But none of this really helped matters. She still felt a little sad.
BEYOND THE VILLAGE
WHEN LUCY woke up the next day, she felt dreadful. She still couldn’t decide whether to miss Wynston or to be angry with him. To cheer herself up, she crawled under the quilt and quietly sang her favorite song to her kitten, Mr. Boots.
Though winter snows may freeze us,
and spring storms flood our beds,
We’re glad to feel the mountain grass
is pillowing our heads.
Though goats may be our closest friends,
and life is simple here,
We like it on the mountain,
where the air is sharp and clear.
Lucy paused between verses and wondered what it would be like to live on the mountain and run with the goats. She knew her mother had come from the mountain, where she’d learned the goatherd song. But that was all Lucy could remember. Lucy’s head got all tangled up whenever she thought about her mother, which seemed to be more and more often lately.
Just a few weeks back she’d nervously asked Mrs. Peach, who sold ribbons in the square and knew absolutely everybody, about her mother. Mrs. Peach had said, “Oh, my sweet, there are things it’s just best not to speak of. Your poor, poor father. I never saw a man so broken.”
Then Mrs. Peach had shaken her head, handed Lucy a purple ribbon covered in yellow lace, and gone back to calling out, “Ribbons! Ribbons for sale! Get your nice fresh hot ribbons!” And while Lucy was of course pleased to have the ribbon, she still knew nothing about her mother.
But that was the day she’d started thinking. About secrets. About mysteries. About why someone might say Hush! And that was the day she’d realized that nobody, nobody, had actually ever said that her mother was dead. Why, she’d never even seen a grave for her mother down in the Thistle Cemetery, even though she’d spent a good deal of time there playing hide-and-seek. She’d probably read every single gravestone in the place, waiting for Wynston to pounce on her from the shadows, but she’d never seen her mother’s name.
Slowly Lucy had begun to question: If her mother was alive, where had she gone? Why had she gone? The question was like a tiny little fly, buzzing around her head all the time. When she was busy, she barely noticed it, but when she was alone and the world got quiet, the fly seemed as loud as anything.
Lucy closed her eyes now and tried to picture the goats and her mother. In her mind the goats were white and her mother was a girl her own age. Then Lucy thought about what the king had said, about how a princess would learn to be a queen by watching her mother. But Lucy didn’t even know exactly where her mother had come from. Maybe her mother had secretly been a queen. It wasn’t likely, but anything was possible…. Maybe her mother was a laundress somewhere, or a baker…. Lucy would be fine with either of those. Just fine. It didn’t matter what her mother did. Not a bit.
Then Mr. Boots made a throaty noise, and Lucy opened her eyes to look at him. He stretched one gray paw out and touched Lucy’s nose. She began to sing again:
We have no use for fancy things,
so keep your lace and jams.
We have no need for company,
just labor for our hands.
And goats to sleep beside us,
and bread to keep us full.
And stars above to guide us,
and blankets made of wool.
Lying in her bed, with Mr. Boots purring and periodically nipping her fingers, Lucy thought and thought. Why was her mother such a mystery? Death was sad and hard, but it happened all the time. Wynston’s mother had died, and that was no secret. Everyone talked about the horrible day when Queen Germantrude went boating, fell overboard, and was swallowed by a giant clam. It was certainly awful, but that didn’t make it a mystery.
Perhaps Lucy’s mother had done something bad, and then had to flee. Perhaps she had run away, back up the mountain—to labor with her hands and live by the stars, like the song said. And perhaps the reason Lucy’s father never spoke about it was that he was ashamed of the awful thing Lucy’s mother had done. Shame was a nasty feeling, Lucy knew. She thought about how Sally had wet her bed one night, dreaming of giant oceans made of apple juice. She’d been terribly embarrassed and had sworn Lucy to total secrecy. Lucy had never told, but even so, she knew Sally felt awful about it.
What did Lucy know about her mother? She knew that her mother’s name had been Nora, because once in a while a neighbor twittered, “Oh, Nora would be so proud of the girls!” or “What would Nora have to say about that?” Each time it happened, Lucy’s father stared silently at his feet. Which meant he was very sad and everyone else should be quiet.
She didn’t exactly miss her mother because she couldn’t exactly remember her mother, despite what she’d said to Sally…but there was something like an empty space in her belly when she thought the word Mama. She wondered—if her mother was alive—what she looked like, if her hair was brown or black or blond or purple or green or red, like Lucy’s own. Had she grown fat? Or had, perhaps, the mountain life kept her young? Lucy imagined it was hard work, running with the goats. She finished the song.
We think of you with kindly thoughts,
but seek the simple life.
We choose the mountain over
all the joys of hearth and wife.
We’ve felt the sun from heaven,
and breathed the mountain air
And now it seems that city life
is too much life to bear.
Lucy had never thought about the last verse before, really thought about it. She’d never considered what might be hard to bear. But yesterday, between the king’s mention of her mother and the loss of Wynston, Lucy had felt burdened for the first time herself. Or at least fumble-headed. Life seemed more complicated than she could remember, and she wasn’t sure what she could do to make it simpler. She thought. And thought. And thought.
And the more she thought, the more convinced she became that she too belonged on the mountain with the goats. She wanted to see the guiding stars too. And most of all, she wanted to find her mother, figure out who she was and where she came from.
Mr. Boots meowed a tiny question at her, and Lucy stroked his head. “I wouldn’t stay away long, Mr. Boots. My home is here in Thistle. But maybe I could find out something about my mother. Maybe I have cousins on the mountain, or a grandmother, even!” In reply, Mr. Boots just yawned and stretched his claws into the heavy quilt.
“And maybe, just maybe, if I find her, I could bring her home…to Papa.” Lucy whispered this to the kitten.
But Mr. Boots didn’t have a thing to say about the matter. He pounced down onto the floor and exited the room. Lucy took in a gulp of air. She felt a nervous jittery stretchy feeling replace the ache in her belly.
All these years cloaked in quiet it had never occurred to her to take matters into her own hands. She pondered this and realized that she’d leaned too much on Wynston. Always waiting for Wynston, who was, she admitted to herself, a slowpoke. Lucy felt a tremor run down her spine as she imagined the mountain. I can do this, she thought. I can find Mama, and I can do it by myself. I’ll show all of them!
Lucy followed Mr. Boots’s example and climbed down herself, spurred by the jittery-belly feeling. She began to root around in the wooden trunk at the foot of her bed and finally emerged with a large cloth bag. She put her knitting into the bag, because without books to read or anyone to talk to, she knew she’d get terribly bored. A second later she put in a few extra skeins of yarn. After all, there was no telling how long she’d be gone. Maybe she could get her father’s birthday slippers finished.
As she packed she thought about Wynston, tried to picture him with a roomful of princesses, and laughed a hard little laugh. It’s too bad, she thought, that Wynston has to be a king. It’s so nice to be a blacksmith, or a carpenter. But there he is, stuck in that dusty castle, waiting to get all married and old. Still, that doesn’t mean I can’t have an adventure….
After all, it’s not like I need his help.
Lucy ate a good breakfast of warm ginger muffins and honey, with tea. Then she threw some apples and a loaf of bread into the bag with the knitting, in case she needed a snack to keep her going until she found a place to stay for the night. Finally, she wrapped her tin cup in a blanket and tossed in the bundle.
She wrote a note for Sally and pinned it to the front door. On her way past the dairy, she noticed that Verbena was having trouble with Rosebud again. Each time Verbena nudged Rosebud over to where the best purple clover grew by the fence, Rosebud would let out a defiant moo. Then she’d scamper (as much as a cow can scamper) away. From a short distance, she’d peel bark from the fence post, chew it, and then spit it out, making a nasty face in the process. Lucy stopped to watch, and after Verbena’s third attempt to nudge her daughter toward the most delicious food in the pasture, Lucy found herself unreasonably angry at the young cow.
“Do what your mother tells you, Rosebud!”
Rosebud stared at Lucy and then flicked her tail, as though to say, I don’t have to listen to her or to you either. Hmph!
Verbena turned her head and gave Lucy a long stare. Lucy almost felt Verbena was asking for her help. So over the fence she went, leaving her bundle on the other side. She tumbled into the pasture, where she pulled a handful of clover and held it out to Rosebud.
But the cow curled her lip and turned her head away.
“Ooooh, Rosebud! Do you know how lucky you are to have a mother who loves you?” Lucy asked. “You’re the most ungrateful little cow in the world. Here Verbena is, trying to give you the tastiest treat, and you’re eating dried-out fence post instead.”
Verbena bellowed in agreement.
“Somebody should teach you a lesson. If you only knew what it’d be like without your mother.”
Rosebud stamped a foot, as if to say, I’d be fine.
“Oh, really?” asked Lucy. “You think so?” And with that she pulled a lead rope from the gate, tossed it around Rosebud’s neck, and tightened the loop. “We’ll see if you feel that way in a few days.”
Verbena looked alarmed, but Rosebud threw Lucy a saucy glance and walked as far from Lucy as the lead rope would allow, back toward the fence post. She peeled off another piece of bark.
“Okay then,” said Lucy. She opened the gate and led Rosebud out into the road. “Don’t worry, Verbena,” she said in a soothing voice. “I’ll bring her back safe and sound. I can handle it.”
Verbena did not seem entirely convinced.
But Lucy shouldered her bag, gripped Rosebud’s rope tightly, and skipped on down the path. As she passed the castle, she waved cheerfully, out of habit, but only for a minute. Then she turned her head forward and walked on, whistling and humming. She wandered along and nodded goodbye to all the familiar houses and shops before leaving the village behind.
As she walked through the gates of Thistle, she felt a tremor in her shoulders. A few hours of walking brought her into fields she’d never seen before, and she felt a rush of excitement. After about an hour of tramping along in unknown territory, she walked through a stand of trees and into the valley of the Scratchy Mountains, and her heart began to beat quickly. Her feet scurried along, trying to keep up with the pounding of her heart. She tugged on the cow to hurry.
“C’mon, Rosebud.”
“Moo?”
Meanwhile, back at the castle, Wynston was throwing a little temper tantrum—an uncharacteristic fit—that Lucy would have been proud of. “Oh, Dad. Can’t we stop for the day? I don’t know any of this stuff…,” he whined at his father, who crouched before him in the most awkward curtsy imaginable.
“Come now, boy! You know we can’t quit until you get this right.” The king dipped his knees again. This time he made a ridiculous face, pushing out his lips and batting his eyelashes. He fluttered his hands and squealed improbably, “My beloved Prince Wynston, I have come from realms afar to join thee in thy royal cause. What wouldst thou have me do, to prove that I am a noble woman and worthy of thy gentle love and stately house?”
Wynston rolled his eyes, but he drew himself up and spoke as deeply as he could. “Fair lady, if you would only be—”
“No, no, and no, Wynston!” The king broke his pose and sighed. “She isn’t a lady yet, son. Technically, she’s still a maiden, so you have to call her fair maiden. Get it? Your aunt Lavinia thinks you’re clever, but I’m beginning to wonder.”
“Lady—maiden…” Wynston looked a smidge huffy, and mightily tired. “Does it really matter so much what I call her?”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you, boy!”
“It’s just that nobody else has to do this sort of stuff, Dad. It doesn’t make sense!”
King Desmond bellowed and pulled on his beard. “Wynston, what’s come over you? You’re usually such a good prince, so well behaved when it comes to these things.”
“Well, Lucy says…”
“Ahhhh, I see. That Lucy. She’s a lovely girl in so many ways, but she can certainly give a man a headache with all her questions. Not a suitable influence at all.”
“But…”
“And what is this—this ridiculous preoccupation with making sense? I don’t know what you youngsters are thinking half the time. It isn’t about sense. It’s about the rules. The rules!”
“Seriously, Dad, it isn’t just Lucy that’s making me think this….”
“It isn’t?”
“No, it’s more than that. It’s the whole idea of…this Queening stuff. I mean, why should some dumb princess have to prove anything to me? Who am I?” Wynston sat down on the floor, his face in his hands.
The king sighed and plopped down awkwardly beside his son. “Who are you? You’re the prince of the realm, the heir apparent, the shining hope of your people, that’s who you are. You are also a gigantic pain in my royal neck, to be honest. But this is not negotiable. Oh, if only your mother were here, maybe she could talk some sense into you.”
“Well, how come nobody else has to follow the stupid rules? Why did I get stuck with all the guidelines?”
“Everyone has rules to follow, Wynston. It’s just that not everyone has their rules written down for them on parchment.”
Wynston had begun to listen, despite himself. He always had a hard time staying cranky at his father. “Like what kind of rules?”
“Well, take Tom the baker for example. He has lots of rules to follow, but instead of calling them rules he calls them recipes. What if he stopped adding eggs to the doughnuts one morning? You’d go in for a treat and the doughnuts would be all hard and stale like. You’d ask what the matter was, and Tom would say, ‘Oh, you liked the eggy doughnuts? They were just an old-fashioned tradition. No special reason a doughnut has to have eggs in it.’ And there you’d be with sugar all over your face and a rock in your gut, just because old Tom abandoned his rules. Just because he decided to try things a new-fangled way.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Wynston. “It isn’t the same at all.”
“Isn’t it?” The king raised an eyebrow.
Wynston made a funny face. “Of course not. First of all, Tom would never do that, because his rules make sense. And secondly, the princess Halcyon is not a doughnut, and thirdly, I don’t care if she is, and fourthly—Omigosh—Dad!” Wynston clapped a hand to his mouth and jumped up to stare dramatically through the diamond-shaped window set into the stone wall across the room. “Oh no!”
“What? What? What?” the startled king stammered, louder with each breath.
“Gosh, Dad—there’s a gigantic bird in your prize rosebush!” Wynston, wide-eyed, pointed a finger toward the gardens. “I think it might even be a vulture or something. Wow, it’s HUGE!”
“What bird? Where?” King Desmond scrambled off the floor and flew to the window, but as he turned his royal back, Wynston bolted for the door. He ran down to the kitchen and escaped from the castle, free for the first time all week. He wasn’t quite sure why
he’d done it. Too many rules, maybe—an overdose of etiquette. He had just needed to get out! And now, he was.
As he raced across the lawn, he felt his heart pounding up through his rib cage, and it wasn’t just because he was running hard, though he was. His heart was beating fast because, for the first time, he had thoroughly defied his father. He’d never done something so…bad…before in his life, and he was at once excited and frightened. Lucy would be proud.
Lucy! He had to see Lucy. He felt awful about missing their weekly berrying excursion, but just wait until she heard about this!
“…there’s a gigantic bird in your prize rosebush!”
When he got to Lucy’s house, Wynston found Sally on the front porch in tears, her head buried in her apron. But Lucy was nowhere to be seen. He tapped Sally’s knee gently. “What’s wrong? Did the dogs get into the smokehouse again?” Sally blew her nose and kept crying.
Wynston wasn’t surprised by this, since Sally was notoriously weepy. He tried again. “There’s a fair coming to town next week—Hey, that’s a lovely dress, Sal—Want a licorice button?” Wynston pulled a rather grubby piece of candy from his pocket and put it on Sally’s knee, but Sally continued with her rainstorm.
Wynston leaned back on the steps and sighed. He waited, hummed, chewed a piece of onion grass—until one little hand crept from under the apron. In it was a note, very damp and a little torn. Wynston took the drippy note, and this is what it said:
Dear Sally,
Please don’t mind too much, but I’m off to see the Scratchy Mountains—you know, where Mother came from. I want to climb clear to the top! And if all goes well, I’ll have a big, big surprise for you (and Papa!) when I get home. I know you’ll help with my share of the milking, and I’ll bring you a nice present, I promise. I left a lemon cake in the bread box for dinner, and I love you very much.
Up and Down the Scratchy Mountains Page 3