The Girl Who Drank the Moon(54)

How should I know what happened to them? Maybe the Witch got them. Maybe she ate them. She is always hungry, you know. The Witch is, I mean. Let that keep you in your bed at night.

Every time the volcano erupts it is larger, angrier, more ferocious. Time was, it was no bigger than an ant’s hill. Then it was the size of a house. Now it’s bigger than the forest. And one day, it will envelop the whole world, you see if it won’t.

The last time the volcano erupted, it was the Witch that caused it. You don’t believe me? Oh, it’s as true as you’re standing here. In those days the forest was safe. There were no pitfalls or poisonous vents. Nothing burned. And there were villages dotting this way and that through the forest. Villages that collected mushrooms. Villages that traded in honey. Villages that made beautiful sculptures out of clay and hardened them with fire. And they were all connected by trails and small roads that crossed and crisscrossed the forest like a spider’s web.

But the Witch. She hates happiness. She hates it all. So she brought her army of dragons into the belly of the mountain.

“Heave!” she shouted at the dragons. And they heaved fire into the heart of the volcano. “Heave!” she shouted again.

And the dragons were afraid. Dragons, if you must know, are wicked creatures—full of violence and duplicity and deceit. Still, the deceit of a dragon was nothing in the face of the wickedness of the Witch.

“Please,” the dragons cried, shivering in the heat. “Please stop this. You’ll destroy the world.”

“What care have I for the world?” The Witch laughed. “The world never cared for me at all. If I want it to burn, well then, it will burn.”

And the dragons had no choice. They heaved and heaved until they were nothing more than ash and embers and smoke. They heaved until the volcano burst into the sky, raining destruction across every forest, every farm, every meadow. Even the Bog was undone.

And the volcano’s eruption would have destroyed everything, if it hadn’t been for the brave little wizard. He walked into the volcano and—well, I’m not entirely clear what he did, but he stopped it right up, and saved the world. He died doing it, poor thing. Pity he didn’t kill the Witch, but nobody’s perfect. Despite everything, we must thank him for what he’s done.

But the volcano never really went out. The wizard stopped it up, but it went underground. And it leaks its fury into the water pools and the mud vats and the noxious vents. It poisons the Bog. It contaminates the water. It is the reason why our children go hungry and our grandmothers wither and our crops are so often doomed to fail. It is the reason we cannot ever leave this place and there is no use trying.

But no matter. One day it will erupt again. And then we will be out of our misery.





30.


In Which Things Are More Difficult than Originally Planned





Luna hadn’t been walking for long before she was very, very lost and very, very frightened. She had her map and she could see in her mind’s eye the route that she should travel, but she had already lost her way.

The shadows looked like wolves.

The trees clacked and creaked in the wind. Their branches curled like sharp claws, scratching at the sky. Bats screeched and owls hooted their replies.

The rocks creaked under her feet, and beneath that, she could feel the mountain churning, churning, churning. The ground was hot, then cold, then hot again.

Luna lost her footing in the dark and tumbled, head over feet, into a muddy ravine.

She cut her hand; she twisted her ankle; she knocked her skull against a low-hanging branch and burned her leg in a boiling spring. She was fairly certain she had blood in her hair.

“Caw,” said the crow. “I told you this was a terrible idea.”

“Quiet,” Luna muttered. “You’re worse than Fyrian.”

“Caw,” said the crow, but what he meant was any number of unrepeatable things.

“Language!” Luna admonished. “And anyway, I don’t believe I like your tone.”

Meanwhile, something continued happening inside Luna that she could not explain. The clicking of gears that she had felt almost her whole life was now more like the gonging of a bell. The word magic existed. She knew that now. But what it was and what it meant were still a mystery.

Something itched in her pocket. A small, papery something crinkled and rattled and squirmed. Luna did her best to ignore it. She had bigger problems at hand.

The forest was thick with trees and undergrowth. The shadows crowded out the light. With each step she paused and gingerly padded her foot in front of her, feeling around for solid ground. She had been walking all night, and the moon—nearly full—had vanished in the trees, taking the light with it.

What have you gotten yourself into? the shadows seemed to say, tutting and harrumphing.

There wasn’t even enough light to see the map that she had drawn. Not that a map would do her any good so far off her intended trail.

“Stuff and bother,” Luna muttered, carefully taking another step. The path was tricky here—hairpin curves and needle-like rock formations. Luna could feel the vibration of the volcano under her feet. It didn’t relent—not even for a moment. Sleep, she thought at it. You are supposed to be sleeping. The volcano didn’t seem to know this.

“Caw,” said the crow. “Forget the volcano. You should sleep,” he meant. This was true. Lost as she was, Luna was hardly making any progress. She should stop, rest, and wait until morning.