Up and Down the Scratchy Mountains by Laurel Snyder

Author:Laurel Snyder
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780375849909
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2008-08-26T04:00:00+00:00

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.

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