The Girl Who Drank the Moon (23 page)

38.

In Which the Fog Begins to Lift

As Ethyne and Mae moved through the square toward the Tower, the population of the Protectorate walked around with their hands shading their eyes. They shed their shawls and their overcoats, relishing the shine of the sun on their skin, marveling at the lack of the normal damp chill and learning how to squint now that the fog had lifted.

“Have you ever seen such a sky?” Mae marveled.

“No,” Ethyne said slowly. “I haven't.” The baby murmured and fussed in the bright cloth tying him to his mother's chest. Ethyne curled her arms around the warm knot of his body and kissed his forehead. He would need to be fed soon. And changed.
In a moment, love,
Ethyne thought.
Mama needs to complete a task—one that should have been completed a long time ago.

When Ethyne was a little girl, her mother told her story after story about the Witch in the woods. Ethyne was an inquisitive child, and once she knew that her elder brother was one of the babies sacrificed, she was filled with questions
.
Where had he gone, really? What if she tried to find him—what then? What is the Witch made of? What does she eat? Is she lonely? Are you sure she's a lady? If it is impossible to fight that which one does not understand, then why not seek to learn? The Witch was wicked, but
how
wicked? How wicked,
exactly
?

Ethyne's constant questions had consequences. Terrible consequences. Her mother—a pale, gaunt woman, full of resignation and sorrow—began obsessively talking about the Witch. She told stories even when no one asked her to. She muttered her stories to herself while she cooked or cleaned or took the long walk with the other harvesters to the Bog.

“The Witch eats the children. Or she enslaves them. Or she sucks them dry,” Ethyne's mother would say.

“The Witch prowls the woods on padded paws. She ate the heart of a sorrowing tiger long ago, and that heart still beats inside her.”

“The Witch is a bird sometimes. She can fly into your bedroom at night and peck out your eyes!”

“She is as old as dust. She can cross the world in her Seven League Boots. Mind you behave yourself, lest she snatches you out of your bed!”

Over time her stories lengthened and tangled; they wound around her body like a heavy chain, until she could not hold them up anymore. And then she died.

Or that's how Ethyne saw it, anyway.

Ethyne was sixteen at the time, and known throughout the Protectorate as a remarkably clever girl—quick hands, quick wits. When the Sisters of the Star arrived after her mother's funeral and offered her a place in their novitiate, Ethyne hesitated only for a moment. Her father was gone; her mother was gone; her older brothers (the ones not taken by the Witch) had all married and didn't come around the house that often. It was too sad. There was a boy in her class who tugged at her heart—the quiet boy in the back—but he was from one of the important families. People who owned things. There was no way that he would give her a second look. When the Sisters of the Star came, Ethyne packed her things and followed them out.

But then she noticed that in all the things she learned at the Tower—about astronomy and botany and mechanics and mathematics and vulcanology—not once was the Witch mentioned. Not once. It was as though she didn't actually exist.

And then she noticed the fact that Sister Ignatia never seemed to age.

And then she noticed the padded steps, stalking the hallway of the Tower each night.

And then she saw one of her novitiate sisters weeping over the death of her grandfather, and Sister Ignatia staring at the girl—all hunger and muscle and predatory leap.

Ethyne had spent her entire childhood carrying the heavy weight of her mother's stories about the Witch. Indeed, everyone she knew bore the same weight. Their backs bent under the burden of the Witch, and their sorrowing hearts were as heavy as stones. She joined the Sisters of the Star to seek the truth. But the truth about the Witch was nowhere to be found.

A 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. And who would benefit most from such a power? And over time, Ethyne's eye drifted less and less toward the forest, and more toward the Tower casting its shadow over the Protectorate.

It was then that Ethyne realized that she had learned all that she needed from the Sisters of the Star, and that it was time to go. Best go before she lost her soul.

And so it was, with her soul intact, that Ethyne now returned to the Tower, still linking arms with Mae.

A
ntain's youngest brother, Wyn, met them at the door. Of all of Antain's brothers, Wyn was Ethyne's favorite. Ethyne threw her arms around him and held him tight—and as she did so, she pressed a piece of paper into his hand.

“Can I trust you?” she whispered almost silently into his ear. “Will you help me save my family?”

Wyn said nothing. He closed his eyes and felt the voice of his sister-­in-­law wind around his heart like a ribbon. There was little kindness in the Tower. Ethyne was the kindest person he knew. He gave her one extra hug, just to make sure she was real.

“I believe my former Sisters are meditating, dear Wyn,” Ethyne said with a smile. Wyn trembled when she said his name. No one ever called him by his name in the Tower—he was simply
boy
. He resolved right then to help Ethyne in whatever she wished. “Will you please take me to them? And while you're at it, there is something else I would ask you to do.”

T
he Sisters were assembled for their morning meditation—an hour of silence, followed by singing, followed by a quick sparring session. Ethyne and Mae entered the room just as the first notes of song began to drift down the stone hallways. The Sisters' voices stopped as Ethyne stepped into their midst. The baby gurgled and cooed. The Sisters stared with open mouths. Finally one Sister spoke.

“You,” she said.

“You left us,” said another.

“No one ever leaves,” said a third.

“I know,” Ethyne said.
“Knowledge is a terrible power indeed.”
It was the unofficial motto of the Sisterhood. No one knew more than the Sisters. No one had more access to knowledge. And yet here they were. Without an inkling. She pressed her lips together.
Well,
she thought
. That changes today.

“I left. And it wasn't easy. And I am sorry. But my dear Sisters, there is something I must tell you before I leave again.” She leaned in and kissed the forehead of her son. “I must tell you a story.”

W
yn pressed his back against the wall next to the doorway leading into the Meditation Room.

In his hand he had a length of chain. And a padlock. The key he would press into Ethyne's hand. His heart pounded at just the thought of it. He had never broken a rule before. But Ethyne was so kind. And the Tower was so . . .
not
.

He pressed his ear against the door. Ethyne's voice rang like a bell.

“The Witch is not in the woods,” she said. “The Witch is here. She formed this Sisterhood long ago. She concocted stories about another Witch, a baby-­eating Witch. The Witch in this Sisterhood fed on the sorrows of the Protectorate. Our families. Our friends. Our sorrows were great, and they have made her strong. I feel that I have known this for a long time, but a cloud had settled over my heart and mind—the same cloud that has settled over every house and building and living soul in the Protectorate. That cloud of sorrow has, for years, blocked my own knowledge. But now the clouds have burned away and the sun is shining. And I can see clearly. And I think you can, too.”

Wyn had a key ring on his belt. The next step in the plan.

“I don't want to take up any more of your time, so I will leave now with those who are willing. To the rest of you, I say, thank you. I treasured my time as Sister to you all.”

Ethyne came striding out of the room with nine Sisters following behind. She gave Wyn a brief nod. He quickly closed the door and wound the chain around the handles in a tight knot, securing it with the lock. He pressed the key into Ethyne's hand. She wrapped her fingers around his own and gave a tender squeeze.

“The novitiate?”

“In the manuscript room. They'll be doing their copywork until suppertime. I locked the door and they have no idea they are locked in.”

Ethyne nodded. “Good,” she said. “I don't want to frighten them. I'll speak to them in a bit. First, let's release the prisoners. The Tower is meant to be a center for learning, not a tool of tyranny. Today the doors are opening.”

“Even to the library?” Wyn said hopefully.

“Especially the library. Knowledge is powerful, but it is a terrible power when it is hoarded and hidden. Today, knowledge is for everyone.” She hooked her arm in Wyn's, and they hurried through the Tower, unlocking doors.

T
he mothers of the lost children of the Protectorate found themselves beset by visions. This had been happening for days—ever since the Head Sister had slid into the forest, though no one knew she had done so. All they knew was that the fog was lifting. And suddenly their minds saw things. Impossible things.

Here is the baby in the arms of an old woman.

Here is the baby with a belly full of stars.

Here is the baby in the arms of a woman who is not me. A woman who calls herself Mama.

“It's just a dream,” the mothers told themselves over and over and over again. People in the Protectorate were accustomed to dreams. The fog made people sleepy, after all. They sorrowed in their dreaming and they sorrowed in their waking up. This was nothing new.

But now the fog was lifting. And these weren't just dreams. They were visions.

Here is the baby with his new brothers and sisters. They love him. They love him so much. And he shines in their presence.

Here is the baby taking her first step. Look at how pleased she is! Look at how she glows!

Here is the baby climbing a tree.