“He’s not mean. He’s a crow.” Luna sighed. “And yes, Fyrian, dearest. Close your eyes.”
Fyrian gave a delighted gurgle and snuggled into the folds of Luna’s skirt. He’d be snoring soon. No one could get comfortable quicker than Fyrian.
Luna turned her attention to the point at which the land met the sky. She pictured it as clear as she could in her mind, as though her mind had transformed to paper, and she need only mark upon it, as careful as could be. She breathed deeply, allowing her heart to slow and her soul to loosen its worries and wrinkles and knots. There was a feeling she would get when she did this. A heat in her bones. A crackling in her fingertips. And, strangest of all, an awareness of the odd birthmark on her forehead, as though it was, quite suddenly, shining—bright and clear, like a lamp. And who knows? Maybe it was.
In her mind, Luna could see the horizon’s edge. And she saw the lip of the land begin to extend, farther and farther, as though the world was turning toward her, offering its face with a smile.
Without opening her eyes, Luna began to draw. As she sat, she became so calm that she was hardly aware of anything—her own breathing, the heat of Fyrian pressed close to her hip, the way he was beginning to snore, the crush of images coming so thick and fast she could hardly focus on them, until they all passed by in a great, green blur.
“Luna,” a voice came from very far away.
“Caw,” said another.
“LUNA!” A roar in her ear. She woke with a start.
“WHAT?” she roared back. But then she saw the look on Fyrian’s face, and she was ashamed. “How—” she began. She looked around. The sun, only barely warming the world below when they had arrived on the crater, was now straight up above. “How long have we been here?”
Half the day, she already knew. It’s noon.
Fyrian hovered very close to Luna’s face, pressing nose to nose—green to freckles. His expression was grave. “Luna,” he breathed. “Are you sick?”
“Sick?” Luna scoffed. “Of course not.”
“I think you might be sick,” he said in a hushed voice. “Something very strange just happened to your eyeballs.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Luna said, closing her journal with a snap and tying the leather straps tightly around the soft covers. She slid it into her satchel and stood up. Her legs nearly buckled under her. “My eyes are regular.”
“It’s not ridiculous at all,” Fyrian said, buzzing about from Luna’s left ear to her right. “Your eyes are black and sparkly. Usually. But just now they were two pale moons. That isn’t regular. Or, I’m pretty sure it isn’t regular.”
“My eyes were no such thing,” Luna said, stumbling forward. She tried to right herself, hanging on to a boulder for balance. But the boulders gave her no assistance—they had, under the touch of her hands, become as light as feathers. One boulder began to float. Luna grunted in frustration.
“And now your legs won’t work,” Fyrian pointed out, trying to be helpful. “And what is going on with that boulder?”
“Mind your business,” Luna said, summoning her strength to leap forward, landing hard on the smooth, granite slope on the eastern side.
“That was a far jump,” Fyrian said, staring openmouthed from the place where Luna had been just a moment ago and arcing over to where Luna now was. “You usually can’t jump that far. I mean it, Luna. It almost looked like—”
“Caw,” said the crow. Or it should have been Caw. But to Luna, it sounded more like Shut your face. She decided she rather liked the crow.
“Fine,” Fyrian sniffed. “Don’t listen to me. No one ever listens to me.” And he buzzed down the slope in a blur of petulant green.
Luna sighed heavily and trudged toward home. She’d make it up to him. Fyrian always forgave her. Always.
The bright sun cast sharp shadows on the slope as Luna hurried down. She was filthy and sweaty—from the exercise or the blank drawing time? She had no idea, but she stopped by a stream to wash off. The lake inside the crater was too hot to touch, but the streams that flowed out of it, while unpleasant to drink, were cool enough to splash on a muddy face, or to wash the sweat from the back of the neck or under the arms. Luna knelt down and proceeded to make herself more presentable before facing her grandmother and Glerk—both of whom would likely want answers about her absence.
The mountain rumbled. The volcano, she knew, was hiccupping in its sleep. This was normal for volcanoes, Luna knew—they are restless sleepers—and this restlessness was usually not a problem. Unless it was. The volcano seemed more restless than usual lately—getting worse by the day. Her grandmother told her not to worry about it, which just made Luna worry more.
“LUNA!” Glerk’s voice echoed off the slope of the crater. It bounced off the sky. Luna shaded her eyes and looked down the slope. Glerk was alone. He waved three of his arms in greeting and Luna waved back. Grandmama isn’t with him, she realized with a clench in her heart. She couldn’t possibly still be sleeping, she thought, her worry tying knots in her stomach. Not this late. But even at this far distance, she could see a blur of anxiety swirling around Glerk’s head like a cloud.
Luna headed back to her house at a run.
Xan was still in bed. Past noon. Sleeping like the dead. Luna woke her up, feeling tears stinging in her eyes. Is she sick? Luna wondered.
“My goodness, child,” Xan murmured. “Why on earth are you rousting me at this insane hour? Some of us are trying to sleep.” And Xan turned onto her side and went back to sleep.
She didn’t get up for another hour. She assured Luna this was perfectly normal.
“Of course it is, Grandmama,” Luna said, not looking her grandmother in the eye. “Everything is perfectly normal.” And grandmother and granddaughter faced one another with thin, brittle smiles. Each lie they told fell from their lips and scattered on the ground, tinkling and glittering like broken glass.
Later that day, when her grandmother announced that she would like to be alone and left for the workshop, Luna pulled her journal from her satchel and paged through it, looking at the drawings she had done while she was dreaming. She always found she did her best work when she had no memory of what she had done. It was annoying, actually.
She had drawn a picture of a stone tower—one that she had drawn before—with high walls and an observatory pointing at the sky. She had drawn a paper bird flying out of the westernmost window. Another thing she had drawn before. She also had drawn a baby surrounded by ancient, gnarled trees. She had drawn the full moon, beaming promises to the earth.
And she had drawn a map. Two of them, actually. On two pages.
Luna flipped back and forth, stared at her handiwork.
Each map was intricate and detailed, showing topography and trails and hidden dangers. A geyser here. A mud pot there. A sinkhole that could swallow a herd of goats and still groan for more.
The first map was a precise rendering of the landscape and trails that led to the Free Cities. Luna could see each landform, each divot in the trail, each stream and clearing and waterfall. She could even see the downed trees from their recent journey.
The other map was another part of the forest altogether. The trail began at her tree house in one corner, and it followed the slope of the mountain as it tumbled toward the north.
Where she had never been.
She had drawn a trail—all twists and turns and clearly identified landmarks. Places to make camp. Which streams had good water, and which needed to be avoided.
There was a circle of trees. And in the center of it, she had written the word “baby.”
There was a town behind a high wall.
And in the town, a Tower.
And next to the Tower, the words, “She is here, she is here, she is here.”
Very slowly, Luna pulled the notebook close, and pressed these words next to her heart.
24.
In Which Antain Presents a Solution