Backwards Moon (15 page)

They were flying back to the village when Bracken's leg began to hurt again. “It throbs,” she said as they landed on the Commons. She got shakily off her broom.

Rose came down her front steps and hurried over. “What's wrong?” she asked. Scabiosa came running from her cottage.

“My leg,” said Bracken. “I was shot by hunters. It seemed completely healed, but now it's starting to hurt again.”

“The Fading,” gasped Rose. “It could be a symptom of the Fading.”

“But it can't be!” said Nettle. “Her spark is still strong.”

“Show me,” said Rose.

Bracken held up her fingerspark.

“It looks pale,” said Scabiosa. “Rose, do you think it looks pale?”

Rose stepped forward and picked up a fold of Bracken's dress. She held it to the sunlight, turning it this way and that. “Has your pocket ever felt heavy?”

“Once,” said Bracken. “But it went away. I think I was only imagining it.”

“Have you heard a little whining, like a gnat in your ear?” asked Rose.

“Yes,” said Bracken. “But it went away. . . .”

“Bracken,” said Rose urgently. “Did you do much magic in the city? Because if you did, it would aggravate the Fading. It would sap your strength and make you more vulnerable.”

“I did . . . several spells,” whispered Bracken.

“Scabiosa, call the others,” said Rose. Scabiosa ran, calling out their names.

“Nettle,” said Rose. “Did you do spells in the city?”

“Only two,” stammered Nettle, “and they didn't work very well. Three,” she added, remembering the one in the hall, the one that Bracken had taught her for finding lost things.

“Did any of those things happen to you—the whining, the heavy pocket, the trouble flying?”

“No,” said Nettle. “Never.”

“Good.” Rose nodded grimly. “Now listen. If we are to go, we must go now. And Nettle, you must learn the spell to take us through. Learn it now, so you will be ready the instant we get there.”

Trembling, Bracken pulled the stone from her pocket. “It's a simple one.”

“Open,” said Rose, putting her hand on the stone. “Ah, yes,” she said, peering into the stone.

Nettle read the spell. Then she practiced it, whispering it to herself again and again.

“Do you have it?” asked Rose.

“Yes,” said Nettle, but she felt sick with dread.

And what if the necklace doesn't work? said a voice in her head. What if the wishes are used up?

There was no time to sing the “Fare-thee-well and merry be and someday maybe we will meet again” song, no time for the parting tears or the one last look around.

“The Fading has begun on Bracken. It's Nettle who must wish us through,” said Scabiosa to the terrified circle around them. “Everyone who wants to go, join hands! Now.”

Nettle clutched Bracken's hand on one side, Rose's on the other. Aunt Iris and Scabiosa and Reed and Sedge clasped hands. The circle of those who were leaving was complete.

“Fare-thee-well and merry be,” said Rose to the rest. “Touch the necklace,” she said to Nettle. “Then take my hand again, quick, and wish.”

Nettle wished.

There was a long, sickening pause.

“It's not working,” moaned Bracken. “The wishes were all gone!”

And then . . .

The sky and the mountains and all their old life whirled around and around. It was night again, suddenly, for whooshing here and there seemed to do something to time. The stars spun and faded, and the mountain quiet became the low roar of the city.

So the wishes were not all gone, sang a voice in Nettle's head. Then the bitter, magic smell of nightshade hung all around them. They were standing beneath the great oak.

Dee and Anna were waiting. “We've been watching for you,” said Dee.

“Oh!” said Nettle, feeling both sad and happy. But there was no time, no time at all! Rose handed her the stone. In a rush of words, she said the very simple spell.

What appeared next, in the oak tree's furrowed trunk, was a black hole, a darkness, a void. But before Nettle had
time to be afraid, before she had time to
think
, Rose stepped toward it. She held up her finger, made a spark, and stepped into the darkness.

One horrible second went by. And then, deep in darkness, Rose's spark glimmered.

“Go!” cried Scabiosa, guiding Bracken toward the trunk. Bracken raised her fingerspark, stepped through, and her spark too appeared, strong and blue.

One after another they went through the Door, until only Nettle was left.

“Come with us,” she cried to Dee and Anna. “Try!”

Dee pushed her hand against the Door, against the blackness, but her palm stopped in midair as though there was no door, only solid tree trunk. “I can see the Door,” she said quietly. “But it's no use. We'll never be witches again. Go now. Hurry.”

“Do you know who we are?” blurted Nettle.

Dee's expression softened. “Oh my dear,” she said.

“We do, at last,” said Anna. “And no matter how it hurts, I'm glad we remembered everything. And we're sorry about what happened.”

“It's hard that we were gone so long,” said Dee gently. “I wish things had been different. But know this! Even if we'd had magic enough, we wouldn't have gone through the Door without you. We would never go and leave you behind! You know that, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Nettle.

“But now you must go through it without us.”

“Go!” cried Dee. “Hurry.”

Nettle lit her spark. “But I have so many questions! I'll only stay a little—”

“We can't risk it,” said Dee. “The Fading is not to be trifled with. Go now. Light your spark! Please.”

“We love you,” said Anna. “Tell Bracken we loved you both.”

“We always did, even when we had forgotten who you were,” said Dee. “And we always will.”

It was not something a witch would ever say out loud, but it meant everything.

“Oh . . .” said Nettle.

“Go!” said Dee. Gently, she pushed Nettle through.

Nettle felt cool, damp sand beneath her feet. Bracken stood beside her, trembling. They looked back through the door, and for an instant they saw the tiny figures of Dee and Anna and the garden behind them. Then Dee and Anna flickered and vanished, along with all of the human world.

“Wait,” moaned Nettle, but there was no going back.

“What happened?” said Rose.

Nettle stood for a moment, dazed. “Oh,” she said, not knowing what to say. “Nothing. Everything. . . . I can tell you later.”

“Are you all right?”

“It's all right, Rose,” said Nettle.

It wasn't really—not then and not ever. But sometimes there is nothing for it but to go on.

Fingersparks shone. Rose, Scabiosa, Aunt Iris, Sedge, and Reed stood around her.

The light flickered on the earthen walls of a tunnel. It was wide and sloped gently upward. A sound washed over them, a distant roaring that rose and fell like the sound of someone breathing. At the end of the tunnel shone a circle of sky, brighter around the edges.

They put out their sparks and walked quietly toward it. They stepped outside. A vast blue opened all around them. Waves crested and broke in white foam. Little, long-legged seabirds skittered across the shining sand, probing it with their slender beaks.

“The ocean!” said Bracken softly. “I've always wanted to see the ocean.”

The little birds stopped their probing and circled them on quickly moving legs.

“Welcome,” said one.

“We're witches,” said Nettle.

“We
know
that,” said the first. “We're sandpipers. Pleased to meet you.”

“Well, that's settled. Let's go,” said one, and the sandpipers skittered toward the waves.

“Wait,” said Bracken. “Are there other witches here? And Woodfolk. Are there Woodfolk?”

“Both,” said the last of the sandpipers. Their feet left tracks like stitching in the sand.

The waves curled and broke, curled and broke, and wind blew off the ocean.

When Nettle and Bracken turned their backs to the water, they saw windblown, gray-green pines with bare branches like driftwood, high atop pale cliffs that rose from the sand. Beyond the cliffs stood a forest of trees so tall their pointed tops seemed lost in mist.

“Did you hear what they said? Witches and Woodfolk! I like this place,” said Nettle.

And Bracken nodded. “I like it too.”

In the days that followed, the seven witches built their new village. It took much magic and arguing, but when it was done, the cottages stood high on a cliff top, all in a line. Nettle and Bracken's sleeping loft looked out over the ocean.

Every morning, the two of them went exploring.

They flew low over coves where sea lions arped from the rocks. Seals swam through a forest of seaweed that swayed in the aqua water. Sea otters floated on their backs holding rocks between their front paws, breaking shellfish. The air was filled with the cries of hundreds and hundreds of seabirds nesting on the cliffs.

One day, as they flew over a sweeping half-moon of sand, they saw a path winding up the cliff and into the forest. They landed on the cliff top and followed the path into the woods.

The trees had soft, red trunks. They were so gigantic that when you walked among them, you could see the sunlight on the very tops of the trees and blue patches of sky, but down by the forest floor it was dim, and the air was cool and spicy smelling.

Nettle stopped and pointed. “A fire,” she said. They hurried forward.

It was a very small fire, at the base of a particularly large tree. Beside it sat a man. He held a penknife in one nimble hand, a stick of wood in the other. Woodchips flew around him. Nettle and Bracken walked closer, and the Woodfolk man looked up.

“Well now,” he said. “Merry meet and merry part.” It was hard to tell if he was young or old.

“Are you . . . Are you from the Quercus tribe?” asked Bracken. For that was their fathers' tribe.

“I'm not,” he said. “But I can show you where the gathering camp is.” He stood up and slipped his knife into the pocket of his gray-green, raggedy trousers. He glanced at the fire and it went out, leaving not even a burned spot on the forest floor. “Nobody's there now, but all the tribes will be back at midwinter,” he said as they set off.

He led them past streams and over hills, striding through the greenish light with a long, loping gait. “Seems to me a tribe of that name came here years ago, through one of the Lesser Passage Trees. Tricky things, those. Lots of people are fooled by them.”

Traveling by a Lesser Passage Tree, the Woodfolk man explained, was a risky venture. You might think it was an ordinary Passage Tree, the kind that Woodfolk often took to get from place to place. “But once you step through, you're in another world. And there's no going back.”

Bracken looked at Nettle. “So
that's
what happened,” she said quietly.

They knew now for certain their fathers hadn't left them on purpose. A weight lifted and was gone.

By now there was no path that Nettle could see, but the Woodfolk man loped on and on, sometimes resting one big hand against a tree as though it were a particular friend. “As old as rocks, these trees are,” he said as they walked. “You've come to a good place.”

At last he stopped. “There is it is,” he said, pointing down a slope. “That little flat place.”

There was no sign of trampled grass or chopped trees or
left-behind tent pegs lying around, but with Woodfolk there never was.

Bracken made a silver spell mark and left it shimmering on a tree where she could find it again, and where the Woodfolk would see it when they returned. Then there was nothing more to do but wait.

“How many moons until midwinter here?” asked Nettle.

“Three,” said the Woodfolk man.

Bracken said it wasn't so long, really.

Every night Nettle and Bracken watched the moon out of their sleeping loft window. It was Nettle who noticed that the moon here was different.

Here, the new moon's crescent of pale silver faced the same way as the rim of her right thumbnail. And surely in the valley, the new moon had faced the other way? Nettle showed Bracken with her thumbnail. “The moon goes backwards here. It's a backwards moon.”

“Hmm,” said Bracken, looking up at it. “I think you're right.”

“I wonder what Ben and the others are doing right now,” Bracken said.

Nettle wondered about Elizabeth too, but there was no way of telling.

“Maybe when the Woodfolk come, they'll know where some other witches are,” she said. “Ones our age, even.”

Bracken nodded. “Maybe they will.”

“You know, tomorrow we could go find some ravens. We could play the raven game. If they don't already know it, we could teach them.”