The Girl Who Drank the Moon

by Kelly Barnhill

The Protectorate—called the Cattail Kingdom by some and the City of Sorrows by others—was sandwiched between a treacherous forest on one side and an enormous bog on the other.

Grand Elder Gherland owned the Road, and the other Elders had their cut.

Normally, the Day of Sacrifice came and went with all the pomp and gravity that it ought. The children were given over without protest. Their numb families mourned in silence, with pots of stew and nourishing foods heaped into their kitchens, while the comforting arms of neighbors circled around them to ease their bereavement.

“We are not taking her at all, my poor, misguided girl,” Gherland said in his most patient voice. “The Witch is taking her. We are simply doing as we’re told.”

In the center of her forehead, she had a birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon.

Her name was Xan. And she was the Witch.

She is being adorable as some sort of hideous ruse, to spite me. What a mean baby!

That mother—the one who went mad—was still in there. Locked up. The madwoman. For five years now she had convalesced in confinement, but she still had not healed. In Antain’s mind’s eye, he could see that wild face, those black eyes, that birthmark on her forehead—livid and red. The way she kicked and climbed and shrieked and fought. He couldn’t forget it.

“Don’t forget,” it said on one side of the stone. “I mean it,” it said on the other. Don’t forget what? You mean what, Zosimos?

“Your sorrow is dangerous. Don’t forget that she is still about.”

‘The Fool, when removed from solid ground, leaps— From mountaintop, to burning star, to black, black space. The scholar, when bereft of scroll, of quill, of heavy tome, Falls. And cannot be found.’

Glerk closed his eyes. “The Poet. The Bog. The World. And me. They are all the same thing, you know.” But he wouldn’t explain what he meant.

She needs to be educated. She needs to know the contents of those books, there. She needs to understand the movements of the stars and the origins of the universe and the requirements of kindness. She needs to know mathematics and poetry. She must ask questions. She must seek to understand. She must understand the laws of cause and effect and unintended consequences. She must learn compassion and curiosity and awe. All of these things. We have to instruct her, Glerk. All three of us. It is a great responsibility.”

“It will slow, I expect.” She pressed her lips together. “Little bit by bit by bit. And then she will turn thirteen and it will flow out all at once. No more magic. I will be an empty vessel with nothing left to keep these old bones moving. And then I’ll be gone.” Xan’s voice was quiet and smooth, like the surface of the swamp

“Yes. Assuming I’ve done this right, the seed of magic will open on her thirteenth birthday. We don’t know the exact day, of course, but we can make our guesses. That’s when her magic will come. And that’s when I will go. It’s enough. I’ve already outlasted any reasonable allotment of life on this earth. And I’m ever so curious to know what comes next. Come. Let’s begin.”

The Sisters of the Star lived in the Tower, a massive structure that unsettled the eye and confounded the mind. The Tower stood in the very center of the Protectorate—it cast its shadow everywhere.

Sorrow is dangerous. Memories are slippery. My grandmother does not always tell the truth. And neither do I.

“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?

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.)

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.

“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.”

The day was warm and sticky, and she realized with creeping horror that she was starting to stink. This sort of thing had been happening a lot lately—bad smells, strange eruptions on her face. Luna felt as though every single thing on her body had suddenly conspired to alter itself—even her voice had turned traitorous.

This has happened before, said the voice in her head. This has happened before. This has happened before.

And every time, she made a map. She is here, she wrote, over and over and over again. No one read her maps. No one read her words. No one bothers with the words of the mad, after all. They pulped her paper and sold it at the marketplace for a considerable sum.

The Sister sighed. She stood and paced the room. “You really don’t smell that?” The Grand Elder shrugged, and the Sister shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. In all likelihood, the forest will kill him. He has never endeavored such a journey. He has no skills. He has no idea what he is doing. And his loss will prevent other, more—unpleasant—questions from being raised. However, it is possible that he may return. That is what troubles me.”

“I am. And you may rest assured: I will be quick. His death will be painless. He will not know of my coming. And he will not know what hit him.”

Paper, she thought. My life is made of paper. Paper birds. Paper maps. Paper books. Paper journals. Paper words and paper thoughts. Everything fades and shreds and crinkles away to nothing.

even hear it. It wasn’t fair. What the men and women in the castle had done to Xan was not fair. What Xan had done to Luna was not fair. What the citizens of the Protectorate had done to their own babies was not fair. None of it was fair.

“Caw,” the crow said. “To the ends of the earth, my Luna. To the ends of the earth.”

“Things are changing in you, dearest. Inside and out. I know you can sense it, but you have no words for it. This is my fault. You have no idea who you are, and that is my fault, too. There are things that I kept from you because of circumstance, and things that I kept from you because I didn’t want to break your heart. But it doesn’t change the facts: you are ever so much more than you realize.”

“When you were a baby, I rescued you from a terrible fate. And then I accidentally offered you the moon to drink—and you did drink it, which exposed you to yet another terrible fate. I am sorry. You will live long and you will forget much and the people you love will die and you will keep going. This was my fate. And now it is yours. There is only one reason for it:”

“It is the word that could not stick in your mind, but it is the word that defines your life. As it has defined mine. I only hope I will have enough time to explain everything before I leave you again—for the last time. I love you more than I could possibly say. Your Loving Grandmother”

She rubbed her eyes and looked a third time. “I thought I killed you, Glerk,” she whispered. “Well. I guess I shall have to try again. Troublesome creature. You almost foiled me once, but you failed. And you shall fail again.”

Glerk came lumbering out of the swamp, the dark waters shedding in great beads from the oily sheen of his darker skin. He came close to Luna’s unblinking eyes. Glerk’s great, damp mouth deepened into a frown. “I don’t like this,” he said, laying two of his hands on either side of Luna’s face, and the other two hands on each of her shoulders. “This is the third time today. What happened this time?”

“Was it she? The Sorrow Eater?” Glerk’s voice had turned into a dangerous rumble.

“In any case, my friend, I have never killed anyone before. I have never harmed any creature. But I love Ethyne. And I love Luken, my son. And I will do what is necessary to protect my family. I am telling you this, my swallow, because I don’t want you to be frightened when you see me do the thing I must do. I am not a wicked man. I am a man who loves his family. And because I love them, I will kill the Witch. I will. I will kill the Witch or die trying.”

story can tell the truth, she knew, but a story can also lie. Stories can bend and twist and obfuscate. Controlling stories is power indeed.

Knowledge is powerful, but it is a terrible power when it is hoarded and hidden. Today, knowledge is for everyone.”

Fyrian was growing.

“Be careful with Glerk,” Luna called to Fyrian. The dragon held the Sorrow Eater in his hands, extended as far from his body as they could be, as though he found her repellant. The monster clung to his back, just as Fyrian had clung to Glerk for years. “I’m always careful with Glerk,” Fyrian said primly. “He’s delicate.”

People smiled hopefully, despite the mess. The Council of Elders languished in prison, and new council members were elected by popular vote.

“Your name is Adara. It’s all right if you don’t remember it. I’ll keep saying it until you do. And just as your mind went skittering in every direction trying to find me, so did my heart go wandering trying to find you. Look here. I even drew a map. ‘She is here, she is here, she is here.’ ” Luna closed the journal and looked into Adara’s face. “You are here, you are here, you are here. And so am I.”

“Are you going to apologize?” Ethyne asked. “Never,” Gherland spat. “That is a pity,” Ethyne said. “Good-bye, Uncle.” And they left without another word. The Grand Elder maintained his position. He remained in prison for the rest of his days. Eventually, people stopped visiting, and they stopped mentioning him—even in jest. And in time, they forgot about him altogether.

“I was taken from my mother,” Luna explained. “Like you, I was brought to a family who loved me and whom I love. I cannot stop loving that family, and I don’t want to. I can only allow my love to increase.” She smiled. “I love the grandmother who raised me. I love the mother I lost. My love is boundless. My heart is infinite. And my joy expands and expands. You’ll see.”

Glerk refused to leave Xan’s side. His skin grew cracked and itchy without the daily wash of his beloved swamp water. Every day, he looked longingly at the Bog. Luna asked the former Sisters—friends of Ethyne’s—to please keep buckets at the ready to douse him when he needed it, but well water just wasn’t the same. Eventually, Xan told him to stop being such a silly and walk down to the Bog for a daily bath.

The Sorrow Eater by now looked as old as dust. Her skin crinkled over her bones like old paper. Her eyes were sightless and hollow. “Close the window,” she rasped. “I can’t bear to hear it.” “Leave it open,” Xan whispered. “I can’t bear not to.”

Glerk smiled. “In the beginning, there was the Bog. And the Bog covered the world and the Bog was the world and the world was the Bog.” Xan sighed. “I know this story.” “But the Bog was lonely. It wanted a world. It wanted eyes with which to see the world. It wanted a strong back with which to carry itself from place to place. It wanted legs to walk and hands to touch and a mouth that could sing. And so the Bog was a Beast and the Beast was the Bog. And then the Beast sang the world into being. And the world and the Beast and the Bog were all of one substance, and they were all bound by infinite love.”

And Xan took Glerk’s hand, and they turned their faces toward the endless Bog, and began walking. They didn’t look back.

“The heart is built of starlight And time. A pinprick of longing lost in the dark. An unbroken chord linking the Infinite to the Infinite. My heart wishes upon your heart and the wish is granted. Meanwhile the world spins. Meanwhile the universe expands. Meanwhile the mystery of love reveals itself, again and again, in the mystery of you. I have gone. I will return. Glerk”

Once upon a time, the Witch received a poem from the Beast of the Bog. Perhaps it was the poem that made the world. Perhaps it was the poem that will end it. Perhaps it is something else entirely. All I know is that the Witch keeps it safe in a locket under her cloak. She belongs to us, but one day her magic will fade and she will wander back into the Bog and we won’t have a witch anymore. Only stories. Perhaps she will find the Beast. Or become the Beast. Or become the Bog. Or become a Poem. Or become the world. They are all the same thing, you know.