The Girl Who Drank the Moon(41)

This is what allows her to snatch our children.

This is what allows her to wander the world, spreading her malevolence and sorrow. This is what allows her to elude capture. We have no power. Our grief is without remedy.

Long ago, you see, before the forest became dangerous, the Witch was just a little thing. An ant, practically. Her powers were limited. Her knowledge was small. Her ability to work mischief was hardly worth noticing. A child, lost in the wood. That was how powerful she was, really.

But one day, she found a pair of boots.

Anyway, the boots, once they were on her feet, allowed her to go from one side of the world to the other in an instant. And then she was able to find more magic. She stole it from other magicians. She stole it from the ground. She snuck it out of the air and the trees and the blooming fields. They say she even stole it from the moon. And then she cast a spell over all of us—a great cloud of sorrow, covering the world.

Well, of course it covers the world. That’s why the world is drab and gray. That’s why hope is only for the smallest of children. Best you learn that now.





23.


In Which Luna Draws a Map





Luna left a note for her grandmother saying that she wanted to go out and collect berries and sketch the sunrise. In all likelihood, her grandmother would still be sleeping when Luna returned—she slept so much lately. And though the old woman assured the girl that she had always slept like that and nothing had changed nor would it ever change, Luna knew it was a lie.

We are both lying to each other, she thought, a great needle piercing her heart. And neither of us knows how to stop. She set her note on the plank table and quietly closed the door.

Luna slung her satchel across her shoulders and slid on her traveling boots and took the long, crooked way across the back of the swamp before following the slanted trail that led between the two smoking cinder cones at the southern side of the crater. The day was warm and sticky, and she realized with creeping horror that she was starting to stink. This sort of thing had been happening a lot lately—bad smells, strange eruptions on her face. Luna felt as though every single thing on her body had suddenly conspired to alter itself—even her voice had turned traitorous.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

There had been . . . other kinds of eruptions, too. Things that she couldn’t explain. The first time she’d noticed it, she had tried to jump to get a better look at a bird’s nest, and found herself, quite suddenly, on the topmost branch of the tree, hanging on for dear life.

“It must be the wind,” she told herself, though the idea was clearly ridiculous. Who had ever heard of a gust of wind propelling a person to the top of a tree? But since Luna really didn’t have any other explanation, It must be the wind seemed as good as any. She hadn’t told her grandmother or her Glerk. She didn’t want to worry them. Also, it felt vaguely embarrassing—like perhaps there was something wrong with her.

Besides. It was just the wind.

And then, a month later, when Luna and her grandmother were gathering mushrooms in the forest, Luna had noticed yet again how tired her grandmother was, how thin and how frail and how her breath rattled painfully in and out.

“I’m worried about her,” she said out loud when her grandmother was out of earshot. Luna felt her voice catching in her throat.

“I am, too,” a nut-brown squirrel replied. He was sitting on the lowermost branch, peering down, a knowing expression on his pointy face.

It took a full moment for Luna to realize that squirrels are not supposed to talk.

It took another moment for her to realize that it wasn’t the first time an animal had spoken to her. It had happened before. She was sure of it. She just couldn’t remember when.

And later, when she tried to explain to Glerk what had happened, she drew a blank. She couldn’t recall the incident for the life of her. She knew something had happened. She just didn’t know what.

This has happened before, said the voice in her head.

This has happened before.

This has happened before.

It was a pulsing certainty, this knowledge, as sure and steady as the gears of a clock.

Luna followed the path as it curled around the first knoll, leaving the swamp behind. An ancient fig tree spread its branches over the path, as if welcoming all who wandered by. A crow stood on the lowest branch. He was a fine fellow, feathers shining like oil. He looked Luna straight in the eye, as though he was waiting for her.

This has happened before, she thought.

“Hello,” Luna said, fixing her gaze on the crow’s bright eye.

“Caw,” the crow said. But Luna felt sure he meant “Hello.”

And all at once, Luna remembered.

The day before, she had retrieved an egg from the chicken coop. There was only the one egg in all the nests, and she didn’t have a basket, so she simply held it in her hand. Before she reached the house, she realized that the shell of the egg was wiggling. And that it was no longer smooth and warm and regular, but sharp and pointy and ticklish. Then it bit her. She let go of the egg with a cry. But it wasn’t an egg at all. It was a crow, full-sized, spiraling over her head and alighting on the nearest tree.

“Caw,” the crow had said. Or that is what the crow should have said. But it didn’t.

“Luna,” the crow cawed instead. And it didn’t fly away. It perched on the lowest branch of Luna’s tree house, and followed her wherever she went for the rest of the day. Luna was at a loss.