The Mountain
by Libby Lazewnik
"Ma-a-a!" The indignant cry floated down the stairs to the
living room, where Mr. Brand sat with a book. It quivered in the
air for a moment like a question mark. Mr. Brand held his breath.
Then the cry was repeated. "M-a-a-a!"
With a sigh, he put aside the book and went upstairs to
investigate.
He found Benjy, author of those indignant wails, glaring red-
faced at his big brother. David was laughing. At the sound of his
father's approach, Benjy whirled around.
"Daddy, where's Ma?"
"She went out. Is there anything I can help you with?"
"Ma said to tell her if David teases me again. And he did --
just now!"
Mr. Brand asked mildly: "What's this all about, David?"
"Oh, he's silly to believe everything I say. Benjy, didn't you
know I was only kidding?"
Benjy eyed him suspiciously. "You mean I don't have to really
serve you snacks in your room every night?"
"Nope."
"And I don't have to call you `Your Highness'?"
"Your Highness?" Mr. Brand repeated incredulously. "David,
what's going on?"
Grinning sheepishly, David said: "I didn't mean it, Daddy.
It's just that I was elected class president today --"
"Really? Congrulations!"
"Thanks. I was going to tell you later. But the truth is..."
David faltered. "I'm not so sure how a class president is supposed
to act. Part of me feels just the same as always -- just plain old
David, you know? But another part feels like I ought to start
bossing people around and getting more respect. It's confusing.
That's why I was kidding around with Benjy, I guess."
"I see." Mr. Brand gazed thoughtfully into the distance for a
long moment. Then he glanced smiling down at Benjy, who seemed
still uncertain how matters stood. "David didn't mean to tease you,
Benjy. You didn't really think he wanted you to call him `Your
Highness,' did you?"
"Uh, no. Guess not," Benjy mumbled.
"Good. You're much too smart to fall for that sort of thing...
Now I want you, David, to come downstairs with me. I've got a story
to tell you. A story that might help you understand a little more
about what it means to be a good leader."
"It's not that, exactly," David said as he followed his father
down the stairs. "I know what a leader is supposed to do, more or
less. He's supposed to make decisions and tell people what to do
and give them advice when they need it -- stuff like that."
"Stuff like that," his father agreed. They had reached the
living room. "Take a seat, please, David. And Benjy --" The little
boy, who'd been trailing them down, looked up hopefully. "You can
listen, too. And after that, it's straight into bed. Agreed?"
"Agreed!" Benjy scampered over to the coach and climbed up
beside his father. David sat down on the other side. Mr. Brand took
a moment to gather his thoughts, and then began.
Once upon a time, there was a young man named Goff. He lived
with his father and mother and two older brothers on a small farm
in a valley. His father worked the fields from sunrise until dark,
and as each of Goff's two brothers grew old enough they began
helping him. Goff always thought that he would do the same. But a
surprise -- a half-unpleasant, half-exciting surprise -- lay in
store for him.
"Goff, you're old enough now to do a man's work," his father
told him one day.
"I know, father," Goff said eagerly. "Do you want me to help
with the plowing tomorrow?"
The farmer shook his head. "I don't think so," he said slowly.
"Your Ma and I have been talking things over. You see, this farm is
hardly large enough to support one family, but now that your
brothers have gone and got married, we've got to make it stretch
somehow to support three."
"I'll help, father!"
"No," his father said again. He pushed his rough straw hat out
of his eyes. "It's not that I don't want you, son. It would be a
pleasure working side by side with all my sons. But the problem is,
there's just no need for so many hands on this little farm."
"What are you saying?" Goff was starting to get a nervous
feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"I'm saying, son, that it'd be better if you move on. Go out
to some new place -- a farm, a town, whichever you like -- and make
a fresh start on your own."
Goff stared at his father in shock. Not work the farm? Not
live here, in the snug little valley that had been home to him all
his life? The idea took some getting used to.
On the other hand, there was some exciting in the notion of
picking up and starting out on his own. He scratched his head and
asked, "What do you think I should do?"
"That's up to you, Goff. Your ma and I don't have much to give
you, but what we have we'll give gladly. Take Betsy, your horse,
and whatever cash we can spare. Look around a while. You'll find
your place before you know it."
And so, one fine spring morning, Goff mounted his trusty old
mare, kissed his ma good-bye, waved gaily at his father and
brothers and, with his hat tilted jauntily over one eye, set out to
find a place of his own.
He rode the winding back roads for some days, enjoying the sun
when it shone and sheltering cheerfully under the trees when the
rain poured down. Then, at the crest of a hill he saw some
buildings in the distance. Spirals of smoke were curling up from
their chimneys in a cozy way.
"There, Betsy," he said, pointing. "We'll start there."
Agreeably the horse cantered forward.
The road grew broader and better paved as they went along.
Coming upon a field of wildflowers, Goff stopped and wove a
colorful necklace for Betsy. "We've got to make a good
impression," he chuckled. Then he tilted his hat to a becoming
angle, chirruped to the mare, and together they made their entrance
into a good-sized town.
Betsy's wreath of flowers attracted immediate attention.
"Look, Mother!" a child shouted excitedly. "A show-horse!"
"Can I ride him, Mother?" another pleaded. "Please, please,
pretty please?"
Goff smiled at the children, a boy and a girl dressed in
immaculately cut clothes. Just behind them were a handsome couple,
also dressed in the height of fashion. A long feather plume bobbed
gently from the woman's hat. She looked uncertain. "I don't know if
that horse is for riding, dear."
"'Course he is!" The boy maintained staunchly. "See, he has
flowers round his neck. Ask him if we can ride, Mother -- please?
Father, can we?"
The girl added her voice to her brother's. The man came up to
Goff, who halted politely. He noticed now that the family had just
emerged from a hotel on the town's main street.
"Excuse me, good man. My children were wondering whether you
are offering rides on your horse? We are visitors here, but where
we come from there's a horse hired out to carry children."
"Grown-ups, too," his wife murmured, coming up beside him. "In
a sweet little buggy."
Goff thought it over. "I don't mind taking them up," he said
in his friendly way. "Betsy's safe as a rocking-chair." He twinkled
down at the children. "Which one first?"
"Me, me!" the little boy clamored.
Goff dismounted and helped the father boost his son into the
saddle. The boy rose high into the air, cheeks bright with
excitement. "Look at me, Mother! Look at me!"
"I'm looking, dear. You look just fine up there."
"Ready?" Goff asked. He tugged at Betsy's reins. "Giddy-up!
Here we go!"
Under Goff's guidance, Betsy carried the boy first at a walk
and then -- to his delirious joy -- at a slow gallop. Then he took
the little girl up. Both children pronounced themselves delighted
with the adventure, and decided that they wanted to have rides on
Betsy every day of their stay. Other children, with their mothers
and fathers, came out of the hotel and stopped curiously to see
what was happening. Soon they, too, were clamoring for rides.
"How much will that be?" the father asked, pulling out a thick
wallet.
And that was how Goff's new career began. All that day, he and
Betsy took children for rides on the pleasant meandering paths at
the outskirts of town. That night Goff counted up his earnings with
disbelieving eyes. Why, he'd earned more in this one day than his
daddy earned in a month back on the farm!
"Tomorrow I'll use some of this money to buy myself a little
buggy," he decided sleepily, stretched out on his bed in Ma
Barkley's boarding-house.
And that was exactly what he did. Early every morning he would
gather flowers and make a fresh new necklack for Betsy. All day
long he would give rides to children. Some were visitors, like his
first customers; others belonged to the wealthier families in town.
Couples celebrating their anniversaries, or visitors desiring a
tour of the town, hired his new buggy for an hour or a day.
Sometimes he drove people out of town to picnic on the slopes of a
large mountain that loomed up behind it.
"What's she called?" he asked one day, jerking a thumb at the
mountain, whose crown was wreathed in cloud.
"Mount Wisdom," his customer answered from the buggy.
"Why?"
The man laughed. "You really are new to these parts, aren't
you? It's named for the three wise men who have homes there."
Goff wanted to ask more, but the customer's eyelids were
drooping lazily and he didn't seem inclined for conversation. Soon
enough, however, Goff had an opportunity to learn much more about
Mount Wisdom and its special inhabitants -- at first hand.
One morning, as he boosted the first child customer of the day
onto Betsy's back, she surprised Goff by whinnying loudly. When he
tried to lead her toward the trail, she balked. Finally, in
response to his insistent tugging, she walked reluctantly after
him, but refused to gallop or even canter. Afterwards, Goff helped
the disappointed child down and rebuked his mare. "I don't
understand what's gotten into you, Betsy. You behave nicely now,
hear?"
But Betsy didn't behave nicely. In fact, the very next child -
- as it happened, a rather plump one -- took a toss right over
Betsy's head when she stopped suddenly and refused to walk another
inch. Goff managed to catch the boy before he hurt himself. He
apologized profusely to the child's irate parents and decided to
call it quits for the day. He was worried. What was the matter with
Betsy?
The situation was no better next day -- and on the third, she
refused to stir from her stable at all. Goff knit his brows in
consternation. His mare was his livelihood. What to do now?
He mentioned his problem to Ma Barkley.
"Why, I'll tell you what to do," the old woman said heartily.
"You go up that mountain and ask the wise man what to do. He'll
help you. He's a smart one, he is. Leastways, that's what they say.
I've never seen him myself."
"How do I get there?" Goff asked.
"You just find the path on the west side of the mountain and
follow it straight up. You can't miss him."
So Goff rose at dawn the next morning and set out for Mount
Wisdom. He found the path he needed without much trouble, and all
that day he climbed and climbed. About two-thirds of the way up
there began to be signs pointing the way. "TO THE WISE MAN," they
read. Heartened, Goff quickened his pace. At last, he found himself
standing face-to-face with a couple of haughty guards.
"I've come to ask advice of the wise man," Goff said politely.
"Take a number," a guard growled. Goff glanced past his
shoulder and saw a line of people waiting their turns. He went to
stand at the end.
The line inched forward as the sun slid lower in the sky.
Goff's turn came just before it sank into the valley below. The
wise man was seated, flanked by more guards, in a clearilng. His
hair was long and white, as was his beard, and he was dressed in
some sort of robe that made him look very sagacious indeed.
"This is the last one for tonight," he told his guard as Goff
approached. "Yes?" he asked. "How can I help you?"
"It's my horse, sir," Goff said respectfully. "She won't work.
In fact, she won't even budge from her stall. What do I do?"
The wise man smiled, a mysterious smile that seemed to hold
within it secrets untold. His eyes glazed over as he began to speak
in a faraway voice.
"That's easy," he said. "The horse, better known by its genus,
equus, is characterized by the empirical symbiosis it forms with
its master, genus homo sapien. Here we have an intriguing case, a
complex conglomorate of subjugation and obduracy, leading to a
highly volatile disequilibrium affecting all the integral areas of
equine reckoning." He nodded sagely. "Yes, indeed. A most
intriguing case. But, to one of my experience, not entirely
unexpected. No, not unexpected at all."
Goff gaped. The wise man's words seemed as insubstantial as
the clouds that wreathed the crown of the mountain he was standing
on. "B-but what do I do with her?"
The wise man frowned. "How on earth should I know?" he
snapped. "Do I look like a horse-doctor to you? Guards!" he called
wearily. "I'm through for the day.
"That's the way down," a guard told Goff meaningfully, as
another led the wise man sighing towards his house.
It was a very bewildered Goff who made his way home that
night.
Old Ma Barkley was sympathetic when he told her his story next
morning, but not surprised. "He's got his head in the clouds, that
one," she remarked. "What you want is to go to the Cave under the
Mountain, and see the second wise man. He'll help you for sure."
That day, Betsy wouldn't even let Goff mount her. Things were
looking grim indeed for his flourishing little business. With a
grave face he obtained directions for the Cave where the second
wise man lived, and went to see him the very next day.
The way to the Cave was long, tortuous, and very dark. Goff
had provided himself with a lantern, which allowed him to find his
way -- though very slowly and carefully -- along winding, rock-
strewn subterranean passages. Signs along the way told him that he
was headed in the right direction. "TO THE WISE MAN," they read.
And finally, after many weary hours, the last one informed him,
"YOU ARE HERE."
This wise man had made his abode in the largest cave under
Wisdom Mountain. It was large as a palace ballroom, and glittered
with long stalactites on every side. The lines here were only
slightly shorter than they'd been up on the mountain. Uniformed
guards kept it moving briskly along. At last Goff's turn came.
This wise man, he saw, was fat where the first had been thin,
and his three chins boasted no beard at all. "What can I do for
you, my lad?" he boomed. His voice echoed up and down the cavern.
"It's my horse," Goff began. Quickly he told his tale.
The wise man nodded somberly when he was done.
"Can you help me?" Goff asked.
"Tell me," the wise man asked. "When was this mare separated
from her mother?"
Goff was startled. "Uh, we bought her right after she was
born, from Farmer McGee down the road from us. I raised her
myself."
The wise man nodded significantly. "I had surmised as much."
"But I don't understand. What does it mean?"
"We are touching the deepest chords of nature here," the
second wise man intoned sonorously. "The very fundamental planks
upon which equine and human character are built. Your horse, young
man, is obviously in a state of deep repression, which has
expressed itself in a passive-agressive rebellion against you, her
master. The feet which refuse to bear you or help you earn your
living symbolize the ego that faltered years ago, when she was
taken from her mother as a foal. The trauma has lain dormant all
this time, only to rise up now."
"T-trauma?" Goff stammered in confusion.
"You must deal gently with her," the wise man instructed.
"Plumb the depths of her emotional turmoil. Delve for understanding
of the conflicting drives that motivate the poor creature -- her
loyalty to you versus her need to stand up and be an individual!
Tread gently, young man..."
Goff could get no more out of him. He left even more
bewildered than he'd been on his visit to the first wise man.
"That one had his head in the clouds," he grumbled to Ma
Barkley that night, "and this one has his down in the dark
somewhere! Where can I find a sensible person who will help me?"
Ma Barkley hesitated. "There is the third wise man..."
"Tell me!"
"He lives a little way up the mountain -- on the eastern side.
He has no fancy guards or visiting hours. There are no long lines
of people waiting to see him, just an odd visitor now and then,
like yourself. But they say" -- her voice lowered to a whisper --
"that he can help where the others cannot." She peered at Goff.
"Will you try?"
"I'll try anything," Goff replied. "I need my old Betsy back."
And so he trekked to the eastern side of Mount Wisdom and
followed Ma Barkley's directions to the home of the third wise man.
There were no signs and no guards, just as she'd said, only one
doorman who asked Goff for his name and his business before
disappearing inside. A moment later he returned to escort Goff into
a neat study where a pleasant-looking man greeted him warmly. He
listened attentively to Goff's problem, then rose to his feet.
"Let's go check this out," he said.
Together, he and Goff descended into the town. Very few people
seemed to recognize the third wise man, perhaps because he did not
call much attention to himself and was not accompanied by a troop
of uniformed guards. Arriving at Betsy's stable, he stooped and
inspected the underside of Betsy's hooves.
"There, see?" he pointed at the front left one. "There's
something sharp embedded deep in her foot. It's scarcely visible
from the outside, but I imagine that every time someone sits on her
back the pressure makes the pain unbearable. Have you got a
pliers?"
In short order, Goff had taken hold of an old nail with his
pliers and yanked it out of Betsy's foot. The horse whinnied as he
did it, and then subsided. For the first time in days she gave some
real attention to her feed box.
"I think you'll find you'll be able to resume your rides
tomorrow," the third wise man smiled.
And Goff happily smiled back, and thanked him from the bottom
of his heart.
Mr. Brand glanced down at Benjy, who had fallen into a light
doze snuggled against him. Then he looked around at David. "Well?"
he asked. "What did you get out of that?"
David had the look of a boy whose mind is working hard.
"I think," he said tentatively, "that's it's no good for a
leader to be removed from the people he's leading -- like the man
up in the clouds or the other one, hidden deep in that cave. And
also... if you don't have a solution, it's better to stop and
think, or even to say I don't know and look somewhere else for
advice, than to spout a lot of nonsense just because you're
supposed to be so clever."
"Yes?" Mr. Brand was pleased. "Anything else?"
"And... I think it's good to treat yourself with respect, but
not too much. You have to be willing to get down and work with the
people you lead. You have to have your feet on the ground, and...
and really care about them." He looked at his father. "Right?"
Mr. Brand carefully lifted the sleeping Benjy into his arms
and stood. "Right you are," he grinned. "-- Your Highness!"
Then he climbed the stairs to put his little boy to bed, while
David remained behind to think some more about what it meant to be
a leader and a wise man -- which are really two words for the very
same
Author Libby Lazewnik is one of Jewry's most acclaimed
juvenile fiction writers.