Backwards Moon (8 page)

“Stop waving that gun around,” he said, striding toward Bracken. “It's a little
girl
,” he said suddenly. He whirled around. “What the
hell
do you think you two are doing, cornering some little girl?”

“Little girl?” said the other man.

“Get off my place, and never come back. Go!” said the old man, dismissing him with a wave of one big arm. “Get out of here or I'll wrap that gun around your neck.”

The man yanked the boy toward him. “Come on,” he said, and shoved him toward the trap door. “Move it. This better not be some dumb joke,” came the man's voice from below.

“It
wasn't
,” said the boy. “I swear. It was a witch.”

“Yeah, right,” said the man. The voices faded. A door slammed. The pickup truck whined and roared into the night.

Crickets chimed, filling the silence.

“Little girl?” said the old man softly. “Are you there?”

“I'm here,” said Bracken. “My leg . . . I hurt my leg. . . .”

“I'll get a light. I'll be right back,” said the man, hurrying down the ladder.

“What
happened
?” asked the raccoon.

“He's a Witchfriend,” said Bracken slowly. “This special kind of grownup human who can see witches. I have a magic necklace that called him.”

“But is he a
raccoon
friend?” said the raccoon, not moving. “That's the question.”

“He won't hurt you. You can come out,” said Bracken. But the raccoon stayed in the hay.

A few minutes later the farmer reappeared, a light shining from his hand. He stepped toward her and kneeled down. “Oh my God,” he said, shining the light on her leg. “Can you walk?” He helped her up. “Lean on my shoulder. Can you make it down the ladder?”

The farmer went first, then helped Bracken. “My broom . . .” she said suddenly, but the farmer just scooped her up in his arms and carried her toward the house.

“I've got it,” called the raccoon. Bracken heard him scurrying behind.

The farmer pushed the door open with his shoulder and shoved it closed behind him. “Just rest here on the couch. I'll bring the pickup around,” he said, setting Bracken down. “We'll get you to the hospital before you know it.”

“Wait,” said Bracken. A wave of fear swept over her.

“It will be okay,” said the farmer. “No one likes the hospital, but you'll be okay.” He walked to a low table, picked up a
small box with numbers on it, and began jabbing it with his finger.

“No!” said Bracken. “Don't. Please!”

He paused.

“I can't go there. Can't you see? I'm a witch!”

“You're a little girl, wearing a witch costume.”

“I cast a spell on you,” said Bracken. “That's how you got there so quickly.”

“It did seem odd . . . kind of a
whoosh
, it was.” He put a hand to his chin. “You . . . cast a spell on me?”

Bracken watched him closely, but he didn't seem angry or afraid. “Yes,” she said.

“Am I under a spell now?”

“I'm not sure,” said Bracken.

He stood lost in thought. “Huh,” he said. Then he shook his head and looked again at Bracken's leg. “I'll get a basin,” he said. “Soap. Bandages.” He hurried into another room, came back, and set things out on a low table next to where Bracken lay. “I was in the army once,” said the farmer, washing away the blood. The space between Bracken's knee and ankle was punctured by several angry holes. “I've seen worse. I can dig these out for you.”

Bracken swallowed, then nodded.

“Don't watch,” said the farmer, and Bracken closed her eyes. “In the army people drink whiskey for pain, but I don't have any whiskey. Saw enough of the stuff in those days to last me a lifetime, I tell you.” He worked swiftly, talking all the while in a low, steady voice. “You can open your eyes now.”

“They're all out,” he said, showing her the little gray balls in the palm of his hand. “Lead shot,” he muttered as he pressed a white square of something to Bracken's leg. “If I'd known, I
would
have wrapped that gun around his neck.”
He wound more white fabric around her leg. “Poison, lead is. Very bad for waterfowl. You look awful pale—must be bad for witches too.”

“I couldn't fly. My broom!” cried Bracken suddenly. “It's outside!”

The farmer opened the door, and the raccoon scurried past. “Here,” he said, holding out the broom. He gazed warily at the farmer.

“Clever animals, raccoons,” said the farmer. “I had one as a pet when I was a kid. Can you ride your broom with that leg of yours?”

“I don't think so,” said Bracken miserably.

“You could rest up here.”

“I haven't got much
time
,” said Bracken. “I have to rescue my cousin. She's in the City on the Great River.”

“The City on the Great River,” repeated the farmer.

“I have a map,” she said. She pulled it from her pocket and spread it out on the floor.

“Little girl, this is one mighty old map.” The farmer bent over it, chin in hand. “I know what city that is,” he said when she showed him the place. “I could give you a ride if you want.”

“Would you?”

“Sure,” he said.

“This cousin of yours,” said the farmer as the pickup truck rattled and bumped down the road. The raccoon sat between him and Bracken, watching intently out the windows. “Do you have a plan for rescuing her?”

Bracken swallowed. “No. It's complicated.” Her leg throbbed. “It's a long story.”

“We've got time,” said the farmer, whose name turned out to be Ben.

Bracken told him everything.

“The Safehouse, even if it's still there, it's not going to be easy to find it,” he said when she was done. The road was smoother now, and they were beginning to pass through clusters of human houses. “A real city is way, way bigger than these little farm towns.”

“These are
little
towns?” asked Bracken.

“Compared to a city? The ones out here are nothing,” said Ben.

“Nothing,” whispered Bracken.

The dark countryside rolled by. They passed lights and buildings and signs that glowed, and giant hulking towers. “Grain elevators,” said Ben when Bracken asked. He glanced at her. “You don't seem to know much about the modern world.”

“Witches don't live in the modern world.”

“Oh?” said Ben. “And where do they live?”

So Bracken told him about the village. The raccoon listened too, adding a question now and then.

“It almost seems like that raccoon is talking to you sometimes,” said the farmer. So Bracken explained about the Language, and how humans couldn't hear it, but witches could.

“Hmm,” he said, looking harder at the raccoon. “Interesting.”

“It seems strange that you don't know more about witches,” said Bracken.

“Why should I know anything about witches?” said the farmer. “I'm just an old corn farmer.”

“Because, well, you're a Witchfriend. Witchfriends are this special kind of human grownup who can see witches,” she added quickly. “Most grownup humans can't see us at all. Only human children and Witchfriends can. So if you can see us, it means you're our friend.”

“That's nice,” said Ben, nodding. “Glad to hear it.” He
thought for a minute. “I must have been a Witchfriend all my life without knowing it. Because how would you know, if you never got a chance to see witches, that you were their friend? I mean, you're all off hidden away.”

“We didn't used to be,” said Bracken. “We used to live in the human world, but it was a long time ago.” And she explained about that.

Ben listened carefully.

When it was very, very late, the raccoon curled up and went to sleep. The farmer reached forward and touched something. Music and voices filled the dark.

Outside the window, the moon had risen. It was nearly full, and now as Bracken gazed up at it, it seemed to be following along beside her as they sped through the night. It was the same moon that shone in her sleeping loft window.

But here it seemed like a strange moon, a different moon.

Nettle sat up in the sleeping bag. Elizabeth was still asleep, sprawled on her back with the quilt under her armpits. Outside it was gray and starting to rain. For a minute Nettle watched the drops slide down the window glass. Then suddenly she remembered the seeking stone and pulled it from her pocket. She touched the stone's cold surface and tried to remember a spell that might work.

Nothing happened.

She remembered the Woodfolk cloth and pulled it out. She ran her fingers over the soft cloth, the smooth stiches, and thought about Woodfolk with a fierce stab of longing. After a long time, she wrapped the stone in the cloth and slipped it back in her pocket, but as she did her hand touched something else. She pulled it out. It was the book she'd found next to the stone in the glass case. The word
Journal
was embossed on the battered leather cover.

She wondered now why she'd taken some old musty- looking diary, but she opened it anyway.

Sickle Moon
, read the first page. The faded handwriting was small and quick and plain.

It was wretchedly hot today, and in my human clothes I could barely breathe. I
refuse
to wear a corset, but there's no avoiding the tight-waisted dress, the petticoats, the hat that must be fastened to your piled hair with a long, sharp pin. Worst of all are the boots
.

I keep my own precious dress in a satchel tucked tight beneath my arm. My broomstick and hat and seeking stone are safe in the pocket
.

Nettle's eyes widened.

Broomstick?

Seeking stone?

A
witch's
diary. Nettle read on.

The city is much, much bigger than I ever could have imagined. There is an incessant din of riverboats hooting, carriages rattling, hammers pounding, men shouting
.

My first step must be to find a Witchfriend
.

Nettle glanced at Elizabeth, still hard asleep.

It was simple to tell if a grownup human was a Witchfriend—she (or he) could see you. It was different with a human child. But Elizabeth was a Witchfriend, surely?

Nettle bent again over the book.

Quarter Moon
, it said.

Yesterday in the early morning I saw a gentle old man. Something about him made me think . . . perhaps
he's
a Witchfriend? Though I have been deceived before. I followed him to a bookshop
.

I watched through the front window as he took off his hat and coat and hung them on a hook. He walked among the shelves, pausing sometimes to take out a volume or to run his hand along the spines
.

How can you tell whether a human is a Witchfriend? It's a brightness in the eyes, yes, but more than that. An openness. An eagerness. An abiding interest in life in all its many forms
.

After a time he caught sight of me through the window and nodded in greeting
.

A bell rang when I entered. He smiled, his eyes bright and sharp
.

Waxing Moon

The bookseller's name is Mr. James. Today I bought a book from him, a volume of poetry. “What an amazing thing a poem is! Like a spell, but not a spell,” I said, and watched him closely
.

“Quite so,” he said pleasantly
.

Half-Moon

The bookseller has a daughter named Phoebe who also works in the shop. She wears a gray dress and a black shawl and reminds me of the bird of that name. I wonder if she too might be a Witchfriend, as it often runs in families
.

Yesterday they invited me to go with them on a visit. Someone wished to meet me, they said
.

We rode on a streetcar and alighted by a grand stone house with towers and turrets, almost like a castle in the Old Country. A servant led us through an entranceway, then into a great, high-ceilinged room and down a passageway to a parlor where an old man—old for a human, at least—was waiting. He rose from his chair and bowed. His name, he told me, was Walter Allan Atkinson
.

It was the name on the little white cards.

W. A. Atkinson
.

The man who had taken the seeking stone!

Nettle felt a chill. She read on, faster.

Mr. Atkinson looked at me for the briefest moment, then the three humans exchanged a glance
.

“We are Witchfriends, all,” said Phoebe
.

I kept silence, for one cannot be too cautious
.

“If you want to be sure of us, we can make a test,” Phoebe said gently. “We will leave you alone to put on your witch garb. We will wait in a room just down the hall. Come when you are ready. Then, if you are not invisible to us, you will know that we are telling the truth.”