Up and Down the Scratchy Mountains

by Laurel Snyder

  Steven’s mother just turned back around and began to sweep the hearth as Lucy hummed the song. She didn’t seem to be taking Lucy very seriously at all, but she listened. “That is indeed a Torrential tune, but maybe she just learned it from someone else.”

  “But…,” Lucy floundered.

  “Why don’t you go and tend to your milking, my duckling.”

  But now that the conversation was out in the open, Lucy couldn’t stop herself. “Maybe she just lived here before you came to Torrent?”

  Steven’s mother paused with her broom in the air. “No, I’ve lived here all my life, and I assume I’m about as old as your mother would be. So no…there’s never been a Nora.”

  “Oh.” Lucy didn’t know what else to say. So she took a bucket out to the porch, where she found Rosebud munching happily on the fresh grass growing between the floorboards of the porch. She milked Rosebud, and as she milked, she thought about how things can change quickly. She felt her mood shift.

  The storm had been horrible, but Torrent was not a bad place, despite the drizzle. She liked Steven and his mother, and she thought the flowers that seemed to be growing everywhere were beautiful. Just as she was feeling better, a terrible scream rose from the little red house, and Lucy ran inside quickly.

  “Get it out, out! Catch it now!” Steven’s mother was shrieking and running around the room, knocking things over, and wringing her hands.

  But just as Lucy stepped into the room, Steven turned a bucket over onto the tile floor of the kitchen. His mother crumpled onto a chair and covered her eyes with both hands. “Take it out now. I might faint. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Nothing like this should ever happen. And in my tidy kitchen too! Take it to the jail, Steven. They’ll handle the horrid thing.” Steven slid a thin wooden cutting board beneath the bucket and carried his makeshift trap through the back door of the kitchen to dispose of whatever was causing the ruckus.

  “What was that thing?” asked Lucy. “Are you okay?”

  “Barely! Oh, my duckling! Just be glad you were outside. It was terrible,” she whimpered. “It was so terrible, so terrible and so wild.”

  “What was it?” asked Lucy. “A mouse?”

  “No, no! Not a mouse, though that would be dreadful too. This was far worse. Oh, I hate to even think of it. It was a big thing, with long awful teeth and the most snarly face!”

  “It sounds just awful,” said Lucy. “We had a rat once in the barn at the dairy, and I hated its beady eyes. Sally wouldn’t even look at it.”

  “Oh, this wasn’t a rat. It was much, much bigger,” said Steven’s mother. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It was like a wild dog, with great razor teeth and terrible claws. I stepped on it, and it growled at me—the most awful, bloodcurdling sound. Who knows what it would have done if Steven hadn’t been so quick?”

  But Lucy felt her heart sink. Suddenly she was certain she could imagine just what the beast looked like. She was sure she knew the sound of its bark. She held her breath and reached into her bag for Cat, but she was not surprised to find the bag empty. Her heart sank.

  “Ma’am—maybe it was a nice beast?”

  “Oh, duckling, you’re so young. There’s no such thing as a nice beast.”

  “B-but, what do you think they’ll do with the animal? The terrible beast?” Lucy tried to keep calm. She wanted to run after Steven, but she had a sense that claiming the animal as her pet would not win her any points with Steven’s mother, who seemed convinced that Cat was a terrible monster.

  “Why, they’ll hold it until nightfall and then set it loose…,” began Steven’s mother. Lucy felt slightly better, until Steven’s mother continued, “…in the Pit. They’ll leave him to the hailstorm just like they do with any other criminal, according to the sound laws of Torrent. Thank goodness!”

  “The Pit?”

  “Yes. It’s an old system, to be sure, but it never fails. Some things can’t be improved upon, you know?”

  “What kind of a pit?”

  “Oh, it’s just your average pit—a big well of sorts, but without any water. Dug deep down into the floor of the forest. It goes down about forty feet on the sides, and the bottom always has a few inches of mud in it. It doesn’t drain properly, not at all.”

  “But why? I mean, why did somebody dig a pit into the mountain?”

  “Oh, there’s all manner of myths about it. Some say it was once a fire pit for a giant monster, a great scaly beast called the Bludgeone. But, of course, that’s silly. Most believe it was a cistern, a great vat for water storage. Only, it drains down through the mountain, so it was no good for storing anything. Except beasts. For as long as I can remember, and for a long time before that, it’s been used for exposing wild beasts and other terrible types. Criminals.”

  “It’s full of bones!” added Steven, hopping cheerfully back into the house and the conversation. “It’s like a big cup, with a puddle at the bottom. A puddle full of bones!” He grinned.

  “Ah, Steven, back so soon?” asked his mother. “That’s my speedy boy!”

  Lucy gulped. “But what if you’re wrong? What if the animal isn’t terrible? What if it was a sweet animal—maybe even someone’s pet, like a cat.”

  At this Steven’s mother shook her head. “Perhaps you’re addled, love. I know what I saw, and it was not a cat.”

  “But you know what I mean.” Lucy was very frustrated. “An animal you like, that lives with you. A friend.”

  “But it wasn’t,” insisted Steven’s mother. “It was wild. A beast!”

  “But someone might love it. It might be a nice beast….”

  Steven’s mother lost her temper. “No! It might not. And I don’t want to talk about this any further! There wouldn’t be a law against wild animals if wild animals weren’t a bad thing. And the hail wouldn’t come at night if bad creatures didn’t need to be punished. That’s how things work in a very civilized place. Just be thankful for the order of things.”

  Lucy felt she had pushed too far, and was fast wearing out her welcome. When Steven’s mother turned her back to scrub the spot on the floor where Cat had stood briefly, Lucy left. She untied Rosebud from the porch and walked off in the rain to find the jail. Just when her skirts had almost dried, things seemed to be getting soggy again.

  WILD RAVENING BEASTS

  ABOUT THE time that Lucy was standing in the gazebo with Steven, Wynston was waking up from his third night of camping on the mountain. And if his first night spent sleeping beneath Sprout was a little awkward, and his second night was generally uncomfortable, his third was downright painful. He had been tired enough to fall asleep on the gravel-strewn ground, but not tired enough to stay asleep peacefully. Now his back felt like he’d fallen down the castle stairs at least eight or nine times, and he couldn’t stop yawning. Needless to say, he had had enough adventuring.

  The rain was misting as Wynston rode quickly through the forest into town. He hoped to deliver his letter, find Lucy, and head home by lunch. He was beginning to feel a prickly kind of nervousness at being gone so long. He’d had too much time by himself, time to imagine the things his father would do to him when he returned. While he was ready to face the tempest, he felt strongly that he needed to do it now, before he lost his nerve. So he hurried through the town. He didn’t know where to find Mrs. Wimple, but the town was fairly small. He thought he’d just try each house until he found the right one, or a friendly person to direct him.

  But the first house he approached had a sign on the door that said THE ASTER FAMILY, so he didn’t knock on that door. Then the house next door read MR. AND MRS. FARNSWORTH BARNACLE, so Wynston moved along to the third house, on which there was a particularly impressive golden plaque that read HOME OF COSIMO C. CALLOW, MAYOR. It was hard for Wynston to believe that the town was actually alphabetized, but when the sign on the fourth house read DR. DELIA DISTRESS, Wynston got back on Sprout and rode through the light misting rain until he thought he might be nearing the Ws. He located the
Wimple residence, tied Sprout to the mailbox, and knocked on the door.

  Persimmon Wimple’s house looked much like the rest of the houses in Torrent, red stone with a lush garden growing on the roof, but Wynston barely noticed. He was feeling moist, and he thought that perhaps Mrs. Wimple would offer him a dry place to sit, and maybe even something hot to drink. But just as he was imagining a mug of cider and a freshly ironed shirt, the door swung open. A large woman with a tear-streaked red face cried out, “Oh, what now? For goodness’ sake, what now-ow-ow-ow?” Then she fell into Wynston’s arms and sobbed. Mrs. Wimple, who looked rather like her son but with gray braids that fell to her knees, stopped crying just long enough to sputter, “Th-th-thank you, my boy, for the c-c-c-comfort, but wh-wh-who are you anyway?”

  “I’m Wynston, a friend of Willie’s. I’ve come to bring you a letter,” replied Wynston. “But I can come back later, if now’s a bad time.”

  “Willie? You have a letter from Willie?” snuffled Mrs. Wimple. “Why, that’s the best news I’ve had in weeks.” She stopped crying and wiped her nose with one hand while she pulled Wynston into the small house with the other. She shut the door and fell heavily onto a couch by the fire, where she dried her face on a pillow.

  “A little rainy today, isn’t it?” Wynston said, attempting to make polite conversation.

  Mrs. Wimple stared at him for a minute, and then she replied, “Only as rainy as usual.”

  Wynston didn’t understand. “Oh. Does it rain much in these parts?”

  “It rains the correct amount each day,” said Mrs. Wimple more cheerfully. “‘Storm by moon, dry by noon,’ just like in any very civilized place.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Wynston. “It doesn’t rain the same each day in Thistle. Some days it rains all day, and some days it doesn’t rain at all.”

  Mrs. Wimple looked vaguely upset, and then amused. She chuckled to herself and twirled one of her braids in the air. “I’m sure it does, darling, I’m sure it does. And do the people of Thistle all know how to fly as well?”

  Wynston didn’t like to be treated like a little boy. After all, he was almost a man, and a prince to boot. “No,” he answered. “Of course not, but I promise you—the weather isn’t on a rigid schedule at home. Just ask Willie.”

  This confused Mrs. Wimple. “That doesn’t sound orderly at all. What a mess it must be there. Are the people all in a muddle all the time?”

  “No,” said Wynston. “It’s fine.” Though as he said this, he considered that it would be rather convenient to know in advance when to expect a shower, or a snowstorm.

  “But however do you get along if the weather changes from day to day? How do you know when to wear your galoshes?”

  Wynston shrugged. “Sometimes our feet get wet, but then we dry them off.”

  Mrs. Wimple shook her head. “Next I suppose you’ll be telling me that you don’t bother with clocks either, or regular meals, or those pesky days of the week.” Wynston thought this was silly, and he tried to tell Mrs. Wimple so, but she continued, “And that reminds me, it’s the proper time for morning tea. Would you like something?”

  Wynston nodded. Regulated rainstorms and alphabetized houses were a little odd, and crying mothers were very sad, but a snack was an altogether welcome thought.

  After Mrs. Wimple had made tea and set out a plate of cookies, Wynston handed her the letter from Willie. She slid it carefully into her pocket and then sat down again with a sigh. “Ah, Willie! If only he were still around to help me, things would never have gotten so bad. I’m sorry you found me in such a state earlier, but I’ve been having a tough time since Willie’s father passed away.”

  Wynston looked up from his tea and mumbled through a mouthful of sugar cookie, “Gosh, I’m so sorry to hear that, Mrs. Wimple. What happened?”

  Mrs. Wimple tied her braids into a knot beneath her chin and closed her eyes. “It really isn’t something to discuss with the young, but I must admit it’s nice to have someone here to chat with.” She took a deep breath. “The problem is that I’m out of money, and I owe seventeen thickles to the town market, which is quite a lot of silver. I’ve been taking in sewing, and I was beginning to catch up. But last week the mayor sent over the collector director, who told me I have to pay the seventeen thickles by today, or va-va-vacate the premises.” Mrs. Wimple’s chin began to quiver, and she looked like she might burst into tears again. “I’ll have to move in with my sister, I suppose, but that will be so humiliating. Oh, how she’ll gloat!”

  “Why don’t you just ask for a little longer to pay the thickles back, so you can do some more sewing?” This seemed common sense to Wynston, who reached for another cookie.

  Mrs. Wimple blew her nose. “I don’t know about in Thistle, but there’s no bending the rules in Torrent,” said Mrs. Wimple. “Laws are important. Don’t you know that?”

  “I certainly do!” Wynston nodded in a most royal manner. His years of training filled his head. “I can recite the bylaws of Thistle by heart.”

  “Well then.”

  “But even so, throwing you out of your house seems a little harsh.”

  “Harsh or not, a law is a law.”

  “I suppose so…,” said Wynston. But he wasn’t entirely sure. It just didn’t seem right to him.

  Wynston thought of his kind, if blustery, father, the king. And though he knew his father prided himself on fair rule, he also knew there’d be a way to help Mrs. Wimple if she lived in Thistle. He couldn’t imagine his father throwing a widow into the street. He thought to himself, Surely there’s a solution to such a simple problem…but he didn’t say anything. Instead he went outside to check on Sprout. He needed some time to think about things. His quick visit to Torrent was becoming more complicated by the moment.

  But however complicated things were feeling to Wynston, they seemed far more complicated to Lucy. Glad to see that the rain seemed to be letting up, she moved as quickly as one could with a cow in tow. She didn’t know exactly where she was headed, but Torrent was a small town, and extremely well organized. At every intersection were little signs pointing the way to the town’s most important sites, so after she had passed the first few signs reading TOWN HALL/HABERDASHERY, and ICE CREAM PARLOR/THE JAIL, she knew exactly where she was going. Once she had found the jail, it took her no more than a minute to find the right window to peek through. But the minutes felt like years to Lucy, who was very worried. Finally, by standing carefully on Rosebud’s back and craning her neck, she caught a glimpse of Cat, who was locked in a wire cage about the size of a bread box.

  Cat had curled into a ball again, and two men stood over him. One of the men was tall and thin, and he wore a very shiny suit and a fancy red hat. The other man was unbelievably short and muscle-y, and he wore a uniform. The short man in the uniform kept poking Cat with a wooden spoon. Each time he jabbed the spoon, Cat curled into a smaller ball of fur and shivered a little more.

  Then, just as she had while knitting the forest, Lucy forgot about her mother. She forgot about Wynston. She even forgot about herself, because she had a GIANT job to do. This was a serious grown-up decision she had to make on her own. How could she possibly help Cat? She felt scared but brave as resolve filled her. She clenched her fists, ready for a fight. She wasn’t sure just what she had to do, but she knew she had to do something.

  She climbed down and led Rosebud around to the front door of the jail, where she found two signs. The first read sternly THE LAW PROTECTS THOSE WHO PROTECT THE LAW. The second proclaimed FLAVOR OF THE DAY: BUTTER FUDGE RIPPLERUMP! Lucy puzzled at this. It didn’t seem very Torrential to sell ice cream in a jail, but she was learning not to be surprised at the twists and turns of her strange adventure. She knocked on the door and then walked into the jail. Inside, it was cold and damp. A glass case with a giant bin of ice cream sat beside a small desk. On the desk were a feathery quill and a heavy chain.

  “Hello?” Lucy called into the damp room. “Hello? I believe you’ve foun
d something that belongs to me. Is anyone here?” Of course, she knew someone was inside the jail, but she didn’t want the two men to know she’d been spying through the window.

  The short man came out to meet her, carrying his spoon. He smiled in a friendly enough way, smacking the spoon lightly against the palm of his hand. “I am, of course. Who might you be?”

  “I’m Lucy,” said Lucy.

  “Ah, so you are. What brings you to town?” asked the man. “Were you wanting a scoop? Because if that’s the case, I’ll have to disappoint you. I’m not permitted to serve this until after lunch. It wouldn’t be good for your teeth or your appetite.”

  “Yes,” said Lucy. “It does seem a little early for anything fudgy.”

  “Indeed. But if you don’t want a frozen confection, why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for someone,” answered Lucy.

  “Really? You have relations here?” The man looked surprised.

  “Oh!” said Lucy, who had been thinking of Cat, and not her mother. But…

  “Perhaps a cousin, or an uncle?” The man leaned in with his spoon to stir the ice cream.

  “Yes, or…maybe…but…”

  “And who might that be?”

  “My mother, Nora. Her name is Nora. Do you know her?”

  The man straightened up and licked his spoon. “No, there’s no Nora in Torrent.”

  “Yes,” answered Lucy, “that’s what I heard.” She felt sad, but not nearly as sad as when Steven’s mother had said it. She had Cat to think about now. She might wish and hope and dream for her mother, but Cat needed Lucy, and that was even more important right this minute.

  “Well then, why are you here, shouting like this? I thought you said you’d lost something….”