A Creature of Moonlight

Title Page

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

PART ONE

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

PART TWO

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

PART THREE

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright © 2013 by Rebecca Hahn

 

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

 

www.hmhco.com

 

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

 

Hahn, Rebecca.

A creature of moonlight / Rebecca Hahn.

pages cm

Summary: Marni, a young flower seller who has been living in exile, must choose between claiming her birthright as princess of a realm whose king wants her dead, and a life with the father she has never known—a wild dragon.

 

ISBN 978-0-544-10935-3

[1. Fantasy. 2. Identity—Fiction. 3. Dragons—Fiction. 4. Princesses—Fiction. 5. Forests and forestry—Fiction. 6. Flowers—Fiction. 7. Magic—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.H12563Cre 2014

[Fic]—dc23 2013020188

 

eISBN 978-0-544-11009-0
v1.0514

 

 

 

 

For my parents

 

 

 

 

A
LL SUMMER LONG
the villagers have been talking of the woods.

Even those living many hills away can see it: their crops are disappearing; their land is shrinking by the day. We hear story after story. One evening a well will be standing untouched, a good twenty feet from the shade, and when the farmer's daughter goes to draw water in the morning, there will be nothing left but a pile of stones and a new tree or three growing out of the rubble. And all along beside it, the woods stretch on and on, where no woods were the night before.

In years gone past, this happened now and again: a goatherd would complain of his flock's favorite hill being eaten by shadows and trunks, or a shed alongside the trees would rust overnight and be crawling with vines in the morning. But just as often, an old fence was uncovered by the woods as they retreated, or a long-lost watering hole suddenly appeared again, where it hadn't been for near fifty years. The woods come and they go, like the sun, like the wind, like the seasons. It isn't something to fret about, not in a fearful way. The farmers have always complained of it, but they've never talked of it as they are talking now of this advance.

This year, the trees do not go; they only come, on and on, and rumors from all over our land say the same. They are folding in around us.

It terrifies the villagers something fierce. When they come to bring our supplies or to buy some flowers, they mutter about it with my Gramps. I see them shaking their heads, twisting their caps in their hands. Gramps tells them it's nothing to worry about, that the trees will take themselves back again, just as they always do.

They listen to him. When he talks, it's as if they forget the state of his legs and see only the calm on his face, hear only the slow, measured way he has with words. They leave more peaceful than they were when they came. They leave less worried about the creeping trees.

When they've gone, though, I see my Gramps sigh. I see him look sideways at me where I'm leaning against the porch rail, as if I won't notice that way. As if I don't already know he frets more than he'd ever let on. There's no one like my Gramps for fretting. Any sickness going around, any rumor of bandits—I see those eyebrows drawing in tight. He'll not talk about it, maybe, but he worries, more and more the less he can do.

Well, and this time, could be there's something to it. Since I was small, since we lived here and made ourselves the flower people to keep from getting our heads chopped off, Gramps has warned me not to wander into the trees that push up right against our place—out back, beyond the flowers and paths and bushes, over the low stone wall that rings around our garden. But out here, living so close, it would be near impossible not to follow my curiosity over that wall, and I've had years to be curious. My Gramps doesn't realize—I only go when he's not looking—how well I've always known our woods.

There's not much Gramps could do to stop me, stuck as he is in his chair, needing me for every little thing. Oh, he could yell, and if I didn't come running, he could get himself up with his cane and wobble out the back, and if I wasn't there, he could tear me down something wretched when he saw me returning. But I don't go so far that I can't hear my Gramps's voice. Not just because I'm avoiding trouble. Not just because I don't want to scare him, neither, though those are both good reasons. What if something were to happen to Gramps and I wasn't there to pick him off the floor or run for help? Or what if the king decided that today was the day he'd stop tolerating those flower people, and he sent some men and horses down, and I wasn't there to scream and scratch until they killed me for my Gramps?

So Gramps doesn't know how often I go to the woods.

There are all the things you would think of living there: rabbits and squirrels and hedgehogs and, late in the evening, bats. The trees are spaced out like they must want to be. Nobody comes to chop them down. Nobody stops them from spreading apart or smothering each other or dropping their needles just as they please, in patterns and swirls and such. I wouldn't half mind being one of those trees. I reckon it's a peaceful life, with nothing but the birds, the wind, and the sun for your company.

It's peaceful visiting them, wandering this way and that through their silent trunks, humming and thinking my own thoughts.

There are other things there too, things you wouldn't expect.

There's a laugh behind a tree when nobody's around to make it. A flash of red from branch to branch, like a spark from a fire, but nothing's burning. A woman dressed in green, sitting alone on a log and knitting something out of nothing, out of leaves and grass and berries, out of sunshine. She looks up, and she has no eyes. Where her eyes should be there are lights like tiny suns, and she's smiling, but I don't know how, because she doesn't have a mouth like anyone else's, not that I can see. There's just a mist all around her head, and those burning eyes looking right at me.

I don't stop to talk to things like that. I used to, once, before I knew any better. Back then I used to play with the little people hidden under the bushes and make my own crafts next to the lady on the log as she knit and sang to me, and I'd fly away sometimes, though never very far, with great winged things that held me in their arms. I was always wary of straying too far from Gramps, even when I was small.

It was only gradually that I grew frightened of the woods folk. The laugh turned, bit by bit, from cheerful to menacing; the spark changed from beautiful to dangerous. I'd see the little ones eyeing me with something other than playfulness. I'd see the lady's clever fingers tensing as we knit, and I'd wonder just when she'd decide to grab my wrist, to take me away with her.

So I stopped listening, and I stopped looking. It's been many years now since I followed whenever the voices called from the woods. I no longer talk back to birds with people's faces, or watch as misty creatures dart through the brooks.

But when I slip out into the trees this summer, I hear the voices singing more, and I see the lights flickering here and there, yellow and blue and green, always just at the corners of my eyes, tempting me away.

I dare not go out when the sun is low in the sky. Then I'm like to forget, almost, who I am, and that I ever had a Gramps, and that the little people tugging at my skirt hem are not
my
people, and are not to be trusted, even though they bear the sweetest, most innocent faces in the world.

Yet I don't stop going completely, neither. When Gramps is sleeping the sun away, or when I've worked so hard at digging out weeds and pruning back bushes and hauling water to and from the well that I can't stand one minute more, or when I get to thinking on things just so, I hop over our garden wall and go walking out there, breathing in the pine and the damp, dark places of the forest.

It's a dangerous pastime, I know, but I can't help myself. There's a thing that draws me to the woods, even more than the peacefulness I find there. It's a humming deep at the bottom of my mind. It's a thrill that tingles, even when I'm only taking one step and then another, even when the woods folk are nowhere to be seen.

The villagers will tell you it's not just the creatures of the woods that require wariness. It's not just the obvious: the lights and the voices and the speaking owls, the faces in the branches.

It's the trees themselves.

There's something there, they'll say, whispering through the leaves, sleeping in the trunks. There's something that seeps through the spongy ground but never shows itself in any way you would recognize. If you walk enough in these woods, they say, you'll start to understand its language. The wind through the trees will murmur secret things to you, and you'll be pulled by them, step by step by step, out of the human realm. You'll be drawn to the shadows, toward the soft flashes of moonlight through the branches, into the hidden holes and tricky marshes.

The villagers won't let their children go into the woods, not even to the very closest edge, not even when the wind is silent and the sun shines full through the trees. It's an insidious thing, they say, the soul of these woods. It will rock you and soothe you until you've nothing left but trust and belief and naivety. It will fold itself into you, and you will never know it's there, not until you're ten nights out and there's not a thing that can bring you back again.

 

It's the girls that the woods take most often. Girls about my age, in fact, near grown but not yet settling themselves down to a husband and a family. There were one or two from round about our place when I was growing who walked from their homes one day and never came back.

The latest was a girl with dark curls, just old enough to be catching the eyes of the boys, and she was the closest thing to a friend I ever had.

That was just this spring, when she disappeared. She was my age, and she wasn't shy none. She'd talk up my Gramps; he used to smile more when she was about the place. She'd talk up the village boys, too, the ones she used to play chase with but now were chasing her, and eyeing her as if she wasn't the same girl they'd spent their summers playing pranks with, as if she wasn't as close to them as their own sisters.

It's not the easiest thing to keep friends when you live a good thirty-minute walk from the nearest village—nor when you're as close as we are to the woods. But Annel didn't care none about those things. The other village girls stayed close to home, but even young as a sprout, Annel would run across the fields and come stamping up to our front door, bursting in as we ate our breakfast maybe, or swinging right around to the garden, where I'd be at work. She didn't look like a farmer's daughter—she looked like a lady from the court, with that figure and that face—but she wore her skirts hitched up as often as not, and she threw herself down in the dirt alongside me as I pruned and planted.

Not that her parents approved, quite, but Annel had five brothers also running wild, and for one stray daughter to be off visiting the flower girl and her grandfather—who still spoke soft and sweet like the castle folk—there were worse things in the world.

When Annel came by our place, it was as if the sun had come down to visit. She'd go running with me out in the meadows, picking wildflowers, imagining shapes in the clouds in the sky. We'd talk things over, too: what it'd be like to fly up high with the birds; where we'd like to go when we grew up—across the mountains to the northern sea, or so far south, the winter would never come. Annel was always full of places she'd like to go. I think that was why she so loved our place—it was the closest she could get to another country, my Gramps and my world. Well, and I reckon I listened better than most of the village girls. How could I not? She'd paint such pictures with her words, of endless hills of sand, of bitter plains of snow.