Over the Moon Read online

  They’re Dust, I remind myself. Dustpuppets.

  I feel the distance growing between me and the rest of the mountain kids. They’ve backed up. Their horses are snarling, stomping. This is chaos. A terrible storm that I can’t fly away from.

  And then I feel a small presence on my other side. Iggy Thump.

  My body shakes so hard it trembles, but she’s there, bright-eyed. Ready.

  “Hold your ground,” she says. “Scream in their faces. Do. Not. Run.”

  I nod my head, embarrassed by the fearful tears running down my face.

  One of the creatures catches my eye, holds me in its gaze, then runs for me.

  Screaming.

  Eyes shining.

  Long claws extended.

  He’s close, a foot away, and I let loose the loudest scream I can find, the roar that’s been building in me for as long as I can remember.

  I swing it at the first monster, and the beast explodes into a sparkling pouf of Dust. Adam and his horse fly into the direct center of the next one. They’re only Dust, but they’re still vicious, their claws are still sharp, and I see Adam flinch as one claw swipes his face before the beast explodes.

  “What’s happening?” It’s the voice of an adult, and it’s joined by many more. Greer was in charge of getting the grown-ups here. Unfortunately, they’ve shown up at the same time as the monsters have.

  You would think some of the adults behind us would realize what we’re doing and run toward us to help. But they don’t.

  “Come home with me!” I hear a mother scream to a little girl standing near the front. She’s trying to pick her up, trying to run with her. But the girl won’t have it. She wriggles away every time.

  None of the children leave.

  Instead, they charge.

  Girls I’ve known from school, girls who’ve ended up in the valley like me, come running down the platform, broomsticks lifted high over their heads, screaming. They defeat the monsters with their wild chorus of roars. I realize, for the first time, how many of them are wearing green stripes in their hair like mine.

  “Mallie”—Adam points—“look!”

  Connor and Nico fly onto the platform, my parents behind them. I make eye contact with them for a split second before a monster’s claw swipes at my face. I whirl around and punch it in the snout with my UtilitySnap. Its roar disappears in a pouf of glittery dust.

  Some of the adults are fighting monsters now, alongside their children. Others are reaching out for the horses. Petting them. Nuzzling their faces.

  “They told me you were gone,” I hear an old woman say as she leans a tired, wrinkled cheek against a horse’s side.

  They told us so many things, and we believed them …

  An idea crashes against my heart. I run for my parents.

  I press my hand against Papa’s chest. “Sing out,” I tell him. “Believe you can do it, and try. I don’t think you ever lost your voice. I think the Guardians convinced you that you did. But it’s still there. I believe it’s there.”

  Mama and I watch him, waiting. He squeezes his eyes shut tight.

  At first, he opens his mouth, and there is nothing.

  But then his voice comes out as a squeak, then a rumble. Then a song:

  Mountain girl, lift up your eyes,

  The stars are shining bright for thee …

  Silence falls all around us for a moment. Mama’s hand is pressed over her mouth as she watches.

  Mama and I sing with him:

  Reach out and take the silver cord,

  Braid beauty there for all to see.

  As we sing, the sky begins to fall.

  Maybe it’s because we’re here, side by side. Because my voice sounds so strong when it echoes all these other voices. Maybe it’s because we are determined. We are decided.

  Whatever the reason, our voices don’t flutter out of our chests like birds. But they do rise toward the skies. There is a strange and wonderful magic when that happens, when voices combine and unite and press against the Dust.

  More monsters are surrounding us, but they’re dust; all they can do is howl. Maybe bite. They’re cheap magic tricks made from Timor powder. Tricks that came from the mind of a terrible man.

  And the more we sing, the more Mortimer Good is the one who begins to look afraid.

  Zigzag fault lines of light appear across the Dust. The light is a vein, then a river. A booming crack, and the Dust gives way to glorious, cool moonlight. The Dust is broken. Falling in pieces to the ground.

  Mortimer screams and calls for his Guardians. They’re frantic, throwing handfuls of yellow Timor powder to the ground, sending new monsters swirling up around us. The beasts growl in our faces.

  I see Greer’s eyes, teary with fear as a monster rounds on him, baring its teeth. But Greer closes his eyes—pretends to be somewhere else—and sings anyway.

  The girls from the valley are teaching the boys from the mines how to fight, how to smash the monsters. We fight them with songs. With our voices. We run at the beasts instead of running away. Some of the monsters dissolve and explode.

  Others begin to wilt, to fall like puppets.

  “The Dust will weigh them down,” I hear Mortimer mumble as patches of Dust fall fast and close to us.

  But the horses will have none of that; they gallop through the crowd, shielding families from falling Dust with their mighty wings.

  People huddle, holding one another. The wild fear in their eyes is turning to something wilder—hope.

  Leo neighs and rears up on his hind legs, pawing at the air in excitement. The Dust looks like a puzzle above us, missing pieces all around.

  And as we sing, through those gaping holes in the Dust, beams of starlight float down. They’re ribbons and rods, reaching for us. We reach for them, too—just like our parents did before us. We wrap starlight around our shoulders like blankets. Like capes. Night is beautiful with the full face of the moon shining down on us. With a sky full of light. With stars on our shoulders.

  We are shining now, I think. Brighter than the flames of Truth and Flame Mountain. People will see our light for miles.

  “Mallie.” Mama is behind me, and her is hair down and wavy. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her hair down before. She ties it up as soon as she wakes. Now that it’s long and loose, I see what’s been hidden for so long a bolt of dark green. Just like mine.

  “You … were a Weaver?” I ask.

  Mab scuttles over to where we stand, her face alight with joy. “She was the best Weaver, Mallie-girl. A true mountain hero!”

  Mama shakes her head. “Never a hero. I believed what they told me. I thought the stars were gone. The horses were gone. In my heart, I think I knew. But I kept doing what I was told. If I had trusted my heart …”

  I loop my arms around her waist and hold her tight. Because regret is like Dust—it only weighs you down, only keeps you from seeing all the good ahead. “We found a way,” I tell her.

  An image settles in my mind of Mama weaving all the starlight she collected—of piles of it on the cottage floor she wove into a thousand wonderful things. Maybe that’s why our cottage has always felt like a bright spot to me. I’ve always seen galaxies in my mother’s eyes.

  All around us, monsters crumble. They dissolve into piles of yellow dust.

  “Mortimer Good!” someone shouts. “He’s gone!”

  “We should find him.” Adam looks at me. “What if he does this somewhere else?”

  “He won’t,” I say. Because in my dreams, I’ve seen it: We’re going to go past the boundaries of Forgotten Mountain. We’re going to see other places, and if Mortimer Good—any of the Guardians—end up there, we’ll find them. We’ll drive them out again. We’ll guard the land from the skies, from the backs of our horses.

  And the view here on land isn’t so bad, either. I can see every mountain I’ve climbed from here. Many more I’ve never even heard of. The world is fine, and bright, and enormous, and it calls to us all. The
world is begging us to fly. It compels us to climb.

  The horses are leaping, jumping in delight. There are new starbirds now that I haven’t seen yet, prancing though the crowd to meet new kids arriving on the platform.

  Adam nudges Iggy, who has finally thrown off her old mushroom hat.

  A small pony with pink stripes in its mane trots through the crowd to meet her. She doesn’t say Fred’s name. She doesn’t have to. Her arms are around him. Tears trickle down her small face. Fred nuzzles her cheek, so happy to be reunited with his best friend. Iggy’s papa comes running toward her next, arms stretched wide as a Starbird in flight.

  Adam looks at me. Then at her. “How about we give all these newbies a riding lesson?”

  Iggy’s hugging Fred gently, dearly. Like she’ll never let him go. “Not a bad thought,” she says, finally. “View’s probably marvelous now, with all that Dust gone.”

  So we climb on our horses. We ride together into the woods.

  Leaping.

  Then soaring.

  Then curving upward, into the light of the brightest night we’ve ever seen.

  On both sides of me, as far as I can see, are riders and horses, just soaring through the skies. And the stars are here somewhere, too, I think. Even when we can’t see them.

  We are the kings and queens of this mountain.

  We’re here to bring back the light.

  A final truth:

  Years ago, in a place called Forgotten Mountain, people only told sad stories. But stories change as time goes on. People do, too. Now the mountain is called Bright once again, and the people there weave wonder from the sky. They tell better stories now. Their favorite begins like this:

  Some girls only wish on stars. But once upon a time, on this very mountain, there lived a girl brave enough to fly among them.

  Many individuals have helped shape Mallie’s world and story. I’m especially indebted to Mallory Kass, my editor, friend, and the most stylish equestrienne I know. Thank you for endless conversations about flying horses vs. real ones. I also want to thank my friends at Scholastic: Crystal McCoy, David Levithan, Tracy van Straaten, Lizette Serrano, Emily Heddleson, Lori Benton, Rachel Feld, Maya Marlette, Melissa Schirmer, Ellie Berger, Elizabeth Whiting, Alexis Lunsford, Jackie Rubin, Sue Flynn, Nikki Mutch, Josh Berlowitz, and the rest of the Scholastic team. Special thanks to Nina Goffi, for all the creativity and care she’s put into designing my books. And thank you, Gilbert Ford, for taking ideas from my stories and making them into such beautiful gateway images.

  My agent, Suzie Townsend, is a dream. I’m grateful for her consistent and solid passion for storytelling, and for the way she cheers me on through every endeavor (written and otherwise). I’m grateful to the entire team of creative wizards at New Leaf Literary, especially Pouya Shahbazian, Jeremy Stern, Mia Roman, Veronica Grijalva, and Cassandra Baim.

  Debra LaTour, M.Ed., OTR/L, gave this story a brilliant and thorough sensitivity read, and I’m so grateful for her time and insight.

  I wish to thank the many educators, librarians, book bloggers, and booksellers who’ve taken my characters into their hearts and shared them with readers. It’s an honor to know any of my stories have a space in your bookshelves.

  I want to thank my friends and family: especially the Lloyds, the Asburys, the Longs, the Owensbys, and the Manleys. Erin, Andy, Hannah, Connor, Nick, Caroline, and Mia—thank you for reminding me to engage the world with kindness and add more fun to my life. I adore you all, and I’m smitten with your parents. I’m especially grateful to (and for) Justin. He’s like Hogwarts and Narnia rolled into a person, and I love him more than words. My sweet dogs, Biscuit and Samson, cuddled close beside me through many long writing days. They deserve all the treats.

  Thank you, God, for the gift of Your Son, for the thrill of hope, and for love that’s unconditional.

  And thank you, reader, for inviting Mallie into your imagination. I’m endlessly inspired by readers I get to meet, especially young readers. You’re bringing back the light every day, and I’m in awe. Steady on. Keep punching holes in the Dust. There’s starlight up there waiting.

  Natalie Lloyd lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee. When she’s not writing, she loves adventuring with her husband, Justin, and their dogs, Biscuit and Samson. Her novels for young readers include A Snicker of Magic, The Key to Extraordinary, and The Problim Children.

  Keep reading for a special sneak peek at more from Natalie Lloyd, The Key to Extraordinary!

  It is a known fact that the most extraordinary moments in a person’s life come disguised as ordinary days.

  It is a known fact for me, at least.

  Because that morning started out mostly the same as all mornings before: I woke up to an ache in my chest, the smell of chocolate, and the sound of the ghost making a racket in the kitchen.

  Now, I’m not the sort to dwell on doom and sorrow. Life is too short for that. But I should at least try to describe the ache briefly:

  It’s not the kind that comes from eating tacos too late at night.

  It’s the kind that comes from being left behind.

  I think my heart knows I should be filling it with new memories, new jokes, and wondrous adventures with the one person I loved most of all. But that person is gone now. And so, my heart has a giant hole in it. I call it the Big Empty.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and reminded myself of these affirmations:

  Tonight you could have your Destiny Dream.

  Never doubt your starry aim.

  I repeated those words while I tugged my mud boots on over my jeans, and again when I zipped up my favorite hoodie. Early summer had settled into the mountains, but the air was still chilly first thing in the morning. I didn’t feel cold, though. I felt energized. Just the prospect of my Destiny Dream rattled my brain to such a degree that I fixed my sideways braid on the wrong side of my head. I’m not superstitious about most things, but I knew the day would go badly if I wore my braid on the wrong side.

  Finally, I snatched up my messenger bag and zoomed down the stairs to see what the ghost was up to.

  Since there’s no sense in scaring a ghost who might whirl around and scare me in turn, I decided to declare myself.

  “It’s Emma!” I called out as I stepped into the darkness of the Boneyard Cafe.

  My family’s bakery, the Boneyard Cafe, takes up the whole bottom floor of our house, which is perched on the edge of a famous cemetery, hence the cafe’s creeptastical name. Currently, Granny Blue is doing her best to keep the Boneyard running, as business hasn’t been too great lately.

  “I’m back here,” yelled a voice that, unfortunately, belonged to my big brother, Topher, and not one of the dearly departed. I’d never actually seen the ghost in our kitchen; I’d only heard it banging around. But due to my home’s location, I figure I’m bound to run into a ghost eventually.

  The air was thick with the smell of chocolate as I walked into the kitchen. The Cocoa Cauldron was already bubbling near the far window. It was Topher’s week to make Boneyard Brew, our cafe’s most famous treat. As near as I can describe it, Boneyard Brew is like hot chocolate with a heavenly twist. Maybe it seems crazy to drink hot chocolate in the summer, but I’m here to tell you: Once you’ve had a taste of Boneyard Brew, you’ll never stop craving it. Topher even makes homemade marshmallows.

  The marshmallow man himself was perched on the tip-top of the tall ladder, digging through one of the supply cabinets like a scrawny snack bandit.

  “Hungry?” I asked him.

  Thomp. Topher bumped his head on the cabinet, and let out a low groan. He got all squinty-eyed, pretending to be mad, as he hunkered down to look at me. But I could see the start of a smile on his face. “Emma Pearl Casey, I thought you might be a ghost.”

  “I yelled and declared myself!”

  “I know.” Topher gave me the same dimpled-cheek grin that made most of the girls at Blackbird Hollow Community College go googly-eyed. “I always get skittish when I’m down he
re before daylight.”

  “It is early for you to be making brew,” I agreed. In my nearly twelve years of existence, we’d never opened before ten a.m. on Sundays.

  “I can’t get this recipe out of my head,” Topher said by way of explanation. “Peach-lavender muffins. I won’t have any peace of mind until I make them. And I thought I’d get the brew going while I was down here.”

  “I’m glad you’re making extra. I usually have a big tour group in the graveyard on Sunday.”

  Topher cocked his head and studied my face. “Are you okay? You look … troubled.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up. “All good.”

  “Huh.” He didn’t look convinced, but he reached back into the cabinet and dislodged one of the giant silver muffin pans. He twisted out of the way as it clattered to the floor.

  “Easy!” I said as I jumped to hand it back to him. “If you make any more noise down here, you’ll—”

  “What? Wake the dead? You and Blue play music so loud the dead can’t get any sleep around here anyway.”

  “I was going to say wake my dog. But that’s a fair point about the loud music.”

  Topher stretched tall again, and got back to digging. He tossed a sack of Blue’s organic flour down on the countertop before he dismounted the rickety ladder. I could tell by the tune he was whistling that Topher was about to go into a serious baking frenzy. He’d already tied his red bandana securely around his head. That was a direct order from Granny Blue. Topher likes to let his hair grow long and shaggy for summer, so Blue makes him pull his hair back when he bakes.

  I felt a soft thump-thump-thump against my boot, and looked down to see Bearclaw yawning up at me. I scooped her up into my arms and hugged her against my chest.

  When Topher took me to the animal shelter to pick out a pup, the lady said we didn’t want That Dog because she was scrawny. But I knew from the first time I saw That Dog, she was meant to be mine. I hope every person in the world gets to have an experience so wondrous: the sweet tug at your heart when you look at a dog, and a dog looks at you, and you know you’re meant to take care of each other.