Tick and the Mountain That Told the Truth

Tick had lived on the same bedside table for forty years. She was small and round, with two brass bells on top and a face that never stopped ticking.

Every night she watched the window. Every morning she rang her bells. That was her whole job, and she was good at it.

One night, the window blew open. Wind came in and swept Tick right off the table. She rolled across the floor, out the door, and down the road, all the way to the foot of a mountain.

She had never been anywhere else in forty years. She felt a little worried.

The mountain was tall and grey and covered in mist. A voice floated down from the top.

"Hello," said the voice. It sounded exactly like Tick.

"Who's there?" called Tick.

"Who's there?" the voice called back.

That was the mountain's echo. Everyone for miles knew this echo told only the truth. It never made things up. It never got things wrong.

Tick wanted to go home. She looked up at the steep rocky path and her gears felt tight and stiff. "I will climb up alone," she said. "I can do it myself."

She took one step. Her little clock feet slipped on the loose stones. She tried again. She slid backward, all the way down.

A brown hare was sitting nearby, chewing a leaf. "That path is tricky," said the hare. Her name was Pemberly, and she talked with her mouth full. "Nobody climbs it alone. Not ever."

"I don't need help," said Tick, though her voice wobbled a little.

She tried a second time, scrabbling at the rocks with her little feet. She got a bit higher than before. Then a stone rolled, and down she went again, bells clanging.

"The echo would tell you the truth about that climb," said Pemberly, licking a paw. "Want to ask it?"

Tick called up the mountain. "Can I climb this alone?"

"Alone?" came the echo. "No."

Tick felt her insides go tight and worried. She had never needed anyone before. She had always just ticked, alone, on her table.

"I could carry you partway," said Pemberly. "My legs are stronger than yours. You could ring your bells to tell me when rocks are coming."

Tick thought about saying no again. Instead she said, "All right."

Pemberly tucked Tick under one arm and hopped up the steep path, quick and sure. Tick watched for loose stones and rang her bells loudly whenever she spotted one. Pemberly swerved every time, light as anything.

Partway up, they met an old mountain goat named Fossick, with a grey beard and calm yellow eyes. "You two make a good team," he said. "I know a shortcut through the rocks. Follow close."

Tick almost said she didn't need a shortcut. But she thought of the bells and the hare's quick feet, and said, "Yes, please."

Fossick led them along a narrow ledge, sure-footed as anything, while Pemberly hopped behind and Tick rang out warnings. Together they reached the very top, where the mist was thin and the sky was wide open.

"Can I get home from here?" Tick asked the echo, just to check.

"Home," said the echo. "Yes. Together."

Fossick knew a path straight down to the road. Pemberly carried Tick the whole way, and by the time the sun came up, Tick was back on her bedside table, right where she belonged.

That morning, she rang her bells louder and brighter than she had in forty years. She had climbed a mountain. She had not done it alone, and now she knew that was perfectly fine.