Up and Down the Scratchy Mountains

by Laurel Snyder

“Yes, there’s that too. In fact, that’s why I’m here. Not Nora. Not right now.”

  “Well then. Say what you mean. Address the matter at hand, my girl! What sort of a something have you lost?”

  Lucy put on her sweetest face and tried to sound like Sally. “A very special something. A terribly important something. I think perhaps you’ve found my Cat.”

  The short man nodded sympathetically. “Oh, goodness. That’s very sad, very sad indeed—a lost kitty. But we haven’t found a cat, I’m sorry to say—”

  Lucy smiled her prettiest smile as she continued, “Are you sure about that? Steven’s mother mistook him for a wild beast and trapped him, but he’s my pet. I found him at the bottom of the mountain. He hates to be cold—hates it awfully—so if you’ll just let me have him, I’ll take him home to Thistle right away.”

  “Miss, surely you aren’t referring to that animal Steven brought in! We don’t know quite what that wild, ravening beast is, but he’s no cat.”

  “But, sir,” said Lucy, who had truly begun to think of Cat as a cat, or at least a pet of some kind, “why do you get to decide he isn’t a cat? Maybe the cats in Thistle are different from the cats here in Torrent. Maybe he’s just a different kind of cat. Maybe he’s part cat, or maybe—”

  The short man interrupted. “Maybe I’m a mermaid! Maybe it’ll snow in June! Maybe may be a lot of things, missy. If you found him in the wild, that rightly defines and categorizes him under Torrential law as a wild beast. And under code seven of bylaw 784J, wild beasts are criminals. Such crimes are punishable by immediate midnight exposure on the south side of the forest.”

  The man with the spoon said all this in a surprisingly cheerful voice, which Lucy found confusing in light of the very serious situation at hand. She didn’t know how to respond.

  “But—” she said.

  “Button your jacket!”

  Lucy was confused. “So—” she whispered.

  “Sew buttons!” the man chortled and smiled.

  “Oh, sir, isn’t there any way I can take him home?”

  “’Fraid not,” said the man in the uniform pleasantly. “What you need is a nice goldfish in a bowl, or a pet geranium. My son has a very well-behaved geranium named Bernard.”

  The idea that a geranium could ever replace Cat made Lucy so angry that she stamped her foot and walked back through the door without even saying goodbye. Lucy made up a song as she walked, to calm herself. She sang quietly through her clenched teeth.

  Men in silly uniforms

  who get to make the rules

  Should all be poked with wooden spoons

  and sent away to schools,

  Where wild beasts will teach them

  that it’s better to be free

  Than it is be a grown-up,

  stiff and stubborn as a tree!

  “Ooh! I’ll find a way to get Cat out of that nasty old jail,” she told Rosebud quietly as they passed through the center of town. “I will, I will, I will. If only Wynston were here, then everything would be different. They’d listen to a prince, I bet. Not that I need him, but it would be nice….”

  At the exact moment she was thinking about Wynston, Wynston was thinking about her, and a kind of magic happened. The magic of coincidence. The magic of perfect timing. Just as Lucy was stomping furiously across the town square and Wynston was stroking Sprout’s nose on Persimmon Wimple’s front porch, the rain stopped. When the rain stopped, the sun came out. And when the sun came out, all the doors of Torrent opened like clockwork.

  Like clockwork, each child in Torrent ran out to play in the dry noon-hour sun. Like clockwork, each grown-up stepped out into the yard. At every house, a woman poured a pitcher of milk into tall glasses and a man planted a tray of sandwiches in the exact center of a picnic table. Lucy stopped where she was standing and stared. She thought it was the strangest thing she’d ever seen, stranger than the orange flowers or the river that flowed up the mountain.

  Wynston stopped and stared too. He glanced around at the houses, but then he saw something even better than the mechanical lunch scene, and he smiled. His face lit up and he jumped into the air with a yelp and yelled, “Lucy! Hey! Hey, Lucy, I’m here! I came to find you! Hey, Lucy! LU-CY—”

  Rosebud heard Wynston’s voice and snorted happily. Lucy heard Wynston, turned, and ran toward him with open arms. The villagers of Torrent heard Wynston’s loud, happy voice and had no idea who he might be, but were rather concerned with the disturbance to their lunchtime schedule. Lucy and Wynston didn’t care one bit. They hugged each other tightly, and then they began to argue.

  He shook his finger in Lucy’s face.

  Wynston looked at Lucy with a half sneer. “What were you thinking, running off like that? I would have come too, you know.” He shook his finger in Lucy’s face.

  Lucy remembered very suddenly that she was supposed to be angry at Wynston. “Maybe I didn’t want you along after you forgot me on Sunday, you noodle-head. Where were you, anyway?” Lucy demanded. “Off studying how to part your hair on Tuesdays? Or maybe you were practicing your proper pucker, at a lesson in princess-kissing?” She puckered her lips in a horrendous kissy-face.

  “It wasn’t my fault—” began Wynston, blushing at the talk of kissing. But when he tried to offer her his explanation—about the sticky lock on the ruby-room door, and how he’d actually spent his entire Sunday trapped in the rare-jewels tower—Lucy shushed him.

  “Oh, Wynston, forget it. I don’t have time to stand here arguing with you.”

  “What?” This took Wynston by surprise. Lucy always had time to bicker.

  “It doesn’t matter right now. Truly. I think I need your help with something.”

  Wynston had never before seen Lucy’s forehead wrinkle in such a worried grown-up way. He wrinkled his own forehead before he said, “What is it? Are you hurt?”

  “No, not me,” Lucy grouched. “I’m just fine. I can take care of myself, you know. I got all the way up the mountain alone.”

  Wynston ignored this. “Then what could possibly be so bad? I mean, this place is kind of neat, isn’t it?”

  “Neat? It’s creepy, if you ask me.”

  “But it’s so organized….”

  “Ugh!” yelled Lucy. “You would think that—you with your shiny shoes and your silly laws. Not everything fits the rules, Wynston. This place is bad.”

  Then the entire story poured out. Lucy told Wynston about finding Cat, and about knitting the forest during the terrible storm in the trees. She told him about the boat, the river up the mountain, and the boy with the gray eyes. Finally, she told him about code seven of bylaw 784J. When she was done, she sat down on the moist grass beside Rosebud. She looked intently at Wynston.

  “How’s that for laws?” she asked.

  “Pretty bad,” admitted Wynston. “Pretty awful.”

  “And don’t you see, this is all my fault?”

  “Oh, Lucy, that’s not true….”

  “I should have stayed home. If I hadn’t run off, Cat would have gone back to wherever he came from, and Rosebud would be grazing with the herd in the field behind the dairy. Sally is going to be furious with me, and who knows what my father will say. I’ve made a mess of absolutely everything. Your father was right!”

  “No!” said Wynston, in a loud, firm voice.

  “And probably I won’t even find my mother.”

  “Your mother?” asked Wynston. “What about your mother?”

  Lucy blushed and waved her hand, as if to shoo away the conversation like a fly. “Oh, never mind that.”

  “No, Luce. What about your mom?”

  “Oh, it sounds silly out loud. But that’s why I came…looking for her.”

  “But, Lucy, isn’t she d—”

  Lucy cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “Do you know that, Wynston, really know it? Have you ever actually heard anyone say it?” She stared him down carefully.

  Wynston had to admit he hadn’t. “No, but…”


  “Well then…”

  “But, Lucy…”

  “No! No buts, and no more wasting time chattering. Cat needs us now. I never should have come here. Mother or not. Even if I find her, it isn’t worth this…awfulness.”

  Wynston sat down on the grass beside Lucy. He thought for a minute before he spoke. “But, Lucy, your crazy adventure has made all kinds of other amazing things happen. If you hadn’t run off, I wouldn’t have pulled Willie from the stew pot, and he might still be stuck there, too hungry even to wiggle his legs. And I wouldn’t have come to see Mrs. Wimple, so there’d be nobody to help her find the seventeen thickles she needs. Good things are happening too.”

  Lucy shook her head, confused. “Who’s Willie? What’s a thickle?” Wynston began to explain, but Lucy interrupted. “Oh, Wynston, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but can it wait for later? If I can’t rescue Cat, they’ll put him out in those woods. And what they do—it’s the worst thing, and so cold. I don’t even want to tell you. Oh, Wynston, if that happens, he’ll die. I swear he will! If you had seen him during the storm, so afraid, and curled into a little wet ball—”

  The look on Lucy’s face was the saddest thing Wynston had ever seen. So he quickly stood up and held out his hand to Lucy. “Well, c’mon then. I’ll tell you about my adventures later. Right now, we’ll go see what the Prince of Thistle can do about the bylaws of Torrent. There’s got to be a way to fix this mess.”

  “Oh, I hate to have you get involved.”

  “That’s silly, Luce. We’re friends, and friends help each other.”

  “But this is my awful mess, so I should be the one to fix it. I can’t have you just traipsing in there with your crown and…hey! Where is your crown?”

  Wynston rubbed his floppy hair sheepishly. “I…um…I lost it.”

  “You what? Oh, your dad is going to go nuts!” Lucy was gleeful for a second, but then she got back to matters at hand. “Anyway, like I was saying…this is my mess, not yours.”

  “That’s silly,” replied Wynston quickly. “Just think of all the times you’ve saved me, thinking up clever ways to get me out of trouble with my father or helping me study for my stupid lessons. You do all kinds of things to help me. Can’t it be my turn this time?” Wynston pleaded.

  “Oh, rats!” Lucy knew she was beat. “Just so you know, I hate this. But do you really think you can?”

  “Laws are complicated, but this will work out. It has to.”

  Lucy wasn’t so sure, but she smiled and took Wynston’s hand. He pulled her onto her feet and she grabbed him around the neck, hugging him so hard he squirmed. “I’m sorry I ran off, Wynston. And I’m pretty glad you showed up, you goofy toad,” she whispered in his ear.

  NO ROOM FOR WIGGLING

  LUCY WALKED back to the jail, holding tightly to Wynston’s hand. This time, she didn’t bother to knock, but pushed the door open so that it clattered against the wall. She stomped into the room, dragging Wynston behind her. She felt stronger, more able to shout. She was glad to have Wynston along. “Hello?” she called out impatiently. “Helloooooooo?”

  The short man scurried out from the back room again, this time without his wooden spoon. “Yes, yes, what can I help you with—” he started to say. But when he saw Lucy, his tone changed. “Oh, it’s you again.” He made a very grown-up face, as though he smelled something funny. “And I see you’ve brought a friend along this time. How nice for me.”

  “In fact, it is nice.” Lucy drew herself up as tall as she could. “I have brought a friend with me. And I think that maybe you’ll change your tone once you’ve met him. He’s somebody.”

  Wynston wasn’t quite sure how to react to the uncomfortable introduction, but he remembered one of his father’s General Rules of Kingship: No honest man can resist a real smile and a true handshake. So he stuck out his hand. “How do you do? My name’s Wynston. Nice town you’ve got here, sir.”

  The short man hesitated, but then he smiled and reached forward to shake Wynston’s hand. “Hello yourself. And don’t bother with the ‘sir.’ Everyone just calls me Chief, though really my name’s Bertram. We wrote an amendment to make it my official title. So I’ve got two legal names.” He beamed proudly. “How do you like that? I’m chief o’ police, and we run a pretty tight ship here in Torrent. I’m sure the little lady’s already informed you.”

  Wynston was surprised at the friendly reception. After Lucy’s tearful description of the jail, he was expecting something far meaner. The chief didn’t seem like an especially unreasonable fellow, just a man doing his job. “It seems that way,” he said cheerfully. “Nice to meet you, Chief!”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” Then the chief stood silent for a minute or two, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Lucy waited for Wynston to fly into action, and Wynston waited for something to happen.

  Finally, Lucy got tired of waiting. “Um, about my Cat…”

  But this was exactly what the chief had been waiting for, and he launched into the same speech Lucy had heard earlier.

  When he was done, Wynston spoke slowly. “Hmm. Sir, I’m what you might call a prince.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice for you. I don’t think I’ve ever met a genuine prince before, though I’ve read about them in very old books.”

  “My father is king of Thistle, and so that makes me a prince.”

  “True enough. That’s the way it generally works.” The chief waited.

  “So I thought perhaps…uh…” Wynston faltered.

  “Yes?” The chief’s face grew stern.

  “I thought you might…um…make an exception for my friend here—and her Cat.” He finished his sentence quickly, spitting it out.

  “An exception?” The chief looked as though he’d never heard the word before. “An exception, you say?”

  “Yes, well, that’s what I was thinking, if it isn’t any real trouble.”

  The chief’s face hardened. “I’m afraid it is a real trouble. I’m afraid it might cause all kinds of trouble. Exceptions generally do. That’s precisely why there are no exceptions in Torrent. None. Not ever.”

  Wynston wasn’t sure what to say next. “I see,” he finally answered.

  “I’m glad. That makes things easy.” The chief stood still for what seemed like a very long time.

  “But then, do you think I might talk with your king for a minute?” begged Wynston. “I won’t take much of his time, I promise.”

  The chief folded his arms in front of him as he spoke. “There are no kings in Torrent.”

  “No kings?”

  “Nope. No exceptions and no kings. No wild beasts and no lawbreakers. And there is no room for wiggling when it comes to these important matters! You can’t run a civilized place if lawbreakers and wild beasts and exceptions and silly kings are running all over making a mess.”

  “But—” Wynston was baffled.

  “But what?”

  “But what’s wrong with kings?”

  The chief sighed. “Let me see if I can explain. Torrent is a civilized place, guided by the will of the people. Kings are cruel men who abuse powers they haven’t earned.” He raised his eyebrows slightly as he leaned over Wynston. “Do you understand me, Prince?”

  Wynston was flustered. “Um—who’s in charge here—I mean, who makes the laws, if there isn’t a king?”

  The chief answered as if reading from a very dull book. “The good people of Torrent govern the good people of Torrent, in abidance of laws set forth by the good people of Torrent.”

  Wynston thought, Clear as mud. But aloud he said, “How does that work, exactly?”

  “It’s very complicated, and would take me all year to explain our constitution. Checks and balances. Vetoes and votes. Very complex, but basically, we govern ourselves. We keep each other in line.”

  “You mean there isn’t anyone in charge here? That sounds like it must be very confusing, with everyone running around deciding everything at the same time
.”

  “Not really,” answered the chief, “and besides, the people of Torrent don’t run around. They walk slowly, except in cases of great emergency.”

  “I’m sure.” Wynston nodded his head. “But what about you? You seem awfully important. You aren’t even a little bit in charge?”

  At this, the chief’s expression shifted momentarily. He fingered a medal on the front of his uniform and said softly, “Well, there are some folks who would say the town couldn’t run without the chief. Some folks do say that.”

  “I’m sure they do,” said Wynston. “How’d you get to be chief?”

  The chief puffed his chest out and slapped it with his spoon. “I was appointed.”

  This didn’t make sense to Wynston. “But if nobody is in charge, then who appointed you?”

  “Our fine mayor!” said the chief proudly.

  “A mayor?” asked Wynston. “What’s that?”

  “The mayor is in charge of settling the rare grievances that occur, interpreting laws, and signing decrees. Incidentally, he also plays the tubatina in the Torrent Symphony Orchestra.”

  “But doesn’t that make him a little like a king? Not the tubatina, but the other stuff, the laws and decrees. Isn’t he doing the same thing a king does?”

  “Not at all,” the chief replied, shaking his head. “It’s an elected position. More fair, and far more civilized.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” said Wynston, who was not sure at all, but didn’t know what else to say.

  “I’m glad you understand.”

  “So everyone gets a turn to be mayor?”

  “Well, not everyone. But anyone could be mayor, if they wanted to be—if they were at least thirty-seven years old and born in Torrent, as well as nominated and elected by a two-thirds majority.”

  “I see, and how often does the mayor stop being the mayor?” asked Wynston. “I mean, how long has this particular mayor been the mayor?”

  “Hmmm. I can’t say precisely. Mayor Callow’s been around for a long time, maybe about twenty years now. Time flies, you know. And it’s hard to remember exactly—since our last mayor was also called Mayor Callow.”