The Girl Who Drank the Moon (18 page)

(She turned away before she could notice the pieces begin to quiver slightly, inching toward one another.)

Luna gave the crow a defiant look.

“I'm going after her.”

“Caw,” the crow said, though Luna knew he meant, “That is a very stupid idea. You don't even know where you're going.”

“I do, too,” Luna said, sticking out her chin and pulling her journal from her satchel. “See?”

“Caw,” the crow said. “You made that up,” he meant. “I once had a dream that I could breathe underwater like a fish. You don't see me trying
that
, now do you?”

“She's not strong enough,” Luna said, feeling her voice start to crack. What if her grandmother became injured in the woods? Or sick? Or lost? What if Luna never saw her again? “I need to help her. I
need her
.”

(The bits of paper with the “Dear” and the “Luna” fluttered their edges together, fusing neatly side by side, until no evidence of their separation remained. So too did the shred bearing “By the time you read this” and “there are things I must explain” underneath. And underneath that was, “you are ever so much more than you realize.”)

Luna slid her feet into her boots, and packed a rucksack with whatever she could think of that might be useful on a journey. Hard cheese. Dried berries. A blanket. A water flask. A compass with a mirror. Her grandmother's star map. A very sharp knife.

“Caw,” the crow said, though it sounded more like, “Aren't you going to tell Glerk and Fyrian?”

“Of course not. They'd just try to stop me.”

Luna sighed. (A small, torn scrap of paper scurried its way across the room, as nimble as any mouse. Luna didn't notice. She didn't notice it creeping up her leg and along the back of her cloak. She didn't notice it burrow its way into her pocket.) “No,” she said finally. “They'll figure out where I'm going. And anything I say will come out wrong. Everything I say comes out wrong.”

“Caw,” the crow said. “I don't think that's true.”

But it didn't matter what the crow thought. Luna's mind was made up. She tied on her hood and checked the map that she had made. It looked detailed enough. And of course the crow was right, and of course Luna knew how dangerous the woods were. But she knew the way. She was
sure
of it.

“Are you coming with me or what?” she said to the crow as she left her home and slid into the green.

“Caw,” the crow said. “To the ends of the earth, my Luna. To the ends of the earth.”

“W
ell,” Glerk said, looking at the mess in the house. “This is not good at all.”

“Where is Auntie Xan?” Fyrian wailed. He buried his face in a hankie, by turns lighting it on fire and then dousing the flames with his tears. “Why wouldn't she say good-­bye?”

“Xan can take care of herself,” Glerk said. “It's Luna who worries me.”

He said this because it seemed like it must be true. But it wasn't. His worry for Xan had him tied up in knots.
What was she thinking?
Glerk moaned in his thoughts.
And how can I bring her back safe?

Glerk sat heavily on the floor, his great tail curled around his body, reading over the note that Xan had left for Luna.

“
Dear Luna,
” it said. “
By the time you read this, I will be traveling quickly across the forest.
”

“Quickly? Ah,” he murmured. “She has transformed.” He shook his head. Glerk knew better than anyone how Xan's magic had drained away. What would happen if she became stuck in her transformation? If she was permanently ensquirrelled or enbirded or endeered? Or, even more troubling, if she could only manage a halfway transformation.

“Things are changing in you, dearest. Inside and out. I know you can sense it, but you have no words for it. This is my fault. You have no idea who you are, and that is my fault, too. There are things that I kept from you because of circumstance, and things that I kept from you because I didn't want to break your heart. But it doesn't change the facts: you are ever so much more than you realize.”

“What does it say, Glerk?” Fyrian said, buzzing from one side of Glerk's head to the other, like a persistent, and annoying, bumblebee.

“Give us a moment, will you, my friend?” Glerk murmured.

Hearing Glerk use the word “friend” in relation to himself made Fyrian positively giddy with happiness. He trilled his tongue against the roof of his mouth and turned a backflip and a double spin in the air, accidentally knocking his head against the ceiling.

“Of course I'll give you a moment, Glerk, my
friend
,” Fyrian said, shrugging off the bump on his skull. “I'll give you all the moments in the world.” He fluttered down to the armrest of the rocking chair and made himself as prim and still as he possibly could.

Glerk looked closer at the paper—not at the words, but at the paper itself. It had been torn, he could see, and had been knit back together so tightly, most eyes would not have caught the change. Xan would have seen it. Glerk looked even closer, at the threads of the magic—each individual strand. Blue. A shimmer of silver at the edges. There were millions of them. And none of them originated from Xan.

“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.

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.