Up and Down the Scratchy Mountains

by Laurel Snyder

  Oddly, even though he knew he’d be in trouble when he got home, Wynston felt just fine—better, actually. Instead of feeling frightened of what his father would say, Wynston felt light as a bird. It felt nice not to be wearing that heavy metal band. In any case, he couldn’t fix any of it this minute, so what was the use in fretting?

  “Well, I guess I’m just not a prince today!” he said to nobody in particular. “I guess I’m just me.” He felt much better than he had felt sitting on the gate, but he was hungry. He looked in his pockets, but there was only the squashed licorice button. He nibbled at it and felt even hungrier.

  So he walked, holding Sprout’s reins, until he found a dirt road. He followed the dirt road until he found a little round house that looked like an apple, with a chimney for a stem. Wynston knocked on the door of the little round house, through which he could hear strange muffled sounds. But nobody answered.

  So he knocked more than a few times, and then he stood listening to the muffled sounds and trying to decide whether to open the door. He knew it was a cardinal rule of etiquette never to enter a strange house uninvited. But Wynston was beginning, for the first time in his twelve long princely years, to question the rules of etiquette. Besides, the muffled sounds worried him. Finally, when the noise of his growling belly had gotten loud enough to drown out the muffled sounds, Wynston tied Sprout to the gatepost. He pushed the door open and peered inside nervously, but then began to laugh. He couldn’t help it.

  There before his eyes was a very round bottom—an enormous round bottom in a pair of yellow britches. The bottom was wedged tightly into a huge stew pot sitting on the large fireplace at the center of the room. The legs connected to the bottom wiggled furiously. The head and arms connected to it were, of course, hidden inside the pot. No matter how the legs wiggled and the feet kicked, the bottom would not budge. The fireplace, thank goodness, was cold.

  Once he’d stopped laughing, Wynston flew to the rescue of the large round bottom in the yellow britches. You might wonder how Wynston knew what to do in such a sticky situation. But if you’ve ever eaten a jar of gooseberry jam with your fingers (which Wynston had done, at Lucy’s urging) and then gotten your jammy fist stuck tightly in the jam jar (which Wynston had also done), then you know the answer.

  The bottom was wedged tightly into a huge stew pot…

  Wynston walked to the butter churn, reached in, and pulled out a lump of greasy yellow butter. Then he went back to the pot and began to squish the butter around the bottom in the yellow britches. He walked slowly around the pot until he’d painted a huge greasy ring between the rim of the pot and the britches.

  Of course, this tickled the bottom so that whoever was inside the pot began to giggle, then to guffaw. But the wiggling and the giggling and the butter worked, and suddenly, there was a loud thump! Wynston found himself looking at the upper end of the bottom in the yellow britches. “Most thankful,” gasped a very red face. “I’m most thankful for your help. Been in there all day. If there’s anything I can do to repay you, I’m happy to oblige.”

  Wynston laughed and licked his buttery hand. “Well, I’d love to hear the story of how you got stuck in the soup pot, but first, perhaps lunch. Do you think I might have a little lunch? I’m starving.” As if to prove him right, his belly let out a particularly curious noise.

  “Certainly,” said the man with the enormous bottom, politely pretending not to notice the curious belly noise. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of lunch myself, seeing as I spent the breakfast hour inside a soup pot. But first, proper introductions. I’m Willie.” He stuck out a chubby hand for shaking.

  “And I’m Wynston.” Wynston shook as well as he could with his slidy buttery hand.

  Willie’s eyes widened. “Prince Wynston? Desmond’s tyke? King-to-be?”

  “Among other things,” said Wynston, looking uncomfortable. His hand moved to his head, groping for his missing crown.

  Willie was that rare sort of grown-up who knows when to stop talking. He didn’t ask any more questions, but instead piled the table with bread and mustard, cold chicken, and rice pudding. He poured two big glasses of milk and then sat down to eat. Wynston ate faster, but Willie ate more, and when they were finished, Willie pushed back his chair and loosened his belt. “So, are you on an adventure? A quest? A voyage? I love fascinating stories after lunch.”

  Wynston shook his head. “Sorry. No adventure. I guess I’m just riding my horse around. It sounds kind of dumb when I say it out loud like that….”

  “No need to apologize at all. I think that’s a fine thing. A fine thing. Not enough people just ride around these days. Everyone’s always getting somewhere. And once they get where they’re going they just need to go somewhere else. It’s silly, really. Much better to just ride around.”

  Wynston was surprised. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

  Willie nodded. “Yessirree. Just riding around. See what you find when you get there. That’s a good boy.”

  “Thank you, I think,” said Wynston. “Though my father might not agree.”

  But Willie tactfully ignored Wynston’s mention of the king. “Which way are you going anyway? West? Or maybe you’re heading for something in-betweenish. Say, east-southerly…”

  It was a simple question, but a good one, since Wynston didn’t know the answer. Still, he wasn’t surprised when he heard himself answer nervously, “I don’t know. I thought I might be going up.”

  “Up?”

  “Up, like, to see the Scratchy Mountains. I have a friend there, I hope.”

  “Ah—the Scratchy Mountains!” laughed Willie. “Can’t say that I blame you. I’m from those parts myself, and I still miss the sunrise over the Blue Forest every blessed morning. But I wouldn’t suggest you stay there long. A few days in the Scratchy Mountains will be plenty.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Oh, no particularly particular reason. It’s just a long way up.”

  “Well, can you tell me how to start?”

  “Surely I can. It’s a snap. Just follow this road through those trees there, and then follow the river. That’ll get you to the base of the first mountain, and then you’ll start climbing. Try to keep the river in sight and you can’t get too lost.”

  Wynston felt a little confused at how quickly the adventure was taking hold of him, but he was pleased to have a plan. So he thanked his new friend, wiped his mouth, and went outside to check on Sprout. When Willie came to the door to say goodbye, he was holding a bundle of food in one hand and a letter in the other. “You’ve been more than helpful already, what with that embarrassing soup-pot situation. But do you think you could do me one more favor?”

  Wynston nodded as he climbed onto Sprout. “Of course.”

  “If you happen to pass through the town at the top of the first mountain—called Torrent—get this letter to my mother, Persimmon Wimple. I haven’t been home in years, and it’s awful hard to get mail up the mountain. The folks in Torrent aren’t much for mingling, and so there’s no regular postal service.”

  “Sure thing,” said Wynston, happy to help. “Maybe you’ll do me a favor too?”

  “Anything!” said Willie. “What can I do?”

  “Just don’t…tell anyone where I’ve gone.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Willie. “I was a boy once too, you know.”

  Wynston smiled a little, imagining bumbling Willie as a boy. He put the letter in his pocket and tied the bundle onto his back. As Sprout began to move, he said, laughing, “Someday I still want to hear the story of how you got into the soup pot.”

  “Oh, the usual way!” Willie answered jovially.

  Wynston couldn’t help laughing out loud.

  “Do be careful!” called Willie, as an afterthought.

  But Wynston was already moving at a gallop, and he heard only the wind rushing past.

  THE SHORT CUT, THE LONG CUT, AND THE CURIOUS STORM

  LUCY WOKE up terribly hungry, and she ate an
apple while Rosebud tried (with very little luck) to graze on the bare earth at the foot of the mountain. Then Lucy milked Rosebud, staring up-up-up at the summit. She noticed that the strange, heavy gray cloud was still there, but that the weather seemed otherwise fine. So she folded her blanket, dusted her skirts, and drank her milk. Then she roused Cat, who was no more interested in his breakfast milk than he had been in his apple, which Lucy now brushed off and tucked back into her bag. Lucy shook her finger at the creature. “I must say, Cat…I’ve never heard of a cat who doesn’t like milk in the morning.” But Cat had nothing to say in reply. He took off chasing a big black beetle, which he then munched in one giant bite. Lucy shuddered.

  After that there was nothing left to do but climb, to leave the rocky rubble and the boulders and begin the steep journey up.

  “Well,” said Lucy, “I suppose this is what I came here for.” She took a deep breath, walked to the nearest tree, and snapped off the smallest branch for a walking stick. Then she began to hike into the forest, with Rosebud following right behind her and Cat scrambling to keep up.

  It was hard going at first, but then it got even harder. The ground was stony and rough, and the trees made the path dark. The mountain wasn’t especially scary, but Lucy was lonely, the walking was dull, and the top of the mountain seemed very far away. From time to time, Lucy had to carry Cat, whose short, furry legs couldn’t move very fast. She was beginning to doubt she’d ever reach the top, but she imagined her mother tossing her hair in the wind and calling to the goats, and a little burst of energy shot through her. Then—she couldn’t help it—she thought of Wynston. To distract herself, Lucy made up a song.

  When climbing up a mountain,

  be sure to bring your feet—

  You’ll need them to escape from

  hungry lions that you meet.

  And if you make it past the beasts

  and thieves and angry bears—

  However far the summit seems,

  it’s twice as far as there.

  But the song didn’t help much and Lucy still felt lonely, so she tried talking to Rosebud. “What do you think Sally’s making for supper tonight, girl?” But Rosebud was hungry and confused, and she just clomped along beside Lucy in a contrary way. Lucy sighed. Her adventure wasn’t feeling very adventure-ish anymore. She walked and walked. Then she walked some more. The further she walked, the less interested she felt in the mountains.

  Then she saw a goat. A little white shape, pale against the dark green of the mountain. And when she squinted her eyes against the sun, Lucy could just make out a person a few yards away from the goat. Lucy rubbed her eyes, but she couldn’t tell at this great distance if the person was a girl or a boy, an old person or a child.

  She called, “Hellooooooooooo!” and was surprised when the person waved at her. Faintly she could hear an echo, “Hellooooooooooo!” coming back at her through the air. A woman’s voice, Lucy thought, though she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just the echo of her own call.

  She jumped up and down and yelled again, “Helllllllooooooooooo!” The woman—if she was indeed a woman—waved back once more and said something, but her words bounced off the rock walls and became muffled and indistinct. After a few minutes, Lucy gave up all hope of communicating with the distant figure and moved on. She thought maybe she’d catch up to her if she walked fast enough. Lucy felt a nervousness building like hunger in her belly. She walked even faster. She was almost running, and it was all the others could do to keep up. But then she slowed her frenzied pace and began to ponder.

  What if that was my mother? wondered Lucy. A few minutes later, What if that was her, and she doesn’t want to see me? A little further along, Lucy stopped walking. What if I was the burden she ran away from? She stood still. But after a minute of thinking this terrible thought, she shrugged it off.

  At what might have been lunchtime, they stopped to rest along a particularly overgrown stretch of the mountain path. Lucy cleared away a pile of pine cones and sat down to eat, but there wasn’t much lunch to be had. Just Cat’s leftover apple, split between Lucy and Rosebud (Cat still wasn’t interested). So Lucy wandered off the path to forage among the trees. She returned with a handful of dandelion greens and a pocket full of walnuts. While Rosebud nibbled at a patch of crabgrass and Cat disappeared behind a boulder to inspect (and perhaps ingest) a disgusting anthill, Lucy ate her sharp-tasting weeds with a cup of milk. She was still hungry, so she sat down in the dirt to crack the nuts. First she pounded on them with a rock, cutting her finger. Then she tried to smash a walnut with the heel of her boot, but the nut rolled beneath her foot and she toppled into a prickle bush.

  Lucy lay there in the bush. She didn’t cry, exactly, but she did grit her teeth and make a funny little exasperated sound. Then she sat up and rubbed her eyes. She stared at the cut on her finger and wished she were anywhere else. “Oh, FRAZZLE!” she said out loud. “I hate to admit it, but I miss Wynston. Why did I think I could do this alone?” Lucy sighed deeply. “I’m a silly.”

  But it was worse than that, bigger than that. Sitting like a lump in the nettles where she’d fallen, she felt a momentary shiver of real fear. Because she was alone, and no song was going to fix this.

  Then a terrible thought occurred to her. What’s even worse is…the trouble this might cause. Because now I’m lost, for a no-good reason, and if I stay up on the mountain, someone else is sure to come looking for me. And then someone will have to go looking for them, and so on and so on. Oh, this was a mistake. She lay back in the nettles, thinking hungrily.

  After a while, Cat returned from behind the boulder, chewing happily on a large brown cricket. He crawled into the prickle bush with Lucy, curled up in her lap, and licked her hand.

  Lucy felt a little better, and she sat up. “Oh, Cat, thank you. You know, I’m awfully glad to have found you.”

  Cat blinked twice. “Owrf.”

  “But no matter how nice you may be,” said Lucy, “you can’t help me with this. I worry I’m not the best mother a catlike beast could have. It seems I can barely take care of myself.”

  Lucy patted Cat’s head and sighed. “I think you’re a lovely creature, Cat. But right now I wish you were a person instead of a whatever-you-really-are. Then you might be able to tell me what to do.”

  Cat just licked his paws and rubbed his nose in a very un-person-like manner, so Lucy clambered out of the prickles, pulled a few stray thorns from her stockings and hair, and said, “I give up.”

  Cat said, “Owr-rowrff,” and blinked harder than usual, which made Lucy a little defensive.

  “Well, so what? I’ve thought about it a good deal. I’m not having much fun, and this walk will take us months at the rate we’re going. Even if I do find Mama, she must not want to see me…or she’d have come home long ago, right? I’m worse than a silly…I’m a fool! So who else wants to go home?” Nobody responded, but it didn’t matter. Lucy was ready to turn back.

  But sometimes when you’re trying to have an adventure, the adventure is also trying to have you. So the minute Lucy wanted to turn around and scurry back to Thistle, Cat wandered off. When Cat wandered off, Rosebud happened to step on a very sharp stone that cut her foot.

  The cow let out a mournful, horrible, sad sound, the low of a young milk cow with an empty belly and a hurt foot.

  “Oh!” said Lucy, running over to examine the poor foot, which was bleeding a little. She pulled the pointed pebble from where it had gotten stuck in the tender hoof, and then she wrapped the sore foot up in a big leaf and tied it with a piece of yarn from her unfinished knitting. Lucy felt bad bad bad. “Oh, I’m a beast. I had to go and run off and now we’re lost and your foot is bleeding, so you can’t walk on it today and maybe not even tomorrow. And we’re all hungry and nobody even knows where we are. This is a terrible horrible disastrous disaster.” Rosebud gave a snuffle and leaned her big soft head down to rest it on Lucy’s neck. “I’m so sorry, girl,” said Lucy. “I’ll get you home, I pr
omise.”

  Rosebud gave a second snuffle, and Lucy said, “No, really, I mean it. I’ll get you back to Thistle. Somehow.”

  But just then they both started and jumped because Cat gave a shriek from the trees. “Owr-owrrrrrrrrrrf!”

  Lucy ran into the brush to find Cat shivering excitedly beside a small river. In the small river was a small boat, just big enough for a young milk cow, a girl, and a cat-size prairie dog. A fine fit.

  Lucy felt her spirits lift as she thought back to the map in the throne room in Thistle. She remembered the rivers that ran up and down the sides of the mountain. “What luck!” she said. “We’ll be home in no time now.” She gathered up her few things and took Rosebud’s lead.

  But often when something appears too good to be true, that is precisely the case. Lucy was so excited about the boat that she failed to notice something very important. Something very important! Just as the fish and the rocks at the base of the mountain had been different colors from the fish and the rocks in Thistle, and just as the strange flowers seemed magical when they snapped shut, so this river was strange. But it wasn’t until Lucy had settled Rosebud (with some difficulty) into the boat’s stern, seated Cat securely in the bow, untied the boat, set it loose in the current, and hopped in—it wasn’t until the boat began to move that Lucy noticed just how strange the river was. When she did, she exclaimed, “Oh my!” But by then it was too late.

  “Oh my gosh! Cat! Rosebud! This boat isn’t taking us back to Thistle at all. I don’t know how, but this boat is moving up the river.”

  And so it was. It moved quickly, zipping up the side of the mountain, so that the trees and the bushes and the animals in the forest were a blur to Lucy. Cat shook gently, the fur on his little face blowing in the breeze. Rosebud settled down to enjoy the smooth ride, content not to walk any further on her wounded foot. And Lucy worried a little, but not too much. After all, riding in the boat was far preferable to walking all day, and she had to admit the view was lovely. As she passed a little herd of brownish goats and a sleeping goatherd, she laughed out loud. Whatever might be lurking at the mountaintop, her adventure had found her at last.