There had been . . . other kinds of eruptions, too. Things that she couldn’t explain. The first time she’d noticed it, she had tried to jump to get a better look at a bird’s nest, and found herself, quite suddenly, on the topmost branch of the tree, hanging on for dear life.
“It must be the wind,” she told herself, though the idea was clearly ridiculous. Who had ever heard of a gust of wind propelling a person to the top of a tree? But since Luna really didn’t have any other explanation, It must be the wind seemed as good as any. She hadn’t told her grandmother or her Glerk. She didn’t want to worry them. Also, it felt vaguely embarrassing—like perhaps there was something wrong with her.
Besides. It was just the wind.
And then, a month later, when Luna and her grandmother were gathering mushrooms in the forest, Luna had noticed yet again how tired her grandmother was, how thin and how frail and how her breath rattled painfully in and out.
“I’m worried about her,” she said out loud when her grandmother was out of earshot. Luna felt her voice catching in her throat.
“I am, too,” a nut-brown squirrel replied. He was sitting on the lowermost branch, peering down, a knowing expression on his pointy face.
It took a full moment for Luna to realize that squirrels are not supposed to talk.
It took another moment for her to realize that it wasn’t the first time an animal had spoken to her. It had happened before. She was sure of it. She just couldn’t remember when.
And later, when she tried to explain to Glerk what had happened, she drew a blank. She couldn’t recall the incident for the life of her. She knew something had happened. She just didn’t know what.
This has happened before, said the voice in her head.
This has happened before.
This has happened before.
It was a pulsing certainty, this knowledge, as sure and steady as the gears of a clock.
Luna followed the path as it curled around the first knoll, leaving the swamp behind. An ancient fig tree spread its branches over the path, as if welcoming all who wandered by. A crow stood on the lowest branch. He was a fine fellow, feathers shining like oil. He looked Luna straight in the eye, as though he was waiting for her.
This has happened before, she thought.
“Hello,” Luna said, fixing her gaze on the crow’s bright eye.
“Caw,” the crow said. But Luna felt sure he meant “Hello.”
And all at once, Luna remembered.
The day before, she had retrieved an egg from the chicken coop. There was only the one egg in all the nests, and she didn’t have a basket, so she simply held it in her hand. Before she reached the house, she realized that the shell of the egg was wiggling. And that it was no longer smooth and warm and regular, but sharp and pointy and ticklish. Then it bit her. She let go of the egg with a cry. But it wasn’t an egg at all. It was a crow, full-sized, spiraling over her head and alighting on the nearest tree.
“Caw,” the crow had said. Or that is what the crow should have said. But it didn’t.
“Luna,” the crow cawed instead. And it didn’t fly away. It perched on the lowest branch of Luna’s tree house, and followed her wherever she went for the rest of the day. Luna was at a loss.
“Caw,” cawed the crow. “Luna, Luna, Luna.”
“Hush,” Luna scolded. “I’m trying to think.”
The crow was black and shiny, as a crow ought to be, but when Luna squinted and looked at it aslant, she saw another color, too. Blue. With a shimmer of silver at the edges. The extra colors vanished when she opened her eyes wide and looked straight on.
“What are you?” Luna asked.
“Caw,” said the crow. “I am the most excellent of crows,” the crow meant.
“I see. Make sure my grandmother doesn’t see you,” Luna said. “Or my swamp monster,” she added after considering it. “I think you’ll upset them.”
“Caw,” said the crow. “I agree,” it meant.
Luna shook her head.
The crow’s being did not make sense. Nothing made sense. And yet the crow was there. It was sure and clever and alive.
There is a word that explains this, she thought. There is a word that explains everything I don’t understand. There must be. I just can’t remember what it is.
Luna had instructed the crow to stay out of sight until she could figure things out, and the crow had complied. It truly was an excellent crow.
And now, here it was again. On the lowest branch of the fig tree.
“Caw,” the crow should have said. “Luna,” it called instead.
“Quiet, you,” Luna said. “You might be heard.”
“Caw,” the crow whispered, abashed.
Luna forgave the crow, of course. As she walked on, distracted, she tripped on a rock, tumbling hard to the ground and falling on her satchel.
“Ouch,” her satchel said. “Get off me.”
Luna stared at it. At this point, though, nothing surprised her. Even talking satchels.
Then a small, green nose peeked out from under the flap. “Is that you, Luna?” asked the nose.
Luna rolled her eyes. “What are you doing in my bag?” she demanded. She threw open the flap and glared at the shamefaced dragon climbing out.
“You keep going places,” he said, without looking her in the eye. “Without me. And it isn’t fair. I just wanted to come.” Fyrian fluttered upward and hovered at eye level. “I just want to be part of the group.” He gave her a hopeful, dragonish smile. “Maybe we should go get Glerk. And Auntie Xan. That’s a fun group!”
“No,” Luna said firmly, and continued her ascent to the top of the ridge. Fyrian fluttered behind.
“Where are we going? Can I help? I’m very helpful. Hey, Luna! Where are we going?”
Luna rolled her eyes and spun on her heel with a snort.
“Caw,” the crow said. He didn’t say Luna this time, but Luna could feel him thinking it. The crow flew up ahead, as though he already knew where they were going.
They followed the trail to the third cinder cone, the one on the far edge of the crater, and climbed to the top.
“Why are we up here?” Fyrian wanted to know.
“Hush,” Luna said.
“Why must we hush?” Fyrian asked.
Luna sighed deeply. “I need you to be very, very quiet, Fyrian. So I may concentrate on my drawing.”
“I can be quiet,” Fyrian chirped, still hovering in front of her face. “I can be so quiet. I can be quieter than worms, and worms are very quiet, unless they are convincing you not to eat them, and then they are less quiet, and very convincing, though I usually still eat them because they are delicious.”
“I mean, be quiet right now,” Luna said.
“But I am, Luna! I’m the quietest thing that—”
Luna snapped the dragon’s jaws shut with her index finger and her thumb and, to keep his feelings from getting hurt, scooped him up with her other arm and cuddled him close.
“I love you so much,” she whispered. “Now hush.” She gave his green skull an affectionate tap and let him curl into the heat of her hip.
She sat cross-legged on a flat-topped boulder. Scanning the limit of the land before it curved into the rim of the sky, she tried to imagine what sorts of things lay beyond. All she could see was forest. But surely the forest didn’t go on forever. When Luna walked with her grandmother in the opposite direction, eventually the trees thinned and gave way to farms, and the farms gave way to towns, which gave way to more farms. Eventually, there were deserts and more forests and mountain ranges and even an ocean, all accessible by large networks of roads that unwound this way and that, like great spools of yarn. Surely, the same must be true in this direction. But she couldn’t know for sure. She had never traveled this way. Her grandmother wouldn’t let her.
She never explained why.
Luna set her journal on her lap and opened it to an empty page. She peered into her satchel, found her sharpest pencil, and held it in her left hand—lightly, as though it was a butterfly and might fly away. She closed her eyes, and tried to make her mind go blank and blue, like a wide, cloudless sky.
“Do I need to close my eyes, too?” Fyrian asked.
“Hush, Fyrian,” Luna said.
“Caw,” said the crow.
“That crow is mean,” Fyrian sniffed.