Up and Down the Scratchy Mountains

by Laurel Snyder

  As he bustled, Willie called out, “Oh, Wynston! Did you happen to get that note to my mother? Did you meet my folks?” He set down a platter of meat and noodles and looked at Wynston. Lucy eyed Wynston carefully as she reached for the gravy boat.

  Wynston looked up at Willie. “Willie—I don’t know how to say this. Your mother seemed well, but I have to tell you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s your father. I’m afraid he’s—not there anymore.” Wynston picked at the tablecloth.

  “Not there? Where’d he run off to? That’s not like him at all.”

  “No. I mean that—well, he’s…he’s—he’s passed on, Willie.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, Willie, I’m so sorry.”

  “Passed on?” repeated Willie, as though he didn’t quite understand.

  Wynston made a strange face. “Passed on. Gone.”

  When Lucy heard Wynston utter the word gone, she coughed and stomped on his foot heavily. Wynston tried again, in a gentle tone. “He’s dead, Willie. I’m so sorry.”

  Willie sat down quickly on a stool. “Oh my.”

  Lucy reached out to pat his arm. “I’m so sorry,” she began.

  “Oh my,” repeated Willie. “Well, I suppose it had to come eventually. It’s just that I’ve been gone so long. I guess I forgot things might happen there without me. Goodness, I haven’t spoken to my mean old pa in many years. Many, many years. Since long before I left.”

  “Why not?” asked Lucy gently, sitting on her hands to keep from nibbling at her supper. It didn’t seem polite to begin eating, under the circumstances.

  “There was a disagreement.” Willie rubbed his eyes.

  “What did you fight about?” Lucy asked carefully.

  Willie rubbed his eyes again. Then he raised his head, but there was a faraway look in his eyes. “You know what?” Willie sighed. “I don’t even remember. I think it had something to do with eating dessert before dinner. I always liked my pie first. Father said that was wrong, and I lost my temper and called him a name. I was a brash young man, something of a hothead. Everyone said so.”

  “Oh, Willie…”

  “That was the last time we spoke to each other. He never forgave me, and I never apologized. It seems awful silly now, but folks take things seriously in Torrent. There are so many rules about everything and—oh my, that’s hard! My poor mother. And to think I don’t even know how my poor father passed.”

  Lucy stood up and walked over to Willie. She kissed the top of his head. “Your mother sounds to be doing well, Willie. And as for your father, I’m sure he knows how you feel.”

  “That’s kind of you to say,” said Willie.

  “And I don’t know if it helps to hear this,” added Lucy, “but I don’t know a thing about my own mother.”

  “How’s that? Did she pass when you were a young thing?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lucy. “I don’t even know if she did pass. I only know a song she sang, and her name, Nora….”

  Willie whipped around then, to stare up at Lucy, who stood behind him. “Did you just say Nora?”

  Lucy felt a rush, a wind running through her entire body. She walked around the table, trying to collect herself, and then sat back down in her chair. “I said Nora. That was my mother’s name, or it is my mother’s name. Why?”

  “Nora,” repeated Willie. “Nora. Nora. Sweet Nora. Couldn’t be the same one I knew, I don’t suppose? You bein’ from Thistle and all…”

  “Actually, it could. It might. See, my mother came from the mountain, though not from Torrent, I don’t think, or Steven’s mom would have known her.”

  “Steven’s mom?”

  “Someone I met on the mountain. She said she didn’t know a Nora, and never had. But maybe they just never met?” Lucy looked hopeful.

  “Nah, everyone in Torrent knows everyone in Torrent,” answered Willie as Lucy’s eyes fell again. But Willie continued. “That’s not why this lady didn’t know Nora. Nora was the best of Torrent, and that’s a fact.”

  “You…y-you knew her?” Lucy stammered. She had never been so excited.

  “Sure, everyone did. It’s a small town.”

  “Then why…”

  “Just not everyone knew her as Nora. Only a few of us called her that, assuming we’re talking about the same girl.”

  “She was a goat girl?” asked Lucy.

  “She was indeed.”

  “With red hair?”

  “The reddest I ever set eyes on, until I saw yours.”

  Lucy was so excited she began to feel faint again. “But her name…”

  “Ah, yes…and her name was Eleanor, if you were proper about it, which most are in Torrent. Proper to a fault. Though maybe the rules have changed by now, loosened up a bit?” He raised his eyebrows at Lucy and Wynston, who shook their heads furiously. “I didn’t think so. But yes, her proper name was Eleanor. And there was an ordinance.”

  “An ordinance? But what’s wrong with the name Nora?” asked Wynston. “I think it’s pretty.”

  “Of course it is.” Willie giggled. “The prettiest name I ever heard, for the prettiest girl that ever herded a goat. Unfortunately, nicknames are not encouraged in Torrent.”

  “But what about your name?” asked a confused Lucy. “Isn’t Willie short for William?”

  “Ah…,” said Willie, smiling a funny smile. “I can see how you might think that, but no. You see, my own dear mother was something of a radical in her youth, a rabble-rouser. Hard to see now, but she was a wild one in her day. She named me Willie as a kind of joke, because we had a neighbor next door who had a little boy a year older than me, named William. She was thumbing her nose at the law, I’m afraid. You see, there’s no law against naming someone a name that’s usually a nickname. Just against shortening a name. And sometimes it’s fun to find out little shortcuts around the rules….”

  “So are there certain names you can’t use at all?” Lucy asked.

  “Nope! Legally, you can name a child anything at all. You could name a little girl, say, Marzipan Almondine, or you could name your little boy Pterodactyl Fishmonger, but then you’d have to say all that mumbo jumbo every time you wanted to call the kids to supper.”

  Lucy and Wynston tried to digest this. “That’s crazy!” said Wynston.

  “That’s Torrent,” said Willie.

  Then Lucy woke, as if from a dream, and shook her head. “So you knew my mother?”

  “I should say so! I was the biggest boy in the school, and she was the smallest girl. Somehow we fit together—maybe because neither one of us fit very well in Torrent. Nora always wanted to leave, to find something more. She said she wanted an adventure.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, indeed. In fact, it wasn’t until Nora left town that I had the backbone to leave myself. I always thought I’d find her again, someday. If I came along down the mountain. But I never did.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Lucy. “And now she’s gone.”

  “Gone? What happened?”

  Lucy shrugged her shoulders. “I wish I could say….”

  “Surely your pa knows.”

  Lucy looked at her hands. “…but I’ve never asked. I thought she’d gone home, to the mountain. But since we didn’t find her in Torrent…”

  “Never asked?” Willie looked shocked. His mouth made a round O in his round face, so that he looked a little like a doughnut.

  “It sounds crazy now when you say it out loud, but I never asked. Now maybe I will. I think it’s time.”

  Wynston tried to put his arm gently around Lucy’s shoulders, but she pushed him away.

  Willie was looking sadly at his plate, thinking about Nora, and his father. Lucy didn’t want to disturb him, but finally she broke the silence. “Willie?”

  “Yep?” Willie glanced up, and his voice was cheerful, but Lucy saw that his eyes looked sad and tired.

  “Do you think I might come and talk to you lat
er, when I know better what happened? Do you think you might be able to tell me some stories about my mother?”

  “Of course,” said Willie. “It’d be my pleasure. To begin with, she had this song she used to sing….”

  And at that, Lucy and Wynston looked up and laughed little somber laughs. Then they all began to sing.

  After they’d all sung about the goatherds, Willie stood up. “Listen, kiddles, this has been a big day and an even bigger night. I’m sorry to be such a poor host, but I think I’d best go to bed now. I have some thinking to do. And I’m very, very tired.”

  “Me too,” said Lucy, her thoughts turning to Rosebud.

  “Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Willie trundled off to sleep, or think, or dream. Wynston and Lucy finished supper, washed their dirty dishes silently, and then curled up by the dying fire, wrapped in soft blankets for the first time all week. They turned their backs to each other and tunneled into their beds. Wynston thought about his father, and about what it means to be a king. Lucy, who had too much to think about, fell straight to sleep.

  “G’night, Lucy,” said Wynston.

  “Zzzzzzzz,” said Lucy in reply.

  Cat snuggled close.

  HEADING HOME, AND ARRIVING

  ONE ESPECIALLY bright sunbeam wriggled its way around the heavy curtain and woke Lucy the next morning. She yawned and stretched happily in the warmth of the cottage, and then she elbowed Wynston. “Are you up yet?” She jabbed a little harder and poked him in the ear. “Hey, Wynston, are you awake? Wynston?”

  In answer, Wynston snorted and rolled over onto Cat, who gave an enormous “Owrfff,” which woke everyone up entirely. Willie pattered in, flustered, from his bedroom. “My stars! What is it now? What, which, when, where, Wynston?”

  Lucy, Wynston, and Cat all looked up at Willie, tousled and half asleep. Wynston rubbed his eyes in apology. “Nothing. Sorry to wake you, Willie.”

  “Oh, it’s fine, fine, fine. I should be getting up now, anyway. With all the excitement of last night, I’m afraid I overslept.” Willie yawned and tugged at his nightcap, which slid from his head onto the floor. Cat crawled inside it and promptly went back to sleep. “There’s not much for breakfast, I’m afraid, since I didn’t know I’d be having company. We’ll have to make do with ham and eggs and fried potatoes and pie—and coffee, of course. How does that suit you?”

  This sounded like a feast to Lucy and Wynston, who nodded their heads agreeably and went out to the well to wash up. They combed their hair and shook the acorns and twigs from their shoes. When they stepped back inside the cottage, heaping plates awaited them. After a hearty meal, Lucy wiped a smear of yolk from the corner of her mouth and said, “Willie, you’ve been such a wonderful host. We’re entirely grateful, but we’re eager to get home now.”

  “Of course you are, of course. I must say, I think I’m ready to head for home myself.”

  “But this is your home,” said Lucy.

  Willie scratched his belly thoughtfully. “I suppose that depends on your definition of home.”

  “Then—you mean home to your mother? Back up the mountain to Torrent?” Wynston asked with a grimace.

  Willie just sighed. “I did some heavy thinking last night. Couldn’t sleep for all the thoughts in my noodle. I guess I always knew this day would come. I left so many years back, but home is home is home, and a widowed mother is a widowed mother. It’s bad enough I missed my pa, but I hate to think—” He knitted his brow.

  “If you’re really going back,” said Lucy, “can you do something for me? Something very important?”

  “Anything!” answered Willie. “I owe Wynston here a great deal, for a certain incident concerning a soup pot, among other things. I’d love to repay the favor.”

  “It would be just wonderful if you could check in on my little cow, Rosebud. She’s up there somewhere, probably with the chief or the mayor. If you could just make sure she’s taken care of until I can get back.”

  “Why, of course!”

  “Sprout too?” Wynston added.

  “Well, I’d have fed him some sugar the minute I saw him, even without you asking.” Willie grinned.

  “Before we leave, Willie, do you mind if I ask why you ran off in the first place?” asked Lucy. “It’s something I’m curious about…people running away.”

  “Oh—people run away for very different reasons, Lucy.”

  “Still, I’d like to hear the story.”

  “It was all so long ago, and it seems awfully silly now.”

  “What seems silly?” asked Lucy.

  “Well—you were there such a short time that I don’t suppose you’d have noticed, but Torrent’s different from Thistle. It’s what we Torrentians call a very civilized place.”

  “We noticed,” chorused Lucy and Wynston.

  “Unfortunately, it was a little too civilized for big, bumbling old me. I was always bumping into things: into fences and laws and mailmen and other people’s feelings. I was always spilling the milk, breaking the teapot, and kicking the cobblestones loose. One time I accidentally glued myself to a chair!”

  Lucy tried not to laugh at the thought. She pulled her collar up over her nose.

  “Oh no, go ahead and laugh.” Willie smiled as he remembered. “I was a disaster. I don’t know if it was me or the town itself, but I just never seemed to fit in to Torrent. After my father and I stopped speaking, it seemed even worse. Then one day, I broke our front door.” Willie sighed. “Which sounds like a little problem to people who grew up in a place with all kinds of doors. But in Torrent, all the doors are alike. They’re very old, and protected by a historical decree. You aren’t allowed to have any other kind of door. But to get a new one requires what’s called archival doormanship, and takes years.”

  “That sounds silly,” said Lucy. “It’s just a door.”

  “You’d think that,” said Willie, “but in Torrent, things are as they are. And my poor mother was mortified to live that way, with no door, people peering in at all hours, the room getting wet each evening. She never said a word to me, but I could tell she was ashamed. And shame is a terrible thing. Bad to feel, and worse to cause. So I set off on my own.”

  “I’m awful glad you did,” said Wynston.

  “Me too!” agreed Willie. “I’ve seen so much, and done so many wonderful things. But maybe it’s time for me to get used to the rules now. With my old pa gone, my mother will need help around the house. I’ve missed her, and the green misty trees, and the view of the valley in the clear noon sky.” He took a deep breath. “Torrent is, all in all, very pretty. Maybe I’ll run for mayor and give Callow a little competition. If I win I can always widen the streets and nail down the cobblestones.” Willie winked as he said this, patting his ample belly.

  Lucy and Wynston laughed. They gave Willie enormous hugs and wished him luck. Then they began the journey home along the familiar road to Thistle, kicking a pinecone back and forth between them as they walked.

  Wynston finally broke the silence and said slowly, “You’re really going back?”

  “First chance I get!”

  “For Rosebud, or for your mother?”

  “That’ll depend.”

  “On what?”

  “On Papa, I think. On the truth, whatever it is.”

  “Oh,” said Wynston, who was happy Lucy felt better, and scared for what she might find out. He had a feeling….

  “Listen, Wynston. As much as I hate to admit it, you were right. Leaving Rosebud was the only choice. This one time you were right.” Lucy walked even faster than usual, which was pretty fast.

  Wynston hurried to keep up. He grabbed Lucy’s arm to slow her down. “Wait—what did you just say?”

  Lucy pulled her arm free and scowled a little scowl. “Nothing! I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yes, you did. You just said—”

  “Oh, fine. I said you were right. Are you happy? You were right, right, right, okay? And while I’m at
it…you were right to follow me up the mountain too.” Lucy walked ahead very quickly. “Not because I couldn’t have saved myself, but because it was better to do it together.”

  “Really?” asked Wynston.

  “Yeah, really,” said Lucy.

  “It’s nice…working on things together. I mean, I never would have thought up a plan to save Cat, or jumped into the jail like that. But it did feel really nice to pull you up. It felt nice to help.”

  “I’m glad,” said Lucy. “I was lucky you came along. I know I’m usually kind of bossy, and I like to take care of myself. But it was nice, this time, to have someone else to help me out a little. And besides…”

  “Besides?”

  “Besides…I missed you…kind of a lot,” Lucy said as she sped down the road.

  “Thanks, Lucy!” Wynston called after her. “I mean it, thanks!” He laughed out loud.

  Lucy broke into a run. She yelled back at him over her shoulder, “Just don’t get used to it, okay? I don’t expect I’ll have to say that again for, oh—I don’t know—twenty-eight years at least!”

  Then Wynston chased her as fast and as far as he could, calling after her. Finally they both raced into the main square of Thistle, where they collapsed, panting and happy.

  Inside the castle, King Desmond sat at the kitchen table, worriedly licking spice-cake batter from a large spoon. Masha bustled around him, patting his head and stroking his arm from time to time. She poured him a glass of buttermilk but then drank it herself, fretting all the while. The king didn’t even notice. He just stared at his spoon and continued to lick long after the batter was gone, while Masha peeled every carrot in the larder for no particular reason.

  Then the king threw his spoon across the room. “Peacock pie and whisker stew! Do you think I’ve been too hard on the boy, Masha? Do you think this is my fault, like his aunt says?”

  Masha jabbed a fork pointlessly into a pumpkin and shook her head so hard that her bun came loose. “No sir, certainly not. Wynston’s a dear boy, but eventually he was bound to turn into a shooting star. It wouldn’t be natural if he behaved all the time. Boys have to grow, like pole beans and mushrooms and everything else. Why, I remember another young prince who built himself a magic balloon and planned to sail off over the Green Ocean with only his blind hunting dog for company!”