The Girl Who Drank the Moon (2 page)

They heard the child whimper as they tramped through the trees, but the whimpering soon gave way to the swamp sighs and birdsong and the woody creaking of trees throughout the forest. And each Elder felt as sure as sure could be that the child wouldn't live to see the morning, and that they would never hear her, never see her, never think of her again.

They thought she was gone forever.

They were wrong, of course.

3.

In Which a Witch Accidentally Enmagics an Infant

At the center of the forest was a small swamp—bubbly, sulfury, and noxious, fed and warmed by an underground, restlessly sleeping volcano and covered with a slick of slime whose color ranged from poison green to lightning blue to blood red, depending on the time of year. On this day—so close to the Day of Sacrifice in the Protectorate, or Star Child Day everywhere else—the green was just beginning to inch its way toward blue.

At the edge of the swamp, standing right on the fringe of flowering reeds growing out of the muck, a very old woman leaned on a gnarled staff. She was short and squat and a bit bulbous about the belly. Her crinkly gray hair had been pulled back into a thick, braided knot, with leaves and flowers growing out of the thin gaps between the twisted plaits. Her face, despite its cloud of annoyance, maintained a brightness in those aged eyes and a hint of a smile in that flat, wide mouth. From certain angles, she looked a bit like a large, good-­tempered toad.

Her name was Xan. And she was the Witch.

“Do you think you can hide from me, you ridiculous monster?” she bellowed at the swamp. “It isn't as though I don't know where you are. Resurface
this minute
and apologize.” She pressed her expression into something closely resembling a scowl.
“Or I will make you.”
Though she had no real power over the monster himself—he was far too old—she certainly had the power to make that swamp cough him up as if he were nothing more than a glob of phlegm in the back of the throat. She could do it with just a flick of her left hand and a jiggle of her right knee.

She attempted to scowl again.

“I MEAN IT,” she hollered.

The thick water bubbled and swirled, and the large head of the swamp monster slurped out of the bluish-­green. He blinked one wide eye, and then the other, before rolling both toward the sky.

“Don't you roll your eyes at me, young man,” the old woman huffed.

“Witch,” the monster murmured, his mouth still half-­submerged in the thick waters of the swamp. “I am many centuries older than you.” His wide lips blew a bubble in the algae slick.
Millennia, really,
he thought.
But who's counting?

“I don't believe I like your tone.” Xan puckered her wrinkled lips into a tight rosette in the middle of her face.

The monster cleared his throat. “As the Poet famously said, dear lady: ‘
I don't give a rat's
—' ”

“GLERK!” the Witch shouted, aghast. “Language!”

“Apologies,” Glerk said mildly, though he really didn't mean it. He eased both sets of arms onto the muck at the shore, pressing each seven-­fingered hand into the shine of the mud. With a grunt, he heaved himself onto the grass.
This used to be easier,
he thought. Though, for the life of him, he couldn't remember when.

“Fyrian is over there by the vents, crying his eyes out, poor thing,” Xan fumed. Glerk sighed deeply. Xan thrust her staff onto the ground, sending a spray of sparks from the tip, surprising them both. She glared at the swamp monster. “And you are just
being mean
.” She shook her head. “He's only a baby, after all.”

“My dear Xan,” Glerk said, feeling a rumble deep in his chest, which he hoped sounded imposing and dramatic, and not like someone who was simply coming down with a cold. “He is
also
older than you are. And it is high time—”

“Oh, you know what I mean. And anyway, I promised his mother.”

“For five hundred years, give or take a decade or two, that dragonling has persisted in these delusions—fed and perpetuated by you, my dear. How is this helping him? He is not a Simply Enormous Dragon. At this point, there is no indication that he ever will be. There is no shame at all in being a Perfectly Tiny Dragon. Size isn't everything, you know. His is an ancient and honorable species, filled with some of the greatest thinkers of the Seven Ages. He has much to be proud of.”

“His mother was very clear—” Xan began, but the monster interrupted her.

“In any case, the time is long past that he know his heritage and his place in the world. I've gone along with this fiction for far longer than I should have. But now . . .” Glerk pressed his four arms to the ground and eased his massive bottom under the curve of his spine, letting his heavy tail curl around the whole of him like a great, glistening snail's shell. He let the paunch of his belly sag over his folded legs. “I don't know, my dear. Something has shifted.” A cloud passed over his damp face, but Xan shook her head.

“Here we go again,” she scoffed.

“As the Poet says, ‘
Oh ever changéd Earth
—' ”

“Hang the Poet. Go apologize. Do it right now. He looks up to you.” Xan glanced at the sky. “I must fly, my dear. I'm already late.
Please.
I am counting on you.”

Glerk lumbered toward the Witch, who laid her hand on his great cheek. Though he was able to walk upright, he often preferred to move on all sixes—or all sevens, with the use of his tail as an occasional limb, or all fives, if he happened to be using one of his hands to pluck a particularly fragrant flower and bring it to his nose, or to collect rocks, or to play a haunting tune on a hand-­carved flute. He pressed his massive forehead to Xan's tiny brow.

“Please be careful,” he said, his voice thick. “I have been beset of late by troubling dreams. I worry about you when you are gone.” Xan raised her eyebrows, and Glerk leaned his face away with a low grumble. “Fine,” he said. “I will perpetuate the fiction for our friend Fyrian. ‘
The path to Truth is in the dreaming heart
,' the Poet tells us.”

“That's the spirit!” Xan said. She clucked her tongue and blew the monster a kiss. And she vaulted up and forward on her staff's fulcrum, sprinting away into the green.

Despite the odd beliefs of the people of the Protectorate, the forest was not cursed at all, nor was it magical in any way. But it was dangerous. The volcano beneath the forest—low-­sloped and impossibly wide—was a tricky thing. It grumbled as it slept, while heating geysers till they burst and restlessly worrying at fissures until they grew so deep that no one could find the bottom. It boiled streams and cooked mud and sent waterfalls disappearing into deep pits, only to reappear miles away. There were vents that spewed foul odors and vents that spewed ash and vents that seemed to spew nothing at all—until a person's lips and fingernails turned blue from bad air, and the whole world started to spin.

The only truly safe passage across the forest for an ordinary person was the Road, which was situated on a naturally raised seam of rock that had smoothed over time. The Road didn't alter or shift; it never grumbled. Unfortunately, it was owned and operated by a gang of thugs and bullies from the Protectorate. Xan never took the Road. She couldn't abide thugs. Or bullies. And anyway, they charged too much. Or they did, last time she checked. It had been years since she had gone near it—many centuries now. She made her own way instead, using a combination of magic and know-­how and common sense.

Her treks across the forest weren't easy by any means. But they were necessary. A child was waiting for her, just outside the Protectorate. A child whose very life depended on her arrival—and she needed to get there in time.

For as long as Xan could remember, every year at about the same time, a mother from the Protectorate left her baby in the forest, presumably to die. Xan had no idea why. Nor did she judge. But she wasn't going to let the poor little thing perish, either. And so, every year, she traveled to that circle of sycamores and gathered the abandoned infant in her arms, carrying the child to the other side of the forest, to one of the Free Cities on the other side of the Road. These were happy places. And they loved children.

At the curve of the trail, the walls of the Protectorate came into view. Xan's quick steps slowed to a plod. The Protectorate itself was a dismal place—bad air, bad water, sorrow settling over the roofs of its houses like a cloud. She felt a yoke of sadness settle onto her own bones.

“Just get the baby and go,” Xan reminded herself, as she did every year.

Over time, Xan had started making certain preparations—a blanket woven of the softest lamb's wool to wrap the child and keep it warm, a stack of cloths to freshen a wet bottom, a bottle or two of goat's milk to fill an empty tummy. When the goat's milk ran out (as it invariably did—the trek was long, and milk is heavy), Xan did what any sensible witch would do: once it was dark enough to see the stars, she reached up one hand and gathered starlight in her fingers, like the silken threads of spiders' webs, and fed it to the child. Starlight, as every witch knows, is a marvelous food for a growing infant. Starlight collection takes a certain knack and talent (magic, for starters), but children eat it with gusto. They grow fat and sated and
shining
.

It didn't take long for the Free Cities to treat the yearly arrival of the Witch as something of a holiday. The children she brought with her, their skin and eyes bright with starlight, were seen as a blessing. Xan took her time selecting the proper family for each child, making sure their characters and inclinations and senses of humor were a good match for the little life that she had cared for over the course of such a long journey. And the Star Children, as they were called, grew from happy infants to kind adolescents to gracious adults. They were accomplished, generous of spirit, and successful. When they died of old age, they died rich.

When Xan arrived at the grove, there was no baby to be seen, but it was still early. And she was tired. She went to one of the craggy trees and leaned against it, taking in the loamy scent of its bark through the soft beak of her nose.

“A little sleep might do me good,” she said out loud. And it was true, too. The journey she'd been on was long and taxing, and the journey she was about to begin was longer. And more taxing. Best to dig in and rest awhile. And so, as she often did when she wanted some peace and quiet away from home, the Witch Xan transformed herself into a tree—a craggy thing of leaf and lichen and deep-­grooved bark, similar in shape and texture to the other ancient sycamores standing guard over the small grove. And as a tree she slept.

She didn't hear the procession.

She didn't hear the protestations of Antain or the embarrassed silence of the Council or the gruff pontifications of Grand Elder Gherland.

She didn't even hear the baby when it cooed. Or when it whimpered. Or when it cried.

But when the child opened its throat into a full-­fledged wail, Xan woke up with a start.

“Oh my precious stars!” she said in her craggy, barky, leafy voice, for she had not yet un-­transformed. “I did not see you lying there!”

The baby was not impressed. She continued to kick and flail and howl and weep. Her face was ruddy and rageful and her tiny hands curled into fists. The birthmark on her forehead darkened dangerously.

“Just give us a second, my darling. Auntie Xan is going as fast as she is able.”

And she was. Transformation is a tricky business, even for one as skilled as Xan. Her branches began to wind back into her spine, one by one, while the folds of bark were devoured, bit by bit, by the folds of her wrinkles.

Xan leaned on her staff and rolled back her shoulders a few times to release the kinks in her neck—one side and then the other. She looked down at the child, who had quieted some, and was now staring at the Witch in the same way that she had stared at the Grand Elder—with a calm, probing, unsettling gaze. It was the sort of gaze that reached into the tight strings of the soul and plucked, like the strings of a harp. It nearly took the Witch's breath away.

“Bottle,” Xan said, trying to ignore the harmonics ringing in her bones. “You need a bottle.” And she searched her many pockets to find a bottle of goat's milk, ready and waiting for a hungry belly.

With a flick of her ankle, Xan allowed a mushroom to enlarge itself enough to make a fine stool to sit upon. She let the child's warm weight rest against the soft lump of her midsection and waited. The crescent moon on the child's forehead dimmed to a pleasant shade of pink, and her dark curls framed her darker eyes. Her face shone like a jewel. She was calm and content with the milk, but her gaze still bored into Xan—like tree roots hooking into the ground. Xan grunted.

“Well,” she said. “There's no use looking at me like that. I can't bring you back to where you were. That's all gone now, so you might as well forget about it. Oh hush now,” for the child began to whimper. “Don't cry. You'll love the place where we are going. Once I decide which city to bring you to. They are all perfectly nice. And you'll love your new family, too. I'll see to that.”

But just saying so made an ache in Xan's old heart. And she was, all at once, unaccountably sad. The child pulled away from the bottle and gave Xan a curious expression. The Witch shrugged.

“Well, don't ask me,” she said. “I have no idea why you were left in the middle of the woods. I don't know why people do half the things they do, and I shake my head at the other half. But I am certainly not going to leave you here on the ground to feed some common stoat. You've got better things ahead of you, precious child.”

The word
precious
caught strangely in Xan's throat. She couldn't understand it. She cleared the debris from her old lungs and gave the girl a smile. She leaned toward the baby's face and pressed her lips against the child's brow. She always gave the babies a kiss. At least, she was pretty sure she did. The child's scalp smelled like bread dough and clabbering milk. Xan closed her eyes, only for a moment, and shook her head. “Come now,” she said, her voice thick. “Let's go see the world, shall we?”

And, wrapping the baby securely in a sling, Xan marched into the woods, whistling as she walked.