The Girl Who Drank the Moon(53)

“Luna,” he whispered. “Oh, Luna.”

It was starting early. Her magic. All that power—the great surging ocean of it—was leaking out. He had no way of knowing whether the child meant to do it, or even noticed it happening at all. He remembered when Xan was young, how she would make ripe fruit explode in a shower of stars just by standing too closely. She was dangerous then—to herself and to others. As Luna was when she was young. As she likely was now.

“When you were a baby, I rescued you from a terrible fate. And then I accidentally offered you the moon to drink—and you did drink it, which exposed you to yet another terrible fate. I am sorry. You will live long and you will forget much and the people you love will die and you will keep going. This was my fate. And now it is yours. There is only one reason for it:”

Glerk knew the reason, of course, but it was not in the letter. Instead, there was a perfectly torn hole where the word magic had been. He looked around the floor, but he didn’t see it anywhere. This was one of the things he couldn’t stand about magic, generally. Magic was a troublesome thing. Foolish. And it had a mind of its own.

“It is the word that could not stick in your mind, but it is the word that defines your life. As it has defined mine. I only hope I will have enough time to explain everything before I leave you again—for the last time. I love you more than I could possibly say.

Your Loving Grandmother”

Glerk folded up the letter and slid it under the candlestick. He looked around the room with a sigh. It was true that Xan’s days were dwindling, and it was true that, in comparison to his excessively long life, Xan’s was no more than a deep breath, or a swallow, or the blink of an eye. And soon she would be gone forever. He felt his heart ball up in his throat in a hard, sharp lump.

“Glerk?” Fyrian ventured. He buzzed toward the ancient swamp monster’s face, peering into those large, damp eyes. Glerk blinked and stared back. The dragonling, he had to admit, was a sweet little thing. Bighearted. Young. But unnaturally so. And now was the time for him to grow up.

Past time, really.

Glerk pulled himself to his feet and his first set of arms, bending back a bit to ease out the kinks in his spine. He loved his small swamp—of course he did—and he loved his small life here in the crater of the volcano. He had chosen it without regrets. But he loved the wide world, too. There were parts of himself that he had left behind to live with Xan. Glerk could barely remember them. But he knew they were bountiful and life-giving and vast. The Bog. The world. All living things. He had forgotten how much he loved it all. His heart leaped within him as he took his first step.

“Come, Fyrian,” he said, holding his top left hand out and allowing the dragon to alight on his palm. “We are going on a journey.”

“A real journey?” Fyrian said. “You mean, away from here?”

“That is the only kind of journey, young fellow. And yes. Away from here. That sort of journey.”

“But . . .” Fyrian began. He fluttered away from the hand and buzzed to the other side of the swamp monster’s great head. “What if we get lost?”

“I never get lost,” Glerk said. And it was true. Once upon a time, many Ages ago, he traveled around the world more times than he could count. And in the world. And above and below. A poem. A Bog. A deep longing. He could barely remember it now, of course—one of the hazards of so very long a life.

“But . . .” Fyrian began, zooming from one side of Glerk’s face to the other and back again. “What if I should frighten people? With my remarkable size. What if they flee in terror?”

Glerk rolled his eyes. “While it is true, my young friend, that your size is—er—remarkable, I believe that a simple explanation from me will ease their fears. As you know, I have excellent skills at explaining things.”

Fyrian landed on Glerk’s back. “This is true,” he murmured. “No one explains things better than you, Glerk.” And then he threw his small body against the swamp monster’s great, damp back and flung his arms wide in an attempt at a hug.

“There is no need for that,” Glerk said, and Fyrian drifted back up into the air, hovering over his friend. “Look,” Glerk continued. “Do you see? Luna’s footprints.”

And so they followed her—the ancient swamp monster and the Perfectly Tiny Dragon—into the wood.

And with each footprint, Glerk became increasingly aware that the magic leaking from the young girl’s feet was growing. It seeped, then shined, then pooled on the ground, then spilled from the edges. At this rate, how long would it take for that magic to flow like water, move like streams and rivers and oceans? How long before it flooded the world?

How long, indeed?





29.


In Which There Is a Story with a Volcano in It





It is not an ordinary volcano, you know. It was made thousands and thousands of years ago by a witch.

Which witch? Oh, I don’t know. Not the Witch we’ve got, surely. She is old, but she is not that old. Of course I don’t know how old she is. No one does. And no one has seen her. I hear she looks like a young girl sometimes and an old woman sometimes and a grown lady other times. It all depends.

The volcano has dragons in it. Or it did. Time was that there were dragons all over creation, but now no one has seen them in an Age. Maybe longer.