The Girl Who Drank the Moon(18)

Glerk said nothing. He gazed down at the child in his arms. She didn’t move.

“It won’t—” he began. His voice was thick. He cleared his throat and started again. “It won’t . . . ruin things, will it? I think I rather like her brain. I would like to see it unharmed.”

“Oh, piffle,” Xan admonished. “Her brain will be perfectly fine. At least I’m more than fairly sure it will be fine.”

“Xan!”

“Oh, I’m only kidding! Of course she will be fine. This will simply buy us some time to make sure she has the good sense to know what to do with her magic once it is unleashed. She needs to be educated. She needs to know the contents of those books, there. She needs to understand the movements of the stars and the origins of the universe and the requirements of kindness. She needs to know mathematics and poetry. She must ask questions. She must seek to understand. She must understand the laws of cause and effect and unintended consequences. She must learn compassion and curiosity and awe. All of these things. We have to instruct her, Glerk. All three of us. It is a great responsibility.”

The air in the room became suddenly heavy. Xan grunted as she pushed the chalk through the last edges of the thirteen-pointed star. Even Glerk, who normally wouldn’t be affected, found himself both sweaty and nauseous.

“And what about you?” Glerk said. “Will the siphoning of your magic stop?”

Xan shrugged. “It will slow, I expect.” She pressed her lips together. “Little bit by bit by bit. And then she will turn thirteen and it will flow out all at once. No more magic. I will be an empty vessel with nothing left to keep these old bones moving. And then I’ll be gone.” Xan’s voice was quiet and smooth, like the surface of the swamp—and lovely, as the swamp is lovely. Glerk felt an ache in his chest. Xan attempted to smile. “Still, if I had my druthers, it’s better to leave her orphaned after I can teach her a thing or two. Get her raised up properly. Prepare her. And I’d rather go all at once instead of wasting away like poor Zosimos.”

“Death is always sudden,” Glerk said. His eyes had begun to itch. “Even when it isn’t.” He wanted to clasp Xan in his third and fourth arms, but he knew the Witch wouldn’t stand for it, so he held Luna a little bit closer instead, as Xan began to unwind the magical cocoon. The little girl smacked her lips together a few times and cuddled in close to his damp chest, warming him through. Her black hair shone like the night sky. She slept deeply. Glerk looked at the shape on the ground. There was still an open walkway for him to pass through with the girl. Once Luna was in place and Glerk was safely outside the chalk rim, Xan would complete the circle, and the spell would begin.

He hesitated.

“You’re sure, Xan?” he said. “Are you very, very sure?”

“Yes. Assuming I’ve done this right, the seed of magic will open on her thirteenth birthday. We don’t know the exact day, of course, but we can make our guesses. That’s when her magic will come. And that’s when I will go. It’s enough. I’ve already outlasted any reasonable allotment of life on this earth. And I’m ever so curious to know what comes next. Come. Let’s begin.”

And the air smelled of milk and sweat and baking bread. Then sharp spice and skinned knees and damp hair. Then working muscles and soapy skin and clear mountain pools. And something else, too. A dark, strange, earthy smell.

And Luna cried out, just once.

And Glerk felt a crack in his heart, as thin as a pencil line. He pressed his four hands to his chest, trying to keep it from breaking in half.





12.


In Which a Child Learns About the Bog





No, child. The Witch does not live in the Bog. What a thing to say! All good things come from the Bog. Where else would we gather our Zirin stalks and our Zirin flowers and our Zirin bulbs? Where else would I gather the water spinach and muck-eating fish for your dinner or the duck eggs and frog spawn for your breakfast? If it weren’t for the Bog your parents would have no work at all, and you would starve.

Besides, if the Witch lived in the Bog, I would have seen her.

Well, no. Of course I haven’t seen the whole Bog. No one has. The Bog covers half the world, and the forest covers the other half. Everyone knows that.

But if the Witch was in the Bog, I would have seen the waters ripple with her cursed footsteps. I would have heard the reeds whisper her name. If the Witch was in the Bog, it would cough her out, the way a dying man coughs out his life.

Besides, the Bog loves us. It has always loved us. It is from the Bog that the world was made. Each mountain, each tree, each rock and animal and skittering insect. Even the wind was dreamed by the Bog.

Oh, of course you know this story. Everyone knows this story.

Fine. I will tell it if you must hear it one more time.

In the beginning, there was only Bog, and Bog, and Bog. There were no people. There were no fish. There were no birds or beasts or mountains or forest or sky.

The Bog was everything, and everything was the Bog.

The muck of the Bog ran from one edge of reality to the other. It curved and warbled through time. There were no words; there was no learning; there was no music or poetry or thought. There were just the sigh of the Bog and the quake of the Bog and the endless rustle of the reeds.

But the Bog was lonely. It wanted eyes with which to see the world. It wanted a strong back with which to carry itself from place to place. It wanted legs to walk and hands to touch and a mouth that could sing.