in a kind of jolly war dance, waving seaweed in their hands. Worvil tiptoed back to the cave where he had slept and grabbed one of the lit torches that hung on the cave wall. The Rumblebumps roared and charged the opposite team. Mixed with the spray of the breakers, a spicy black cloud rose from the crowd, and Worvil (who was allergic to pepper) felt the tickling, burning tempest of a monumental sneeze rush toward his nose. One hand held the conch shell with the starfish in it; the other held the torch. He put down the shell, clapped his free hand over his nose, and ran in the direction of the Snoring Cave.

  Guard it with your life, Persimmony had told him. Guard it with your life. “I’m a giant in a shrinking body . . . no, I’m the body of a shrinking giant . . . no, no, what did she say? I’m a short person about to burst?”

  Behind him he could hear the sounds of a very bizarre battle, with oooofs and aaarghs interrupted by loud splashes, billows of laughter, and an occasional sneeze. As he reached the Snoring Cave and ducked inside, however, he heard one loud, mournful “Aaaaaaiiiiiiaaa!” drown out the rest. There was a scurry and a shuffle, and then all was silent.

  Thinking that the game was over and the Rumblebumps had won, he peeked out of the cave. A sharp-eyed woman with disheveled hair and a striped handkerchief hanging off her l
eft ear peered back at him. “There he is, there’s the scrawny one!” she yelled to the crowd of bruised faces emerging from the rocks behind her. “That must be the right cave. Light a torch. Come on! Prunella, you stay out here.”

  Worvil shrank back into the shelter of the cave. Here was a lifetime of nightmares coming together in a single moment. There was no direction left to run but into the mountain. And run he did, terrified of what might lie ahead, terrified of what certainly lay behind. Again and again he tried to stop, even though the voices were growing louder behind him, but found that he couldn’t. He kept rolling and tumbling and tripping forward, pulled by a force he couldn’t see. And then he stumbled and fell onto a bed of flowing hair, and lifted his torch toward the black emptiness, and gazed up into a face.

  Long ago, while visiting a distant cousin, Worvil had accidentally taken a wrong turn and ended up opening the door of someone else’s cottage. He had walked in upon a beautiful woman sitting on the edge of a bed and bending down to kiss her child good night—a tender, private moment, interrupted by his mistake. He had felt warmed by the sight, and ashamed because he had no right to see it. Strangely, that was his first thought as he lay there in the giant’s cave: I’m so sorry to intrude. You deserve to be here. I don’t.

  He had expected, as anyone might, that a giant would be monstrous. But in fact, it seemed to him that everything about the giant was exactly the right size and shape, and that he, Worvil, was abnormally small. He felt as if he were looking at the only real man in the world. That was a real eye, a real nose, a real mouth. His own were merely tiny shadows.

  Inside of Worvil a battle was waging—a battle between smallness and bigness, between shrinking and growing. Part of him, the part that had been shrinking for years, wanted to turn and run in the opposite direction. And the other part, a new, unfamiliar, slowly growing part, wanted to kneel and take one of the giant coils of hair in his hands and kiss it. He lay still, and stared, and forgot the wild beating of his heart.

  But a few moments later, the spell of awe that held Worvil was broken by new sounds—the rumbling of footsteps and voices behind him. As softly and as quickly as he could, he went back the way he’d come to block the intruders from coming in.

  “Get out of the way, coward! Where’s my daughter? Persimmony! My darling Persimmony!” Mrs. Smudge swept by him with a little shove, followed closely by Flack, who carried a torch, and Ned, who carried the last remaining sack of pepper. Behind them were half a dozen other pepper mill workers, their angry stomps echoing in the tomb-like space as they ran toward what they thought was a hoard of gold.

  Worvil was beside himself. “Shhhh! Shhhhhhhhh! Don’t say a word! Go back! You don’t understand!” But his warnings went unheeded. The rebels marched straight into the large cavern—

  —and stopped.

  Slowly, silently, Flack fell backward unconscious. The torch knocked against the stone wall, and the flame went out.

  Mrs. Smudge’s mouth opened wider and wider. Worvil saw the breath building in her chest and knew that if he did not do something it would spill out into an ear-splitting scream, and then they would all be a giant’s breakfast. He sprang to her side and clamped his hand tightly over her mouth, smothering the scream just as it reached her lips.

  Worvil’s sudden movement, unfortunately, caused Ned to snap. He jumped a foot into the air, threw his hands up in panic, and fled back into the tunnel. And suddenly there was a single sack of pepper flying through the air.

  The sack flew up

  up

  up

  up

  nearly disappeared into the blackness above their heads

  paused

  then began its descent.

  Eight people (the ninth was still lying unconscious) lunged forward at one time. Eight pairs of legs tangled themselves up in one knot, sending everyone into a heap on the cold cave floor. Eight pairs of arms fought their way through the human pile to catch the falling sack. Someone’s elbow went into someone else’s eye. Worvil felt a knee pressing against his ribs. His torch rolled out of reach and lay still burning in a pile of stones.

  Worvil saw the entire Future stretched out before him. He imagined the burst of pepper from the sack as it hit the floor. The snorting and sputtering and sneezing of an angry giant aroused from his long sleep. The exploding mountain. The boulders crushing them all to bits. The castle lifted up high and then dashed into the sea. The gigantic feet treading the villages into pancakes. The leveled trees. The ruined farmlands. Persimmony—dear, kind Persimmony—

  But then, with a soft, harmless thump, the sack of pepper landed squarely on Mrs. Smudge’s stomach.

  For one brief moment, the mound of people stopped wriggling and heaved a sigh of relief. In the next moment, they were all untangling themselves and hastily heading for the exit—desperately straining to run forward as the giant’s inhaling kept sucking them back again. Mrs. Smudge, carrying the sack as gingerly as if it were a baby, was the first to vanish into the pitch-black tunnel that led to the sunlit, outdoor, giant-less world. Two of the pepper mill workers grabbed the unconscious Flack by his feet and dragged him along behind them.

  Worvil was trampled and flung to the side by those trying to escape. He tried to catch his balance but tripped in the coils of the giant’s hair and rolled over and over until he was wrapped in the thick, tangled strands. When he stopped rolling, the others had gone. But behind him, within inches of his back, he could sense the nearness of the giant’s wrinkled cheek. The hairs on his neck stood on end. He didn’t dare turn around to look. He didn’t dare move a muscle. He stared at his torch, lying far out of reach, and lay huddled in the bed of hair, silent and alone.

  No, not alone—there was the unseen Sleeper beside him. There was the Snore. But Worvil didn’t mind the sound anymore, for he knew that as long as he heard it, the giant was still asleep. And as bad as a sleeping giant is, it is not the worst possibility.

  Chapter 20

  IN WHICH CAPTAIN GIDDING SHOWS HIS VALOR WITH POETRY

  Persimmony admitted later that slathering sticky tree sap all over one’s hair and body and clothes and then rolling in leaves so that one is completely covered is not the most comfortable sort of disguise. But it was the best disguise she could think of for invading the Leafeater city. The soldiers had been appalled that their uniforms were going to be ruined. Captain Gidding had gallantly offered to be covered with the pine needles, which no one else wanted, and he looked as prickly as a pincushion as the two of them passed through an arch into a seemingly endless corridor with doors lining either side.

  At last they came to a place where two corridors intersected, and Persimmony stopped. Captain Gidding, however, kept right on walking. “I climbed a hill as high as hope,” he was murmuring to himself. “Hope . . . mope, trope, grope, . . .

  “Captain Gidding,” said Persimmony. “CAPTAIN GIDDING!”

  “Hm? Oh! I’m so sorry,” the captain said, turning around and coming back to where Persimmony stood. “I simply can’t figure out the next line of my poem.”

  “We’re at a crossing. Are we going to go left, right, or straight?”

  “Oh!” The captain looked around, puzzled. “Well, I don’t suppose it really matters, since we have no idea where any of them lead. If you ask me, I’ve always preferred right myself, since it isn’t wrong, and I hate being left behind, and straight ahead just seems too obvious, and you know good poems are never obvious.”

  “We’re not in a poem, Captain Gidding, we’re in a city. And we’re also in a hurry.”

  “Patience, patience! You can’t rush art.”

  “Okay,” sighed Persimmony. “Right, then.” She dropped a few leaves as she walked so they could find their way back—hoping the leaves would not be eaten in the meantime.

  They made their way down another identical lamp-lit corridor, until at last they came to a dead end. All around them were wooden doors. Persimmony opened one and walked in.

  It was a small, h
umble dwelling with four beds. At one end of the room there was a flat slab of stone balanced on top of a large rock, forming a table, and a large sign hanging on the wall over the table:PLEASE OBSERVE THE FOLLOWING RULES IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE CODE OF COURTESY:

  If you can’t say anything with

  your mouth shut while you’re

  eating, don’t say anything at all.

  If you must bite your nails, bite

  them behind your back.

  Whatever you do, don’t yawn.

  The walls were painted here just as they had been in the meeting hall, with twisted vines running along the edges and over the doorways, and colorful scenes on all sides. “Exquisite,” said Captain Gidding. “That pattern of painted vines above the doorway looks just like a fish caught in a net. Amazing! It makes me feel positively poetic. I think another verse is coming.”

  Persimmony appreciated Captain Gidding’s willingness to go to the depths of the earth to help her in her quest, but he had a very bad habit of getting distracted by other things along the way. A fish caught in a net? How was a fish supposed to help them?

  “That’s wonderful, Captain Gidding, but maybe the poem would come more quickly if we were walking.” She opened one of the doors and walked into the next room.

  The captain lingered behind. “I climbed a hill as high as hope,” he was murmuring again. “What else rhymes with hope?”

  “I washed my mouth out with some soap,” offered Persimmony, hoping that if she played along, he would follow her more closely.

  It worked. “That’s a good try!” he exclaimed, coming quickly to her side as she chose another door into another empty chamber. “Unexpected! But not exactly the meaning I was after. Perhaps another line in between will help . . .