The Girl Who Drank the Moon(55)

But her grandmother was out here.

And what if she was hurt?

And what if she was sick?

And what if she didn’t come back?

Luna knew that everything alive must die someday—she had seen it with her own eyes when she assisted her grandmother. People died. And while it made their loved ones sad, it didn’t seem to bother the dead person one bit. They were dead, after all. They had moved on to other matters.

She once asked Glerk what happens to people when they died.

He had closed his eyes and said, “The Bog.” There was a dreamy smile on his face. “The Bog, the Bog, the Bog.” It was the most un-poetic thing he had ever said. Luna was impressed. But it didn’t exactly answer her question.

Luna’s grandmother had never spoken about the fact that she would die someday. But she clearly would die and likely was dying—this thinness, this weakness, this evasion. These were questions with one terrible answer, which her grandmother refused to give.

Luna pressed onward with an ache in her heart.

“Caw,” said the crow. “Be careful.”

“I am being careful,” Luna said peevishly.

“Caw,” said the crow. “Something very strange is happening to the trees.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Luna said.

“Caw!” the crow gasped. “Watch your footing!”

“What do you think I’m trying—”

But Luna said no more. The ground rumbled, the rocks under her feet gave way, and she fell, pinwheeling into the darkness below.





31.


In Which a Madwoman Finds a Tree House





Flying on the backs of a flock of paper birds is less comfortable than you might imagine. And while the madwoman was accustomed to a bit of discomfort, the movement of the paper wings was having an effect on her skin. They cut her until she bled.

“Just a little bit farther,” she said. She could see the place in her mind. A swamp. A series of craters. A very large tree with a door in it. A small observatory through which one might see the stars.

She is here, she is here, she is here. For all these years, her heart had painted the picture for her. Her child—not a figment of her imagination, but her child in the world. The picture that her heart painted was real. She knew it now.

Before the madwoman was born, her mother had sacrificed a baby to the Witch. A boy. Or so she was told. But she knew her mother had visions of the boy growing up. She did until she died. And the madwoman, too, could see her own dear baby—a big girl now. Black hair and black eyes and skin the color of polished amber. A jewel. Clever fingers. A skeptical gaze. The Sisters told her this was just her madness talking. And yet, she could draw a map. A map that led her to her daughter. She could feel its rightness in the thrum and heat of her bones.

“There,” the madwoman breathed, pointing down.

A swamp. Just as she had seen in her mind. It was real.

Seven craters, marking the border. Just as she had seen in her mind. They were also real.

A workshop made of stones, with an observatory. Also real.

And there, next to a small garden plot and a stable and two wooden chairs seated in a flowering arbor—an enormous tree. With a door. And windows.

The madwoman felt her heart give a great leap.

She is here, she is here, she is here.

The birds surged upward before slowly drifting down to the ground, carrying the madwoman with them, laying her down as gently as a mother lays a baby in a bed.

She is here.

The madwoman scrambled to her feet. Opened her mouth. Felt her heart seize in her chest. Surely she had given her child a name. She must have.

What child? the Sisters used to whisper to her. No one knows what you are talking about.

No one took your baby, they told her. You lost your baby. You put her in the woods and you lost her. Silly girl.

Your baby died. Don’t you remember?

The things you invent. Your madness is getting worse.

Your baby was dangerous.

You are dangerous.

You never had a baby.

The life you remember is just a fancy of your fevered mind.

You have been mad forever.

Only your sorrow is real. Sorrow and sorrow and sorrow.

She knew the baby was real. And the house she lived in and the husband who loved her. Who now had a new wife and a new family. A different baby.

There never was a baby.

No one knows who you are.

No one remembers you.

No one misses you.

You don’t exist.

The Sisters were all venom and slither and hiss. Their voices crawled up her spine and wound around her neck. Their lies pulled in tight. But they were only doing as they were told. There was only one liar in the Tower, and the madwoman knew who it was.

The madwoman shook her head. “Lies,” she said out loud. “She told me lies.” She was a girl in love once. And a clever wife. And an expectant mother. An angry mother. A grieving mother. And her grief made her mad, yes. Of course it did. But it made her see the truth, too.

“How long has it been?” she whispered. Her spine curled and she wrapped her arms around her belly, as though holding her sorrow inside. An ineffective trick, alas. It took her years to learn better ways to thwart the Sorrow Eater.

The paper birds hovered over her head—a quiet, rustly flapping. They were awaiting orders. They would wait all day. She knew they would. She didn’t know how she knew.