Over the Moon Page 2
And there he is. The sound of Adam Peyton’s voice is an arrow; it shoots through the crowd all sharp and sweet and hits me square in the heart. I bounce up on my tiptoes to get a better look at him. He’s standing tallest in the center of a group of boys. Hat cocked sideways on his head, just like he used to wear it. Scarf looped around half of his face, too—green and frayed, too thin to be much of a barrier to the Dust. A small, happy heat radiates in my chest. That’s the same ratty old scarf I made him for winter holiday two years ago.
Adam has been my friend for as long as I can remember. But we haven’t spoken in almost a year. That’s common, Mama tells me. Some friends—even the most wonderful—are only meant to be in your life for a season. But I don’t care for that way of thinking. Mostly because I thought my story would always be tangled up with my best friend’s story. Now I miss him so bad my heart aches.
The boys are dressed in drab coveralls and covered in coal dust. This is probably why the flicker of blue in their midst catches my eye. Adam’s holding a blue flyer like the one Honor Tumbrel had. All the boys are looking at it. Whispering over it. They look so fired up about the thing, my brain’s practically burned up with curiosity.
I should say something.
I should call out Adam’s name.
So what if it’s been a year?
We’re still best friends … aren’t we?
The scream of the train startles me, drowning out the voices of the boys on the platform. A small, familiar face looks frantically from one of the windows. That face is looking for me, and it’s my favorite face in the whole world. Denver.
As the night, and the cold, presses in around us, the train circles slowly toward the town on the tip of Forgotten Mountain: Coal Top. I always imagine this train looking like a big steel snake.
Hissing as it climbs.
Bright eyes beaming into the darkness.
And we’re all here stuck in the belly of the beast …
The night wind howls as it blows against the steel. A lantern swings from the ceiling at the front of our train car, sending firelight flickers across our faces with every jolt. I glance down at my little brother, Denver, and pull him closer against me. Mama let him ride the train down to pick me up. That was a fine idea. His face made me feel even happier than a Starpatch. As soon as I saw Denver’s face, I forgot about everything that hurt.
Denver’s hair is curly, soft as dandelion fluff. Wishing clocks is what my mama calls dandelions. That is a fitting way to think of my brother, too—so small and magical to me. A wish come true. From the first time I saw him, I knew I’d never love any person more than I loved Denver Ramble. He’s seven now. Nearly eight. Denver is still at the Coal Top school, which is the reason I’m not. Once Papa got hurt, one of us had to go work. They’ve sent young children into the mines before, even small, scrawny seven-year-olds like Denver. But that won’t happen to him; I’ll make sure of it. The thought of Denver crawling around for hours in darkness makes me ache, bone-deep.
He’s chirped about the view all the way up the mountain, his voice softening as Honeysuckle settles in his lap for a nap. “I could see six mountains through the Dust on the way down!” he says.
“Do you remember their names?” I ask.
Denver draws peaks in the Dust on the window as he recites the familiar rhyme:
There’s Mount Carson,
Pink but defiant,
The mighty Pembers,
Our snowy giants!
The Lightning Range will sizzle and slay,
Only the truly brave will stay.
The Bogs are so squishy,
Mirror Mountain so bright,
That old river Timor will give you a fright …
He pauses, chewing his lip. “That’s all I can remember.”
“That’s a lot!” I tell him. “And those are the closest anyway. Well done. Do you remember how the rhyme ends? All tipped in gold, they call for thee …”
“Such beauty for the brave to see.” Denver’s chest is puffed in pride as he finishes my sentence. I loved learning mountain lore when I was his age, too. I used to love the view from the train. I’d imagine being a brave explorer. Climbing every unknown peak. Discovering whatever lies past it. But nobody leaves Coal Top or Windy Valley—sudden and violent clouds of Dust can rustle up anywhere, anytime. Plus, the climbs are too treacherous. The way is too dark. To say nothing of the monsters that roam at night. Here, the Guardians keep us safe.
“I’m glad Mama let you come down to ride with me,” I tell him, comforted by the warm weight of him against me. “Promise me you’ll never get off the train to look for me if I don’t make it to the platform. You ride back up. Okay?”
“You promise, too.” His voice is small and steady in the darkness. “Don’t walk alone in the night ever again. I don’t want the monsters to hurt you.”
A shiver rolls over my shoulders, and I can’t help but glance outside. The darkness is ashy pitch, pressing up against the windows. Are shadows moving out there—or is it just the lights of the train making it seem that way? The dark and the Dust are so thick together that I can’t see into the woods surrounding us. I don’t know exactly what’s out there watching us. Stalking us. But I know it got close to me once. And I know I never want that to happen again.
“Mallie.” Denver says my name as gently as a hug. “Tell me about what it was like before the monsters came.”
I nod. Stories are a fine way to pass time. I begin the sweetest tale I know:
“Many years ago, the mountain people weren’t afraid to walk at night. Night was their favorite time, in fact. There were no monsters in the woods back then. There was no Dust in the air.
“Forgotten Mountain was a very different place. It had a different name, for starters—Bright Mountain. And what made it so bright wasn’t the sun, even though it shined gold and glittering back then. It was bright because the stars loved us, and we loved them back. Mountain people could weave dreams from starlight.”
“Tell me how they did it,” he whispers. “Tell me the better-than-best thing.”
I speak low, in a reverent whisper: “They say that each night, the Weavers would wait on the mountain peak. Wait … until a warm gust of wind announced the arrival of the Starbirds. They were horses, huge and wild, with shining manes and wings that shimmered in the night. They would land on the mountain, and then the Weavers—young and old, anybody brave enough—would climb on their backs and sail into the sky.”
Denver smiles a crooked-tooth grin.
“The Weavers went soaring, collecting those long beams of starlight, those patches of stardust, gathering and weaving and sometimes volleying the light back and forth to one another. Mama says that we were the kings and queens of the mountain.
“The horses loved the mountain people. Children, especially. They used to come and play with them in the woods. Carry them through the forest.”
Denver Ramble keeps a near-constant shadow of a smile on his face. The dimple in his cheek is always there, ready to deepen. The tilt of his mouth is always up, aimed for a grin. But his smile fades to a flat line when he finishes the story that we all know too well: “And then the Dust swept over us. The stars were snuffed out. And those beautiful creatures flew away … I hope they flew somewhere good.”
For a time, we sit in silence, rocking in rhythm as the train churns upward. Mourning a memory we never got to experience. It’s not just the wonder of it all that I wish we still had.
Without the starry coats to wear, dreaming’s not as easy as it used to be. We all have nightmares now. The Dust can weigh you down if you let it. Our hearts are more fearful than peaceful.
“I believe they’ll come back someday,” Denver says suddenly. His voice is chirpy and sweet, like always. But his chin is high. His jaw is set. “They’ll come back. They’ll find a way through the Dust.”
The Starpatch in my pocket flickers wildly.
With a scream of the whistle, our train emerges from deep wood
s onto the platform of the train station in Coal Top. Men from the mines are gathered around small fires, drinking stale water from copper mugs. Jabbering with one another about the day’s events. Some are hunched over near the fires sleeping, too tired to even make it all the way home.
“Watch it, Mallie!” Denver says, grabbing my arm and pulling me to the side as I step off the train. He points to an oozing, tar-colored blob as it splatters the ground. A Dustblob.
Starpatches used to settle in the treetops here. Now the Dust gets so thick it sometimes sticks to the dew in the trees instead. Gobs up and warbles on the branches, like inky cocoons about to burst. Dustblobs can’t hurt a person, not physically. But having one of those things splatter on your shoulder will break your heart for days. You’re left with a particular kind of sorrow you can’t shake. The time one landed on me, I felt like I was breathing in sadness for weeks.
“Thanks,” I say. Denver takes my hand, and it’s a perfect fit, a key inside a trusted lock. I’ll protect you, I think. I’ll never let anyone hurt you. We walk together down the platform. The cool night wind swirls patterns through fallen leaves. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Adam help a girl off the train and walk the same path with her. I feel a funny zing somewhere inside my chest.
The only shops we have left in Coal Top are closed for the day. Our stores aren’t fancy like the ones in Windy Valley. Ours are ramshackle huts huddled against the tracks. They used to be a sight to behold: star-goods sparkled so bright people had to squint to see them properly. Star-goods didn’t last long, Mama told me once. But that was fine: The stars weren’t greedy—they always shared their light. The Weavers bent that light into tangible things people could hold and keep. Some could pay for star-goods. Some couldn’t, and that was okay. We had plenty back then for everyone.
Now there are only the mines’ company stores: places to buy new shoes, hard hats, lanterns, coveralls, and—of course—baby Dustflights.
“Mallie.” Granny Mab calls me over to the platform, where she’s setting up her cart. Maybelle Fry is nobody’s real grandmother, but everyone on the mountain calls her Granny. Actually, some people call her Granny Mad instead of Mab. They think she’s an eccentric old saleslady. But I think she’s a fine artist. Granny Mab pushes her rickety old cart through town selling all manner of trinkets. Broken lanterns, books and dolls, mirror rocks and faded quilts.
Tonight, she looks like a little witch setting up her display. Granny Mab wears a black dress that hits just above her knees, along with black-and-white-striped socks. A black top hat crowns her wavy white hair. The hat’s so folks will remember her, she says. As if anything about her is forgettable.
She lets Denver sift through her wares as she speaks softly to me. “You need to hurry home tonight and keep your brother close to you. Tell yer mama that the crows are on the mountain.”
“The crows? I don’t understand.”
Granny Mab shakes her head. “She’ll know what I mean. Hurry home and tell her, all righty?”
“Granny Mab! Is that you?” A man staggering down the platform calls out to her in a hoarse, frantic shout. He’s straining to support a man much bigger than him. A crowd of folks gather around them as they move closer. “It was a Dustblob that got him! Dripped down from a tree before I could catch it.”
Granny Mab reaches—gently—and lifts the injured man’s bowed head so she can look into his eyes. That’s when I see the tar-colored blob of ooze dripping from his right shoulder down over the center of his chest. Over his heart.
Granny Mab moves fast. She grabs a brown bottle from her cart and squints at the liquid swirling inside. She shakes it up, pops the cap off with her teeth, and pours the contents into a chipped teacup.
“Mallie,” she says sharply, pulling my attention from the men on the walkway. “Fetch the blue jar on the other side of the cart.”
I’m moving before she finishes telling me, and when the jar is in her hand, she adds its contents to the cup, too. A tiny swirl of purple smoke poufs from the cup, then vanishes.
“Clean him up,” Granny Mab instructs. The man’s friend takes his handkerchief and wipes up what he can of the Dustblob. The stain remains.
“Have him sip slowly,” Granny Mab continues, her voice a gentle crackle. “Easy breaths between sips. Tell him you’ll sit with him till the sorrow passes.”
Most everyone has stopped to see the commotion—adults and children alike. I’m touched by the way the man’s friends step close, rest their hands on his shoulders and arms. “I’m here, Will,” they say softly. A stray dog snuggles his face into Will’s open palm.
“Mallie!”
I startle and look up. It’s Mama yelling for me. She’s walking toward me, lantern lifted high. Worry’s thick in her voice. Why? She knows that Denver’s safe with me. I’m perfectly capable of walking him home myself.
Granny Mab reaches Mama before I do, passes along the message I was supposed to give. Mama squares her shoulders and reaches for my brother. “Come. A storm is blowing in, I think. Let’s get home.”
When Mama and Papa were young and newly in love, they built us this home in the North Woods of Coal Top. They only wanted a small place, just a perch hidden away from the world. Even as the sky grew dark, even as the Dust covered Windy Valley and the towns all the way up the mountain … they could still see the stars. They were the last to lose their light.
Now the skies are only Dust. The tall trees are full of Dustblobs. And the only light we have comes from the fire always crackling in the hearth. But I think there’s a light that comes from the way we love each other, too. I know I feel warm as soon as I’m with my family.
Papa is settled in a chair near the fireplace when we walk in, lantern light bright across his face.
“Hey, Papa Bear,” I say, resting my small hand on top of his large, freckly one. His long fingers wrap around mine, holding on tight. Papa’s freckles are the reason I’m extra proud of the spray of freckles across my nose. Even when Honor Tumbrel made fun of them at school. I remember my papa taking my face in his hands and saying, “But, Mallie … a face without freckles is like a sky without stars!”
Oh, how I miss that voice.
His voice was the first thing to go—lost somewhere in the Down Below. My uncle said it happens pretty often to the men. He saw the voice fly right out of my papa’s mouth, like a wild bird turned loose from a cage. With Papa’s voice gone, the rooms are empty of their songs and stories and of the three best words in the world:
I and love and you.
That’s what I miss most—not just the words themselves, but the way Papa said them. The mines took those words from me. They’ve taken other things, too. Papa lost his sight to an explosion. The Guardians in the mines said it was his own fault, that he was too careless with the machinery. But I know that’s a lie. My father is a man who cares about everything.
Papa’s accident put us in a predicament: He doesn’t speak. And he does not see.
So, he can’t work in the mines, and his pay’s withheld because the explosion was “his fault.”
Women have never been allowed Down Below, so Mama can’t go.
Boys grow up and go into the mine.
Girls make the city sparkle and shine.
It’s a stupid rule, but we’ve said it as long as I can remember. And anyway, Mama takes care of Papa. So that leaves Denver. And Denver is not an option, which leaves me.
Snap-hiss, the fire pops.
Alloooo, Honeysuckle whistles softly.
Mama locks the door and glares out into the darkening woods. Dark, and strangely quiet.
Papa lifts his face toward the sound of the bolt locking.
“Crows on the mountain,” Mama mumbles softly. Papa’s strong, tattooed arms reach for Denver, who climbs on his lap. They hold each other like they’re bracing for a storm.
And that’s when Honeysuckle lets loose: She sings out a shrill cry of alarm that makes every hair on my arm feel like a prickly pin.
There are no explosions on land.
But there are bad people.
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
—the sound of steel-toed boots kicking the door.
My voice comes out rusty: “Who is it, Mama? What do they want?”
Papa’s already up, shoving my brother toward me. Mama rushes at us.
“Hide him,” she says as she shoves us both toward the ladder to the loft beds. Honeysuckle’s singing so loud I can’t hear anything else Mama says. Denver stumbles toward the loft ladder. I latch my good arm around him. Boost him up as high as I can.
“OPEN UP,” booms a man’s voice from outside. “Cain Ramble—open this door!”
I scramble behind my brother, my boot slipping on the ladder rungs. I’ve climbed to the loft all my life with one arm, but I’ve never had to do it this fast before. It’s harder than I thought it’d be. Near the top, I fling myself into the loft, latch onto Denver, and we pull up the ladder. We scramble underneath the bed. The front door bangs open. Denver trembles in my arms as we hear heavy footfalls fill the room downstairs.
I try to control my breath as I stare through the slats in the floor and see three tall men, all dressed in black. Their boots make every floorboard tremble. Plumes of Dust rise up as they move.
The Guardians are here.
Their black capes ripple as they walk into the room, and I remember Granny Mab’s words: The crows are on the mountain.
“You have no right to barge in here like this,” Mama yells. Honeysuckle’s still singing her angry tune. And I can’t see Papa’s face from here, but I know it’s filled with fury, too. His voice might be gone but he communicates fine with his eyes. If those men are brave enough to look him in the eye, they’ll cower. I don’t care how tough they act, or how rich they are.