The Girl Who Drank the Moon (13 page)

T
he next day, after sleeping in the guest room of the widow woman, Xan walked through the town, checking on the pregnant women, advising them on their work level and food choices, listening to their bellies.

Luna tagged along. “So you may learn something useful,” her grandmother said. Her words stung, no mistake.

“I'm useful,” Luna said, tripping on the cobblestones as they hurried to the first patient's house on the other edge of town.

The woman's pregnancy was so far along, she looked as though she might burst at any second. She greeted both grandmother and grandchild with a serene exhaustion. “I'd get up,” she said, “but I fear I may fall over.” Luna kissed the lady on the cheek, as was customary, and quickly touched the mound of belly, feeling the child leap inside. Suddenly she had a lump in her throat.

“Why don't I make some tea?” she said briskly, turning her face away.

I had a mother once,
Luna thought.
I must have.
She frowned. And surely, she must have asked about it, too, but she couldn't seem to remember doing so.

Luna made a list of what she knew in her head.

Sorrow is dangerous.

Memories are slippery.

My grandmother does not always tell the truth.

And neither do I.

These thoughts swirled in Luna's mind as she swirled the tea leaves in the boiling water.

“Can the girl rest her hands on my belly for a little bit?” the woman asked. “Or perhaps she could sing to the child. I would appreciate her blessing—living as she does in the presence of magic.”

Luna did not know why the woman would want her blessing—or even what a blessing
was
. And that last word . . . it sounded familiar. But Luna couldn't remember. And just like that, she could barely remember the word at all—and was only aware of a pulsing sensation in her skull, like the ticking of a clock. In any case, Luna's grandmother hastily shooed her out the door, and then her thinking went fuzzy, and then she was back inside pouring tea from the pot. But the tea had gone cold. How long had she been outside? She hit the side of her head a few times with the heel of her hand to un-­addle her brains. Nothing seemed to help.

At the next house, Luna arranged the herbs for the mother's care in order of usefulness. She rearranged the furniture to better accommodate the growing belly of the expectant lady, and rearranged the kitchen supplies so she wouldn't have to reach as far.

“Well, look at you,” the mother said. “So helpful!”

“Thank you,” Luna said bashfully.

“And smart as a whip,” she added.

“Of course she is,” Xan agreed. “She's mine, isn't she?”

Luna felt a rush of cold. Once again, that memory of waving black hair, and strong hands and the smell of milk and thyme and black pepper, and a woman's voice screaming,
She's mine, she's mine, she's mine.

The image was so clear, so present and immediate, that Luna felt her breath catch and her heart pound. The pregnant woman didn't notice. Xan didn't notice. Luna could feel the screaming woman's voice in her ears. She could feel that black hair in her fingertips. She lifted her gaze to the rafters, but no one was there.

The rest of their visit passed without incident, and Luna and Xan made the long journey home. They did not speak of the memory of the man in the robes. Or of any other kind of memory. They did not speak of sorrow or worries or black-­haired women on ceilings.

And the things that they did
not
speak of began to outweigh the things that they
did.
Each secret, each unspoken thing was round and hard and heavy and cold, like a stone hung around the necks of both grandmother and girl.

Their backs bent under the weight of secrets.

20.

In Which Luna Tells a Story

Listen, you ridiculous dragon. Stop wiggling this minute, or I will not tell you a story ever again in my life.

You're still wiggling.

Yes, cuddling is fine. You may cuddle.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who had no memory.

Once upon a time there was a dragon who never grew up.

Once upon a time there was a grandmother who didn't tell the truth.

Once upon a time there was a swamp monster who was older than the world and who loved the world and loved the people in it but who didn't always know the right thing to say.

Once upon a time there was a girl with no memory. Wait. Did I say that already?

Once upon a time there was a girl who had no memory of losing her memory.

Once upon a time there was a girl who had memories that followed her like shadows. They whispered like ghosts. She could not look them in the eye.

Once upon a time there was a man in a robe with a face like a vulture.

Once upon a time there was a woman on the ceiling.

Once upon a time there was black hair and black eyes and a righteous howl. Once upon a time a woman with hair like snakes said,
She is mine
, and she meant it. And then they took her away.

Once upon a time there was a dark tower that pierced the sky and turned everything gray.

Yes. This is all one story. This is my story. I just don't know how it ends.

Once upon a time, something terrifying lived in the woods. Or perhaps the woods were terrifying. Or perhaps the whole world is poisoned with wickedness and lies, and it's best to learn that now.

No, Fyrian, darling. I don't believe that last bit, either.

21.

In Which Fyrian Makes a Discovery

“Luna, Luna, Luna, Luna,” Fyrian sang, spinning a pirouette in the air.

Two weeks she had been home. Fyrian remained delighted.

“Luna, Luna, Luna, Luna.” He finished his dance with a bit of a flourish, landing on one toe on the center of Luna's palm. He bowed low. Luna smiled in spite of herself. Her grandmother was sick in bed. Still. She had been sick since they returned home.

When it was time for bed, she kissed Glerk good night and went to the house with Fyrian, who wasn't supposed to sleep in Luna's bed, but surely would.

“Good night, Grandmama,” Luna said, leaning over her sleeping grandmother and kissing her papery cheek. “Sweet dreams,” she added, noticing a catch in her voice. Xan didn't move. She continued to sleep her openmouthed sleep. Her eyelids didn't even flutter.

And because Xan was in no condition to object, Luna told Fyrian that he could sleep at the foot of her bed, just like old times.

“Oh, joyful joyness!” Fyrian sighed, clutching his front paws to his heart and nearly fainting dead away.

“But, Fyrian, I will kick you out if you snore. You nearly lit my pillow on fire last time.”

“I shall never snore,” Fyrian promised. “Dragons do not snore. I am sure of it. Or maybe just dragonlings do not snore. You have my word as a Simply Enormous Dragon. We are an old and glorious race, and our word is our bond.”

“You are making all that up,” Luna said, tying her hair back in a long, black plait and hiding behind a curtain to change into her nightgown.

“Am not,” he said huffily. Then he sighed. “Well. I might be. I wish my mother were here sometimes. It would be nice to have another dragon to talk to.” His eyes grew wide. “Not that you are not enough, Luna-­my-­Luna. And Glerk teaches me ever so many things. And Auntie Xan loves me as much as any mother ever could. Still.” He sighed and said no more. Instead he somersaulted into Luna's nightgown pocket and curled his hot little body into a tight ball. It was, Luna thought, like putting a stone from the hearth in her pocket—uncomfortably hot, yet comforting all the same.

“You are a riddle, Fyrian,” Luna murmured, resting her hand on the curve of the dragon, curling her fingers into the heat. “You are my favorite riddle.” Fyrian at least had a memory of his mother. All Luna had were dreams. And she couldn't vouch for their accuracy. True, Fyrian saw his mother die, but at least he
knew
. And what's more, he could love his new family fully, and with no questions.

Luna loved her family. She
loved them
.

But she had questions.

And it was with a head full of questions that she cuddled under her covers and fell asleep.

By the time the crescent moon slid past the windowsill and peeked into the room, Fyrian was snoring. By the time the moon shone fully through the window, he had begun to singe Luna's nightgown. And by the time the curve of the moon touched the opposite window frame, Fyrian's breath made a bright red mark on the side of Luna's hip, leaving a blister there.

She pulled him out of her pocket and set him on the end of the bed.

“Fyrian,” she half slurred and half yelled in her half sleep. “Get OUT.”

And Fyrian was gone.

Luna looked around.

“Well,” she whispered.
Did he fly out the window?
She couldn't tell. “That was fast.”

And she pressed her palm against her injury, trying to imagine a bit of ice melting into the burn, taking the pain away. And after a little bit the pain
did
go away, and Luna was asleep.

F
yrian did not wake up to Luna's shouting. He had that dream again. His mother was trying to tell him something, but she was very far away, and the air was very loud and very smoky, and he couldn't hear her. But he could see her if he squinted—standing with the other magicians from the castle as the walls crumbled around them.

“Mama!” Fyrian called in his dream-­voice, but his words were garbled by the smoke. His mother allowed an impossibly old man to climb upon her shining back, and they flew into the volcano. The volcano, rageful and belligerent, bellowed and rumbled and spat, trying to hock them free.

“MAMA!” Fyrian called again, sobbing himself awake.

He was not curled up next to Luna, where he had fallen asleep, nor was he resting in his dragon sack, suspended over the swamp, so he might whisper good night to Glerk over and over and over again. Indeed, Fyrian had no idea where he was. All he knew was that his body felt strange, like a puffed-­up lump of bread dough right before it is punched back down. Even his eyes felt puffy.

“What is going on?” Fyrian asked out loud. “Where is Glerk? GLERK! LUNA! AUNTIE XAN!” No one answered. He was alone in the wood.

He must have sleep-­flown there, he thought, though he had never sleep-­flown before. For some reason he was unable to fly
now
. He flapped his wings, but nothing happened. He beat them so hard that the trees on either side of him bent away and lost their leaves (
Did that always happen
?
It must,
he decided) and the dirt on the ground swirled up in great whirlwinds as he heaved his wings. His wings felt heavy and his body felt heavy and he could not fly.

“This always happens when I'm tired,” Fyrian told himself firmly, even though that wasn't true, either. His wings always worked, just like his eyes always worked and his paws always worked, and he was always able to walk or crawl or peel the skin off ripe guja fruits and climb trees. All of his various bits were in good operating condition. So why weren't his wings working
now
?

His dream had left an ache in his heart. His mother had been a beautiful dragon. Impossibly beautiful. Her eyelids were lined with tiny jewels, each a different color. Her belly was the exact color of a freshly laid egg. When Fyrian closed his eyes he felt as though he could touch each buttery-­smooth scale on her hide, each razor-­sharp spike. He felt as though he could smell the sweet sulfur on her breath.

How many years had it been? Not that many, surely. He was still just a young dragonling. (Whenever he thought about time, his head hurt.)

“Hello?” he called. “Is anyone home?”

He shook his head. Of course no one was home. This was no one's
home
. He was in the middle of a deep, dark forest where he was not allowed, and he would probably die here, and it was all his own stupid fault, even though he was not entirely sure what he had
done
to make it happen. Sleep-­flying, apparently. Though he thought maybe he had made that term up.

“When you feel afraid,” his mother had told him, all those years ago, “sing your fears away. Dragons make the most beautiful music in the world. Everyone says so.” And though Glerk assured him this was not true, and that dragons, instead, were masters of self-­delusion, Fyrian took every opportunity he could to break into song. And it did make him feel better.

“
Here I am,
” he sang loudly, “
In the middle of a terrifying wood. Tra-­la-­la!
”

Thump, thump, thump, went his heavy feet. Were his feet always this heavy? They must have been.

“
And I am not afraid,
” he continued. “
Not in the tiniest bit. Tra-­la-­la!
”

It wasn't true. He was terrified.

“Where
am
I?” he asked out loud. As if to answer his question, a figure appeared out of the gloom.
A monster,
Fyrian thought. Not that monsters as such were frightening. Fyrian loved Glerk, and Glerk was a monster. Still, this monster was much taller than Glerk. And in shadow. Fyrian took a step forward. His great paws sank even deeper into the mud. He tried to flap his wings, but they still wouldn't lift him off the ground. The monster didn't move. Fyrian stepped nearer. The trees rustled and moaned, their great branches shifting under the weight of the wind. He squinted.

“Why, you are not a monster at all. You are a chimney. A chimney with no house.”

And it was true. A chimney was standing at the side of a clearing. The house, it seemed, had burned away years ago. Fyrian examined the structure. Carved stars decorated the uppermost stones, and soot blackened the hearth. Fyrian peered down into the top of the chimney and faced an angry mother hawk sitting on her frightened nestlings.

“Sorry,” he squeaked, as the hawk nipped his nose, making it bleed. He turned away from the chimney. “What a small hawk,” he mused. Though it occurred to him that he was away from the land of giants, and everything was of regular size here. Indeed, he had only to stand on his hind legs and stretch his neck in order to look into the chimney.

He looked around. He was standing in a ruined village, among the remains of houses and a central tower and a wall that perhaps was a place of worship. He saw pictures of dragons and a volcano and even a little girl with hair like starlight.

“This is Xan,” his mother told him once. “She will take care of you when I'm gone.” He had loved Xan from the first moment. She had freckles on her nose and a chipped tooth and her starlight hair was in long braids with ribbons at the end. But that couldn't be right. Xan was an old woman, and he was a young dragon, and he couldn't have possibly known her when she was young, could he have?

Xan had taken him in her arms. Her cheek was smudged with dirt. They had both been sneaking sweets from the castle pantry. “But I don't know how!” she had said. And then she had cried. She sobbed like a little girl.

But she couldn't have been a little girl. Could she?

“You will. You'll learn,” Fyrian's mother's gentle, dragony voice said. “I have faith in you.”

Fyrian felt a lump in his throat. Two giant tears welled in his eyes and went tumbling to the ground, boiling two patches of moss clear away. How long had it been? Who could tell? Time was a tricky thing—as slippery as mud.

And Xan had warned him to be mindful of sorrow. “Sorrow is dangerous,” she told him over and over again, though he couldn't remember if she ever told him why.

The central tower leaned precariously to one side. Several foundation stones on the lee side had crumbled away, allowing Fyrian to crouch low and peer inside. There was something, two somethings, actually—he could see them by the tiny glimmer at the edges. He reached in and pulled them out. Held them in his paws. They were tiny—both fit into the hollow of his palm.

“Boots,” he said. Black boots with silver buckles. They were old—they must be. Yet they shone as though they had just been polished. “They look just like those boots from the old castle,” he said. “Of course, these can't be the same. They are much too small. The other ones were giant. And they were worn by giants.”

The magicians long ago had been studying boots just like these. They had placed the boots on the table and were examining them with tools and special glasses and powders and cloths and other tools. Every day they experimented and observed and took notes. Seven League Boots, they were called. And neither Fyrian nor Xan was allowed to touch them.

“You're too little,” the other magicians told Xan when she tried.

Fyrian shook his head. That can't be right. Xan wasn't little then, was she? It couldn't have been that long ago.

Something growled in the wood. Fyrian jumped to his feet. “
I'm not afraid,
” he sang as his knees knocked together and his breath came in short gasps. Soft, padded footsteps drew nearer. There were tigers in the wood, he knew. Or there had been long ago.

“I am a very fierce dragon!” he called, his voice a tiny squeak. The darkness growled again. “Please don't hurt me,” the dragonling begged.

And then he remembered. Shortly after his mother disappeared into the volcano, Xan had told him this: “I will take care of you, Fyrian. For always. You're my family, and I am yours. I am putting a spell on you to keep you safe. You must never wander away, but if you do, and if you get scared, just say ‘Auntie Xan' three times very quickly, and it will pull you to me as quick as lightning.”

“How?” Fyrian had asked.

“A magic rope.”

“But I don't see it.”

“Just because you don't see something doesn't mean it isn't there. Some of the most wonderful things in the world are invisible. Trusting in invisible things makes them more powerful and wondrous. You'll see.”

Fyrian had never tried it.

The growling came closer.

“A-­a-­auntie Xan Auntie Xan Auntie Xan,” Fyrian shouted. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Nothing happened. His panic crawled into his throat.

“Auntie Xan Auntie Xan Auntie Xan!”

Still nothing. The growling came closer. Two yellow eyes glowed in the darkness. A large shape hunched in the gloom.

Fyrian yelped. He tried to fly. His body was too big and his wings were too small. Everything was wrong. Why was everything so wrong? He missed his giants, his Xan and his Glerk and his Luna.