Your sister,
Lucy
Wynston read the note four times before he looked up. “How could she leave without me?” He scratched his head. “I would’ve gone too.”
Sally mopped her face with her sleeve and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. She sniffed. “I’m sure I don’t know, but it means I’ve got to do all the milking and cooking. Plus carry all the firewood by myself. And now…as if things aren’t bad enough, one of our cows has gone missing. What an awful day.” She went back to crying, but mumbled into her skirts, “Did she tell you how long she’d be gone?”
“I swear, I didn’t know she was planning this at all. I haven’t seen her all week.”
“But she went to the castle yesterday to see you, didn’t she?” Sally stopped crying and looked at Wynston.
“What makes you think that?” asked Wynston. “Yesterday I got fitted for a new pair of beaded boots, learned to eat fish soup with a tiny fork, and studied the ancient art of holding my tongue without getting it wet. I was pretty busy, but I think I’d have known if Lucy stopped by.”
“Maybe,” said Sally. “All I know is that she ran off to the castle yesterday and left me to carry everything home from the market. And it was potato day too!”
Wynston bit his thumbnail. “And you haven’t seen her since?”
“Only at supper—” Sally said. But Wynston was halfway across the yard before she could finish her thought. So Sally went inside, to weep and sweep. When she was finished, she leaned her cheek against the broom handle and rubbed away her last tear. There! Tidying up always made Sally feel better.
Back at the castle, Wynston slipped in through the kitchen door and bumped into Masha, who was tossing flour around the pantry with wild abandon. “Well, if it isn’t the prince! Answer me this, Wynston, and tell me the honest truth—no need to soften the blow. Do you think a pear tart counts as a pie? Truly?” Masha looked very worried, but Wynston was in a hurry.
“I’m sure it does,” he said, heading straight for the stairs.
She breathed deeply and forced a smile. “Oh, good. Then that makes fourteen pies altogether, and I can save Miss Lucy’s berries to go with the custard.”
Wynston turned. “Lucy’s berries?”
“Oh, Miss Lucy brought by some fresh blackberries—an entire milk-pailful. I’m blushing to think I begged for ’em, but I was in such a whizzle-tiz when she stopped in on Sunday. She’s a sweet girl, Miss Lucy is. Generous.”
“What’d she want?”
“She asked could you come out to play, and I told her you was frightful busy, with all the castle goings-on. Then she went along to the berry patch.”
Wynston touched a finger to the pear tart softly. “So then, she stopped in yesterday to bring the berries?”
“No, love. She left ’em for me Sunday night on her way home. Yesterday she came and saw your father.”
Wynston studied the cook carefully. “Lucy came to see my father?”
“Yes indeedy, but she wasn’t here long. I only saw her through the window, on my way upstairs to feed the parrots. She was knocking on the front door, all formal-like.”
“The front door? That doesn’t sound like Lucy.”
“She looked a little sad, now that I think of it.”
“Sad.”
“Yes, well, sad, a bit. Or maybe not. I don’t know. As I said, I only saw her from a distance.”
“Lucy was sad?”
“At any rate, she just went on home, so it must not’ve been too important. Now, love, I need to be getting to my biscuits, or we’ll never have dinner.” When Masha turned and reached into the icebox for a giant jug of buttermilk, Wynston snuck back out the door. He headed into the yard and then perched on the gate to think, just exactly as Lucy had done two days before.
Lucy, all alone on the mountain! That didn’t seem right. She could be headstrong, loud, bossy, and stubborn, but Lucy did not like to be alone. She was a ringleader—his ringleader—and everybody knows that a ringleader needs a ring. He scratched his head and wondered what had made her run off.
He wondered, Why the mountains? Wynston couldn’t help being worried.
CAT THE DOG AND WILLIE WIMPLE
LUCY AND Rosebud walked all day toward the Scratchy Mountains, and for a while, everything looked like the soft fields near Thistle. But as the mountains grew closer and taller above her, Lucy began to feel a nervous tug. She looked up, searching for the singing goatherds. But she didn’t see anyone at all, and she felt very very tiny beneath the enormous mountains. She stopped to drink beside a river and noticed that the fish nibbling at her ankles were blue, not like the silver fish in Thistle Creek. When she crossed a small road cutting through the valley, she discovered that the pebbles in the road were black, instead of the pale sand color of all proper pebbles at home. Lucy gathered a few of the odd stones for Sally.
Just as the sun was getting ready to set, Lucy stopped outside a small wood. She’d come to the base of the mountains, and the trees before her were taller than anything she’d ever seen. They weren’t the soft brown color of the dogwood trees near the dairy, or even the gray-blue-green of the sad willows beside the castle moat. These trees were covered in stiff needles that shed a dark shade over the entire wood, and they looked almost black in the fading light. A cold wind snaked by her, and Lucy reached out a hand to stroke Rosebud on the nose. She imagined that she could see small mean animals darting among the trees. She could almost hear their sharp teeth grinding and chomping. Rosebud’s nose was a warm and snuffly comfort to Lucy’s cold hand. Suddenly Lucy was exhausted.
“No harm in camping here for the night,” called Lucy to the wood, loudly, in case anyone or anything was listening. “Rosebud needs to rest, and the grass is nice and soft.” She tied Rosebud to the nearest tree trunk and spread out her blanket. She sat down to eat but instead fell directly asleep, apple in hand. Rosebud settled down beside her, and then, very suddenly, so did the sun. The sky turned a deep purple, veined with rivers of light, streaks of the palest orange imaginable. The Scratchy Mountains towered black against the ocean of violet and gold, but only Rosebud noticed. She licked Lucy’s cheek, but Lucy didn’t stir.
Lucy woke to a bright morning and immediately tried to pull a pillow over her eyes. Since she had no pillow, she ended up tugging on a bit of Rosebud instead. The young cow let out a cry, and Lucy sat up fast. She rubbed her head and discovered that the valley looked altogether different from how it had at dusk.
The peaks above her were deeply green and lush, and a small river ran into the wood, bubbling cheerfully beneath a hum of waving cattails and darting dragonflies. She untied Rosebud, and the two of them scampered down to the river for a drink. Then Lucy washed her face and milked Rosebud onto the grass. (Every milk cow needs to be milked each morning, and Lucy—no matter that she might also be an adventurer—was a diligent milkmaid.) She drank a cup of milk while she was at it, and ate some bread while Rosebud grazed on a patch of good grass. Then she folded up her blanket and started into the wood.
Inside the wood, pine needles had been falling softly for years, and they made a thick carpet on the ground. Lucy trod lightly, rope in hand. The ground felt bouncy, like walking on her bed at home—if her bed were much, much bigger and covered in trees. Lucy thought of Wynston. For a minute, she wanted to turn back and fetch him, so he could walk in the soft wood too. Then she remembered that she was angry, and she said to Rosebud, “Who needs a boy along? Someday, if he’s lucky, I’ll tell Wynston all about it, if he has the time to listen, but anyway—I’m glad he isn’t here now.”
Rosebud snorted, and Lucy answered tartly, “What?”
Rosebud snorted again.
“Truly! I really am glad he isn’t here!” Rosebud said nothing as the two walked on, deeper into the woods.
After an hour or so, the ground started to slope upward, and the walking became more difficult. The trees thinned out until the wood was gone, and Lucy and Rosebud found themselves s
crambling over a bare incline rubbly with rocks and riddled with strange lumps the size of watermelons. Lucy stepped onto one of the lumps and then jumped to the next, which stood about two feet away. From there, she jumped to another little hillock, and then to another. She went quicker, more nimbly each time, until she was hopping at a furious pace. Rosebud, tired from walking, stopped to watch this odd behavior. She snorted indignantly.
“Hey, this is fun!” Lucy called out to Rosebud, but the cow wasn’t interested in the least. Instead she chewed a pale green plant she found sprouting from one of the tiny clumps of earth. But she looked up suddenly when Lucy cried out, “Oh!” Then she ambled over to where Lucy stood, to see what had caused the “Oh!”
Lucy was staring at a little creature curled up beside one of the tiny hills. In fact, the creature was hugging the hill, as though the hill were a person. Though the animal’s eyes were shut and he seemed to be sleeping, he trembled.
“Maybe he’s dreaming,” Lucy whispered to Rosebud, who stared at the furry little body the size of a large cat.
Rosebud mooed in response, which woke the creature. It looked up, startled, and hugged tighter to the hill.
Lucy knelt down to examine the creature. She was nervous that she might be bitten, but her curiosity was greater than her fear. “What are you?” she asked, “and where did you come from?”
The creature whimpered a little “mrooooowr.” He scrabbled at his hill for comfort and dug at the ground, looking for a safe place to hide. Finding none, he finally fell away and rolled over onto his feet. Though he was cowering beside the hill, he looked up at Lucy.
Lucy had never seen a prairie dog before, so she didn’t know what to call the beast. The prairie dog had never seen a Lucy before, and so he just stared, his nose shuddering now and then. Lucy thought he looked more frightened than anything else. She reached out her hand slowly. In a soft voice she said, “Are you all alone? Are you hungry?”
The creature stretched out his nose, as though to smell Lucy. She moved her hand an inch closer. And he licked it gently.
“Look, he likes me,” Lucy said to Rosebud. She scratched the creature’s little nose and he closed his eyes for a split second. He made a snuffling sound and Lucy smiled.
But then the creature stood up and barked, “Owrf!” And Lucy jumped. The creature ran quickly toward her. Without knowing what she was doing, Lucy screamed and ran to hide behind Rosebud as the sharp noise of the dog’s chatter filled the air. “Owrf-owrf! Owrf-owrf-owrf!”
“What terrible sounds it’s making!” said Lucy, clapping her hands over her ears. “I thought he was cute, but he’s simply awful. No manners at all!”
Rosebud lost interest after about thirty seconds. She went back to chewing the pale green plant. “Maybe—do you think he bites?” asked Lucy from behind the cow’s flank. Rosebud didn’t even turn her head.
Finally the prairie dog stopped barking, and Lucy peeked out from behind the cow. But the small furry animal was nowhere to be seen. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done,” she said aloud. “Although he seemed so lonely, and truly I don’t think he could have hurt me much—even if he had bitten me. As small as he was.” Rosebud gave Lucy a doubtful glance.
“Well, he seemed so…lost. I wonder where he came from.”
Though Lucy couldn’t have known it, the creature had in fact run away from his own home—fled his safe little tunnel for the mountain—just as Lucy had fled Thistle the day before. But Rosebud didn’t know that, and wasn’t especially interested, if you want to know the truth. So Lucy continued.
“But if he’s going to chatter and run like that, then perhaps you’re right, Rosebud. Maybe he wouldn’t be much fun to travel with. Still, I wouldn’t have minded the extra company.”
She picked up Rosebud’s lead and was about to start walking again when she happened to glance over her shoulder. There sat the animal, who’d been following her in a slow circle around the cow, evading her notice. Now he was settled on the ground two feet behind Lucy, licking his paws.
He stopped licking and stared at her intently. “Oh, there you are!” Lucy said. “C’mere,” she whispered, “little man, little creature. I won’t hurt you.” The prairie dog scratched an ear and blinked. “I don’t even know what you are.” The animal inched a little closer and settled beside Lucy, so she bent to pet its small head. “But perhaps it doesn’t matter.”
Unfortunately, just as Lucy bent to touch him, the creature sneezed.
“Oh!” shouted Lucy, jumping.
The animal rubbed his wet nose against Lucy’s leg and said, “Owr-Mrthththth?”
“Oh, you poor sniffly beast,” said Lucy. “Do you have a home?”
He just looked at her pleadingly and made his sound again. “Owr-Mrthththth?”
“Maybe you’d do best to come along with us…since you seem to be travelling alone. Though I can’t imagine what sorts of things you like to eat.”
But when Lucy bent to pick him up, he scurried away.
“All right, I’ve had enough of this game. I’m leaving,” she said, turning around. “But if you want to come, you’re welcome to join us.” She looked over her shoulder at him.
The animal stared pathetically. He wiped a paw across his little face and then barked decidedly. “Owrooof-oof.”
Lucy and Rosebud began walking. After a few steps, Lucy glanced over her shoulder and saw the short furry beast scrambling over small hills and rocks, following at a steady pace. She smiled as she sang over her shoulder.
I’m pleased as punch to have you join
Our cheerful company.
Despite your sniffles, whistles, barks,
And doubtful pedigree.
If only I could speak your tongue,
Then I might ascertain
What kind of sniffly barky word
Would make a fitting name.
Mile upon mile, as Lucy walked, the creature followed, scrambling behind. But when she came to a little bridge over a fast-moving river, the creature appeared at Lucy’s foot, kneading its little paws and rubbing its face. Then the animal nudged Lucy’s foot with his nose and sneezed twice. “Fishtoo! Fishtoo!” His eyes were sleepy, and he was too cute to ignore.
“All right!” said Lucy. “I guess I don’t mind carrying you a ways. But then you’ll really have to have a name. I suppose you’re almost a cat. Cat? Are you a cat?”
Cat said nothing in response.
“Maybe you don’t know what you are either. But I don’t suppose it matters.”
And that is how Cat the prairie dog followed Rosebud the cow and Lucy the girl onto the first stretch of the first peak of the mountain range known as the Scratchy Mountains. They walked all day over the rocky terrain, stopping now and then to pick pebbles from their feet or to stare at the odd orange wildflowers that snapped shut when Lucy touched them. By dinnertime they could see something dark far off in the distance. There appeared to be a low gray cloud hung like a ring around the mountain.
“If it’s raining on the mountain, we’ll want to wait until tomorrow to pass by,” said Lucy. So they made camp, curling up together in a scooped-out place in the earth where a few smooth boulders formed a windbreak. Lucy was hungry, and finished off her bread. She offered an apple to Rosebud, who gratefully munched it from her hand. Then she gave one to Cat, who only wrapped his short furry arms around the piece of fruit. Hugging the apple like a friend, Cat curled up and began to breathe heavily, with a whistle. Lucy pulled her blanket close around her shoulders and thought, If only I had a picture of this night—me, alone on the mountain. When I find my mother, she’ll be so proud. Then she drifted off to sleep.
In the middle of the night, Lucy woke up to find herself freezing, even though she was wedged between the warm bodies of Cat and Rosebud. She turned over quietly and wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, but still she was cold. She thought of her warm bed at home, of the fire in the kitchen. She tried not to think about Wynston in his castle. She whispered int
o the cold night air, “I do wish it was just a little warmer here.”
Then Rosebud shifted and lowed deeply. Cat gave an odd shudder and wrapped his arms around Lucy’s neck. He snuggled against her, and suddenly Lucy was warmer. Much.
Poor Wynston felt very bad as he sat on the gate, in that muddle-headed way you feel when your parents leave you in charge of the house and you forget to do something very important, and then you realize you’ve forgotten to do something, but you don’t know what the something is. If you just sit, you usually imagine that the basement is filling with water or the roast is burning or the dog is running away.
Wynston kicked his feet and felt a lot like that. He wasn’t even sure where Lucy had gone, but he couldn’t believe she hadn’t waited for him. At the same time, he thought deep down that maybe Lucy was angry, or sad, or lonely, or that she didn’t want to be his friend anymore (getting left behind can make you think strange thoughts). He knew his father might be able to explain things a little, since he had spoken with Lucy, but Wynston wanted to give his royal father a while to cool down, after the rosebush prank. Wynston was surprised he didn’t feel more horrible about the prank, but maybe it was just because he felt so bad about Lucy. All the badness was getting tangled up inside of him.
See? thought Wynston. This is why it’s best to stay out of trouble!
Wynston felt a mess. And the worst thing to do when you feel a mess is to sit still, and the best thing to do is to do something, so Wynston did. He hopped down from the gate, raced to the royal stables, and saddled his horse, Sprout (which is not a very good name for a royal steed but is a perfect name for a sweet, spotted horse). Then Wynston rode away, tearing across the fields in no particular direction, just as you might if you tried to do something when you weren’t quite sure what to do.
Wynston jumped some hedgerows and splashed in a river and tore through a glen and galloped and galloped and galloped. He raced around until both he and Sprout were out of breath and a little lost. Then they stopped at a creek for a drink, and Wynston noticed something very serious. He discovered his crown was missing, but had no idea where on his wild ride he’d lost it.
Up and Down the Scratchy Mountains Page 4