The Girl Who Drank the Moon(40)

Fyrian had never tried it.

The growling came closer.

“A-a-auntie Xan Auntie Xan Auntie Xan,” Fyrian shouted. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Nothing happened. His panic crawled into his throat.

“Auntie Xan Auntie Xan Auntie Xan!”

Still nothing. The growling came closer. Two yellow eyes glowed in the darkness. A large shape hunched in the gloom.

Fyrian yelped. He tried to fly. His body was too big and his wings were too small. Everything was wrong. Why was everything so wrong? He missed his giants, his Xan and his Glerk and his Luna.

“Luna!” he cried, as the beast began to lunge. “LUNA LUNA LUNA!”

And he felt a pull.

“LUNA-MY-LUNA!” Fyrian screamed.

“Why are you shouting?” Luna asked. She opened her pocket and lifted out Fyrian, who had curled his tiny body into a tight ball.

Fyrian shivered uncontrollably. He was safe. He almost cried in relief. “I was frightened,” he said, his teeth caught on a mouthful of nightgown.

“Hmph,” the girl grunted. “You were snoring, and then you gave me a burn.”

“I did?” Fyrian asked, truly shocked. “Where?”

“Right here,” she said. “Wait a minute.” She sat up and looked closer. The scorch mark was gone, as was the hole in her nightgown, as was the burn on her hip. “It was here,” she said slowly.

“I was in a funny place. And there was a monster. And my body didn’t work right and I couldn’t fly. And I found some boots. And then I was here. I think you saved me.” He frowned. “But I don’t know how.”

Luna shook her head. “How could I have? I think we both were having bad dreams. I am not burned and you have always been safe, so let’s go back to sleep.”

And the girl and her dragon curled under the covers and were asleep almost instantly. Fyrian did not dream and did not snore, and Luna never moved.

When Luna awoke again, Fyrian was still fast asleep in the crook of her arm. Two thin ribbons of smoke undulated from his nostrils, and his lizard lips were curled in a sleepy grin. Never, Luna thought, has there been a more contented dragon. She slid her arm from underneath the dragon’s head and sat up. Fyrian still did not stir.

“Pssst,” she whispered. “Sleepyhead. Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Fyrian still did not stir. Luna yawned and stretched and gave Fyrian a light kiss on the tip of his warm little nose. The smoke made Luna sneeze. Fyrian still didn’t stir. Luna rolled her eyes.

“Lazybones,” she chided as she slid out of bed onto the cool floor and hunted for her slippers and her shawl. The day was cool but would soon be fine. A walk would do Luna good. She reached over to the guide ropes to pull her bed up to the ceiling. Fyrian wouldn’t mind waking up with her bed put away, and it felt better to start the day with the beds tied up. That’s what her grandmother had taught her.

But once the bed was hoisted and secured, Luna noticed something on the ground.

A large pair of boots.

They were black, leather, and even heavier than they looked like they would be. Luna could barely lift them. And they had a strange smell—one that seemed familiar to Luna, somehow, though she could not place it. The soles were thick, and made of a material that she could not immediately identify. Even stranger, they were inscribed with words on each heel.

“Do not wear us,” said the left heel.

“Unless you mean it,” said the right.

“What on earth?” Luna said out loud. She hoisted one boot up and tried to examine it more closely. But before she could, she had a sudden sharp headache, right in the middle of her forehead. It knocked her to her knees. She pressed the heels of her hands to her skull and pushed inward, as though to keep her head from flying apart.

Fyrian still didn’t stir.

She crouched on the floor for some time until the headache abated.

Luna glared at the underside of the bed. “Some watch you are,” she scoffed. Pulling herself back to her feet, she went over to the small, wooden trunk under the window, and opened it with her foot. She kept her mementoes in there—toys she used to play with, blankets she used to love, odd-looking rocks, pressed flowers, leather-bound journals densely scrawled with her thoughts and questions and pictures and sketches.

And now, boots. Large, black boots. With strange words and a strange smell that was giving her a headache. Luna shut the lid and sighed with relief. With the trunk’s lid closed, her head didn’t hurt anymore. In fact, she could barely remember the pain. Now to tell Glerk.

Fyrian continued to snore.

Luna was thirsty. And hungry. And she was worried about her grandmother. And she wanted to see Glerk. And there were chores to be done. The goats needed milking. The eggs needed gathering. And there was something else.

She paused on her way to the berry patch.

She was going to ask about something. Now what was it?

For the life of her, Luna couldn’t remember.





22.


In Which There Is Another Story





Surely I told you about the boots already, child.

Well then. Of all the hideous devices owned and used by the Witch, the most terrible of all are her Seven League Boots. Now, on their own, the boots are like any bit of magic—neither good nor bad. They only allow the wearer to travel great distances in an instant, doubling the measure of her movements with each successive step.