The Girl Who Drank the Moon (26 page)

42.

In Which the World Is Blue and Silver and Silver and Blue

Luna heard the crow's warning, but she couldn't slow down. She was alive with moonlight.
Blue and silver, silver and blue,
she thought, but she did not know why. The moonlight was delicious. She gathered it on her hands and drank it again and again. Once she had started she could not stop.

And with each gulp, the scene on the ridge became clearer.

That lichen-­green glow.

It was her grandmother.

The feathers.

They were somehow connected to her grandmother.

She saw the man with scars on his face. He looked familiar to her, but she couldn't place him.

There was kindness in his eyes and kindness in his spirit. His heart carried love inside it. His hand carried a knife.

B
lue,
the madwoman thought as she streaked through the trees from branch to branch to branch.
Blue, blue, blue, blue.
With each loping step, the magic of the boots coursed through her body like lightning.

“And silver, too,” she sang out loud. “Blue and silver, silver and blue.”

Each step brought her closer to the girl. The moon was fully up now. It lit the world. The light of the moon skittered along the madwoman's bones, from the top of her head to her beautiful boots and back again.

Stride, stride, stride; leap, leap, leap; blue, blue, blue. A shimmer of silver. A dangerous baby. A protective pair of arms. A monster with wide jaws and kind eyes. A tiny dragon. A child full of moonlight.

Luna.
Luna, Luna, Luna, Luna.

Her child.

There was a bare knoll on the top of the ridge. She raced toward it. Boulders stood like sentinels. And behind one of the boulders stood a man. A licheny green glow showed through a small spot on his jacket. Some kind of magic, the madwoman thought. The man held a knife. And just over the lip of the ridge, and nearly upon him, was the other glow—the blue glow.

The girl.

Her daughter.

Luna.

She lived.

The man lifted the knife. He fixed his eyes on the approaching girl.

“Witch!” he shouted.

“I am no Witch,” the girl said. “I am a girl. My name is Luna.”

“Lies!” the man said. “You are the Witch. You are thousands of years old. You have killed countless children.” A shuddering breath. “And now
I
shall kill
you
.”

The man leaped.

The girl leaped.

The madwoman leaped.

And the world was full of birds.

43.

In Which a Witch Casts Her First Spell—On Purpose This Time

A
whirlwind of legs and wings and elbows and fingernails and beaks and paper. Paper birds swirled around the knoll in a spiral winding tighter and tighter and tighter.

“My eyes!” the man yelled.

“My cheek!” Luna howled.

“My boots!” a woman groaned. A woman that Luna did not know.

“Caw!” screeched the crow. “My girl! Stay away from my girl.”

“Birds!” Luna gasped.

She rolled away from the tangle and scrambled to her feet. The paper birds swirled upward in a massive formation overhead before alighting in a great circle on the ground. They weren't attacking—not yet. But the way they keened their beaks forward and menacingly opened their wings made them look as though they might.

The man covered his face.

“Keep them away,” he whimpered. He shook and cowered, covering his face with his hands. He dropped the knife on the ground. Luna kicked it away, and it tumbled over the edge of the ridge.

“Please,” he whispered. “I've met these birds. They are terrifying. They cut me to shreds.”

Luna knelt next to him. “I won't let them hurt you,” she whispered. “I promise. They found me before, when I was lost in the woods. They didn't hurt me then, and I can't imagine that they will hurt you now. But no matter what, I won't let them. Do you understand me?”

The man nodded. He kept his face curled to his knees.

The paper birds cocked their heads. They did not look at Luna. They looked at the woman, sprawled on the ground.

Luna looked at her, too.

The woman wore black boots and a plain gray shift dress. Her head was shaved. She had wide, black eyes and a birthmark on her forehead in the shape of a crescent moon. Luna pressed her fingers to her own brow.

She is here,
her heart called.
She is here, she is here, she is here.

“She is here,” the woman whispered. “She is here, she is here, she is here.”

Luna had an image in her head of a woman with long black hair, writhing from her head like snakes. She looked at the woman in front of her. She tried to imagine her with hair.

“Do I know you?” Luna said.

“No one knows me,” the woman said. “I have no name.”

Luna frowned. “
Did
you have a name?”

The woman crouched down, hugging her knees. Her eyes darted this way and that. She was hurt, but not on her body. Luna looked closer. She was hurt in her mind. “Once,” the woman said. “Once I had a name. But I do not remember it. There was a man who called me ‘wife,' and there was a child who would have called me ‘mother.' But that was a long time ago. I cannot tell how long. Now I am only called ‘prisoner.' ”

“A tower,” Luna whispered, taking a step nearer. The woman had tears in her eyes. She looked at Luna and then looked away, back and forth, as though afraid to let her eyes rest on the girl for too long.

The man looked up. He drew himself to his knees. He stared at the madwoman. “It's you,” he said. “You escaped.”

“It's me,” the madwoman said. She crawled across the rocky surface and crouched next to him. She put her hands on his face. “This is my fault,” she said, running her fingers across his scars. “I'm sorry. But your life. Your life is happier now. Isn't it?”

The man's eyes swelled with tears. “No,” he said. “I mean, yes. It is. But no. My wife had a baby. Our son is beautiful. But he is the youngest in the Protectorate. Like you, we must give our baby to the Witch.”

He looked at the birthmark on the madwoman's forehead.

He slid his gaze to Luna. He was looking at her identical birthmark. And her identical wide, black eyes. A lump in his jacket struggled and pecked. A black beak peeked from the rim of his collar. Pecked again.

“Ouch,” the man said

“I'm not a witch,” Luna said, drawing up her chin. “Or, at least, I wasn't. And I never took any babies.”

The crow hopped across the bare rock and leaped upward, arcing toward the girl's shoulder.

“Of course you aren't,” the woman said. She still couldn't keep her eyes on Luna. She had to look away, as though Luna were a bright light. “You
are
the baby.”

“What baby?”

A bird struggled its way out of the man's jacket. That lichen green glow. The bird squawked and worried and pecked.

“Please, little friend!” the man said. “Peace! Calm yourself. You have nothing to fear.”

“Grandmama!” Luna whispered.

“You don't understand. I accidentally broke this swallow's wing,” the man said.

Luna wasn't listening. “GRANDMAMA!” The swallow froze. It stared at the girl with one bright eye. Her grandmother's eye. She knew it.

Inside her skull a final gear slid into place. Her skin hummed. Her bones hummed. Her mind lit with memories, each one falling like an asteroid, flashing in the dark.

The screaming woman on the ceiling.

The very old man with the very large nose.

The circle of sycamores.

The sycamore that became an old woman.

The woman with starlight on her fingers. And then something sweeter than starlight.

And somehow, Glerk was a bunny.

And her grandmother tried to teach her about spells. The texture of spells. The construction of spells. The poetry and artistry and architecture of spells. They were lessons that Luna heard and forgot, but now she remembered and understood.

She looked at the bird. The bird looked at Luna. The paper birds quieted their wings and waited.

“Grandmama,” Luna said, holding up her hands. She focused all her love, all her questions, all her care, all her worry, all her frustrations, and all her sorrow on the bird on the ground. The woman who fed her. The woman who taught her to build and dream and create. The woman who didn't answer her questions—who
couldn't
. That's who she wanted to see. She felt the bones in her toes begin to buzz. Her magic and her thinking and her intention and her hope. They were all the same thing now. Their force moved through her shins. Then her hips. Then her arms. Then her fingers.

“
Show yourself,
” Luna commanded.

And, in a tangle of wings and claws and arms and legs, her grandmother was there. She looked at Luna. Her eyes were rheumy and damp. They flowed with tears.

“My darling,” she whispered.

And then Xan shuddered, doubled over, and collapsed onto the ground.

44.

In Which There Is a Change of Heart

Luna threw herself to her knees, scooping her grandmother in her arms.

And oh! How light she was. Just sticks and paper and a cold wind. Her grandmother who had been a force of nature all these years—a pillar, holding up the sky. Luna felt as though she could have picked her grandmother up and run home with her in her arms.

“Grandmama,” she sobbed, laying her cheek on her grandmother's cheek. “Wake up, Grandmama. Please wake up.”

Her grandmother drew in a shuddering breath.

“Your magic,” the old woman said. “It's started, hasn't it?”

“Don't talk about that,” Luna said, her mouth still buried in her grandmother's licheny hair. “Are you sick?”

“Not sick,” her grandmother wheezed. “Dying. Something I should have done a long time ago.” She coughed, shuddered, coughed again.

Luna felt a single sob wrench its way from her guts to her throat. “You're not dying, Grandmama. You can't be. I can talk to a crow. And the paper birds love me. And I think I found—well. I don't know what she is. But I remember her. From before. And there's a lady in the woods who . . . well, I don't think she's good.”

“I'm not dying this second, child, but I will in good time. And that time will be soon. Now. Your magic. I can say the word and it stays, yes?” Luna nodded. “I had locked it away inside you so you wouldn't be a danger to yourself and others—because believe me, darling, you were
dangerous
—but there were consequences. And let me guess, it's coming out all up, down, and sideways, yes?” She closed her eyes and grimaced in pain.

“I don't want to talk about it, Grandmama, unless it can make you well.” The girl sat up suddenly. “
Can
I make you well?”

The old woman shivered. “I'm cold,” she said. “I'm so, so cold. Is the moon up?”

“Yes, Grandmama.”

“Raise your hand. Let the moonlight collect on your fingers and feed it to me. It is what I did for you, long ago, when you were a baby. When you had been left in the forest and I carried you to safety.” Xan stopped and looked over to the woman with the shaved head, crouched on the ground. “I thought that your mother had abandoned you.” She pressed her hand to her mouth and shook her head. “You have the same birthmark.” Xan faltered. “And the same eyes.”

The woman on the ground nodded. “She wasn't abandoned,” she whispered. “She was taken. My baby was taken.” The madwoman buried her face in her knees and covered her stubbled head with her arms. She made no more sounds.

Xan's face seemed to crack. “Yes. I see that now.” She turned to Luna. “Every year, a baby was left in the woods to die in the same spot. Every year I carried that baby across the woods to a new family who would love it and keep it safe. I was wrong not to be curious. I was so wrong not to wonder. But sorrow hung over that place like a cloud. And so I left as quickly as I could.”

Xan shuddered and pulled herself to her hands and knees, and slid closer to the woman on the ground. The woman didn't raise her head. Xan gingerly laid her hand on the woman's shoulder. “Can you forgive me?”

The madwoman said nothing.

“And the children in the woods. They are the Star Children?” Luna whispered.

“The Star Children.” Her grandmother coughed. “They were all like you. But then you were enmagicked. I didn't mean to, darling; it was an accident, but it couldn't be undone. And I loved you. I loved you so much. And that couldn't be undone, either. So I claimed you as my own dear grandchild. And then I started to die. And that, too, can't be undone, not for anything. Consequences. It's all consequences. I've made so many mistakes.” She shivered. “I'm cold. A little moonlight, my Luna, if you wouldn't mind.”

Luna reached up her hand. The weight of moonlight—sticky and sweet—gathered on her fingertips. It poured from her hands into her grandmother's mouth and shivered through her grandmother's body. The old woman's cheeks began to flush. The moonlight radiated through Luna's own skin, too, setting her bones aglow.

“The moonlight's help is only temporary,” her grandmother said. “The magic runs through me like a bucket with holes in it. It's drawn toward you. Everything I have, everything I am, flows to you, my darling. This is as it should be.” She turned and put her hand on Luna's face. Luna interlaced her fingers with her grandmother's and held on desperately. “Five hundred years is an awful lot. Too many. And you have a mother who loves you. Who has loved you all this time.”

“My friend,” the man said. He was weeping—big ugly tears down a blotchy face. He seemed harmless enough now that he didn't have that knife. Still, Luna eyed him warily. He crept forward, extending his left hand.

“That's far enough,” she said coolly.

He nodded. “My friend,” he said again. “My, er, once-­was-­a-­bird friend. I . . .” He swallowed, wiped his tears and snot with the back of his sleeve. “I'm sorry if this sounds rude, but, ah . . .” His voice trailed off. Luna could stop him with a rock, though she quickly waved the thought away when a rock rolled near and started hovering menacingly.

No hitting,
she thought at the rock with a glare. The rock fell to the ground with a dejected thud and rolled away, as though chastened.

I'm going to have to be careful,
Luna thought.

“But, are
you
the Witch?” the man continued, his eyes pinned on Xan. “The Witch in the woods? The one who insists that we sacrifice a baby every year or she will destroy us all?”

Luna gave him a cold look. “My grandmother has never destroyed anything. She is good and kind and caring. Ask the people of the Free Cities. They know.”

“
Somebody
demands a sacrifice,” the man said. “It isn't her.” He pointed to the woman with the shaved head and the paper birds roosting on her shoulders. “I know that much. I was with her when her baby was taken away.”

“As I recall,” the woman growled, “you were the one doing the taking.”

And the man hung his head.

“It was you,” Luna whispered. “I remember. You were only a boy. You smelled of sawdust. And you didn't want . . .” She paused. Frowned. “You made the old men mad.”

“
Yes,
” the man gasped.

Her grandmother began to pull herself to her feet, and Luna hovered, trying to help. Xan waved her away.

“Enough, child. I can still stand on my own. I am not so old.”

But she
was
so old. Before Luna's eyes, her grandmother aged. Xan had always been old—of course she had. But now . . . Now it was different. Now she seemed to desiccate by the moment. Her eyes were sunken and shadowed. Her skin was the color of dust. Luna gathered more moonlight on her fingers and encouraged her grandmother to drink.

Xan looked at the young man.

“We should move quickly. I was on my way to rescue yet another abandoned baby. I have been doing so for ever so long.” She shivered and tried to take a single, unsteady step. Luna thought she might blow over. “There's no time for fussing, child.”

Luna looped her arm around her grandmother's waist. Her crow fluttered onto her shoulder. She turned to the woman on the ground. Offered her hand.

“Will you come with us?” she said. Held her breath. Felt her heart pounding in her chest.

The woman on the ceiling.

The paper birds in the tower window.

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

The woman on the ground lifted her gaze and found Luna's eyes. She took Luna's hand and rose to her feet. Luna felt her heart take wing. The paper birds began to flap, flutter, and lift into the air.

Luna heard the sound of footsteps approaching on the far side of the knoll before she saw it: a pair of glowing eyes. The muscled lope of a tiger. But not a tiger at all. A woman—tall, strong, and clearly magic. And her magic was sharp, and hard, and merciless. Like the curved edge of a blade. The woman who had demanded the boots. She was back.

“Hello, Sorrow Eater,” Xan said.