Backwards Moon Page 9

  Bracken wasn’t sure if they could be seen, but when a car went by, Nettle waved and the driver waved back, so that answered that. Now Nettle and Bracken could pass for human children—at least for one quick glance at sixty miles an hour they could, Ben said.

  After that (and much pleading from Nettle), Ben let them scuttle in and use the restroom at gas stations. They were not to spend time looking at everything, but just scuttle back out again before they hopped in the truck and zoomed away. It was much easier and more interesting than having to squat in the dark or run behind a bush every time. Bracken agreed that bathrooms were indeed a marvelous invention.

  Her leg was getting much better.

  It was night when they reached Ben’s farm. “Spell or no spell, I’m going to sleep for a good long while,” said Ben. “We can pack for the mountains in the morning.”

  Nettle and Bracken slept upstairs on a rickety iron bed in a small, north-facing bedroom; the quilt had a musty smell and there were old, faded flowers on the paper stuck to the walls. When they woke and went downstairs, it was late morning. Ben was cooking pancakes in the kitchen. The raccoon sat on the floor near his new water dish, watching attentively.

  “I like sinks,” said Nettle as they did the dishes after breakfast. “I wish we had sinks. I’m beginning to think we need to be a lot more inventive.”

  “I hope things are all right in the valley,” said Bracken. “What if a whole lot of humans got in while we were gone?”

  “We weren’t gone that long.” Nettle tried to think how many days it had been and couldn’t.

  “Still,” said Bracken.

  “You know,” said Ben, putting down his dish towel. “I’ve been thinking. I had an idea.”

  At first when he told them, they were quite surprised. It had to do with something called “dynamite.” But they both agreed that it seemed like a good plan, if all else failed.

  After that Ben loaded down the truck with boxes and blankets and jugs of water and things to eat that came in cans. He put in a bundle with straps, like the one they’d seen on the two humans so long ago. “Rucksack,” he said. “I had it in the army.” He stowed it very carefully in one corner of the truck bed and told them never to touch it.

  They weren’t leaving until early the next morning, so Nettle and Bracken had time to explore the house. They looked in closets and drawers and cupboards. Most of the rooms were dusty and cobwebby and empty-feeling—it seemed as though Ben lived mostly in the kitchen and the bedroom next to it.

  “Maybe I could call up Elizabeth on your telephone,” said Nettle. It looked different from the one at Elizabeth’s house. Still, it might work.

  “We don’t have her number,” said Ben.

  “She lives at 721 Elm Street,” said Nettle, but Ben shook his head. A telephone number was not the same as a house number, it turned out.

  “You could write her a letter,” Ben said. He found some writing paper and a pen. It was a ballpoint pen: most wonderous. Nettle sat down at the kitchen table and wrote a long letter telling Elizabeth everything that had happened. Ben found a stamp and showed her where it went on the envelope, and how to write the address the way the post office wanted you to.

  He even called up the postmistress on the telephone to get the zip code.

  “I was gone for a while. . . . um hum,” he said into the telephone. “Had a few things to do. I’m going out west for a while now. Hitting the road.”

  Nettle could hear the little voice answering back.

  “Yep,” Ben said. “I’m not sure, really. Not for a week or so, anyway. Talk to you later.”

  After supper they all walked out to the mailbox at the end of the long lane. The pink and gold and orange sunset was spread out against the wide sky. Nettle opened the metal door and put the letter inside. Ben showed her how the flag went up for the mailman.

  “You don’t even limp at all now,” said Nettle to Bracken as they walked back.

  “It started to feel better before we even left the city. It started right when I got in the truck,” said Bracken.

  “That’s odd,” said Nettle. “Why would that be?”

  “It does seem strange,” said Ben.

  The raccoon padded quickly down the road, head down. “Try flying,” he said when they got back to the grove of trees around the farmhouse. “Go ahead. Just try.”

  Bracken got out her broom and took a deep breath. She pushed off, wobbled, and made a slow circle around.

  “You’ll be soaring soon, just you watch,” said the raccoon.

  “How did you know?” asked Nettle, suddenly curious.

  “I made a wish,” said the raccoon.

  “What?” said Bracken, landing. “You what?”

  “When I was riding beside you in the truck, I touched the necklace. I wished for your leg to get better so you could fly again. I know I’m not a witch! But I figured, why shouldn’t a raccoon get a wish? And what was the harm if it didn’t work?”

  “But . . . you could have used up the third wish!” cried Bracken.

  “I wished it, not you,” said the raccoon. “And you need to fly, see? You can’t spend the rest of your life not flying!”

  There was a long pause. “It was nice of you,” said Bracken tensely. “But didn’t you hear what we said? About how magic has rules? The necklace only grants three wishes.”

  The raccoon looked away, shoulders hunched. “I think you worry too much,” he said quietly. “I think the magic is more generous than that. And I was sad, seeing you not be able to fly. I felt . . .” He stopped, then spoke in a voice almost too low for them to hear. “I felt like it was my fault.”

  “Don’t think that! It wasn’t your fault!” said Bracken. She squatted down so their two heads were level with each other. “Don’t ever think that!”

  The raccoon nodded. “Thanks,” he muttered. Then they all walked on together.

  “Maybe it wasn’t his wish that made your leg feel better,” said Nettle that night as Nettle and Bracken lay in bed in the spare room. “Or maybe everybody gets some wishes, not just you.”

  “But we can’t take chances,” said Bracken. “I’m not sure exactly how it all works out, but we have to be wise. We can’t just go wishing this and that.”

  “He wasn’t just wishing this and that. He wanted you to fly again!”

  “I know, I know,” said Bracken.

  The wind moaned and whistled through the eaves of the old house. The loose tin on the barn roof banged back and forth.

  “I think Ben’s lonely here,” said Bracken. “His wife died three and a half years ago, he told me. And he’s never been out West, he said. He’s glad to be going.”

  “He’s a nice human, Ben,” said Nettle. “I get the feeling there are a lot of nice humans, you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bracken, have you ever thought, well, that if we make it to the other world, you’ll be sorry to leave Ben behind?”

  “Yes,” said Bracken. “And your friend too. Elizabeth. I think I would have liked her.”

  The next day, they sat in the truck and rode and rode and rode.

  When it was dark, Bracken got out and checked the stars and figured out what she thought was the right direction—just a little south but still mostly west—so when they reached the mountains, they would be near the valley.

  Day came and then—at last—mountains appeared on the horizon. They were a deep purple-blue, with towering clouds riding low above them. It almost seemed as though the mountains were clouds, and the clouds were mountains.

  Bracken looked at them for a long time. “This is the right direction. The outline of the peaks—that’s the way I remember them.”

  Sometimes as the hours passed, Bracken would brush a finger on the Woodfolk beads, not to wish but just to touch them. Every time she did, Nettle sighed heavily.

  “Stop it,” said Bracken. “You have a seeking stone, don’t you? Don’t be greedy.”

  “Well, you have a seeking stone an
d a necklace,” said Nettle.

  “And I got shot,” said Bracken. “You didn’t get shot.”

  “Your leg is fine now,” said Nettle, “and you have a raccoon.”

  “He’s not my raccoon,” said Bracken.

  “Well, he likes you better.”

  “I rescued him,” said Bracken.

  Which was true, thought Nettle gloomily. But on the other hand, she’d gotten to meet Elizabeth. And remembering that, she felt better.

  When they got to the foothills, they followed a dusty gravel road that wound up and up until the sagebrush gave way to tall pines and the air began to smell like home. The road got bumpier. Rocks banged against the bottom of the pickup truck. Soon the truck seemed to make more and more noise in order to get anywhere. Then, finally, it stopped.

  “End of the road,” said Ben.

  He opened what was called the glove compartment, took out some papers, and stuffed them into his pocket. He got out and walked to the front of the truck. He took down the little metal sign with letters and numbers—the license plate, it was called—then walked to the back and removed the other one too. He walked a little way off and hid the license plates under a rock, then returned.

  It was all part of Ben’s idea, the one they would use if Nettle and Bracken’s plan failed.

  Nettle and Bracken laid out a hammock between their two broomsticks and tied the ends fast. Ben climbed into the hammock, and the raccoon jumped behind Bracken onto her broomstick. Nettle wished he would ride behind her, on her broomstick, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Ready?” asked Bracken.

  “I guess so,” said Ben, holding tight. “Sure.”

  They lifted off.

  They found their way to the pass with only a few hesitations and wrong turns. They soared through and landed just inside the valley. Ben and the raccoon scrambled to the ground.

  Ben stood for a minute gazing out over the valley. Then he and the raccoon sat down with their backs against a rock to wait.

  “It will take a while for the coven to decide,” Bracken told them. “Witches aren’t supposed to have leaders, though Rose is, really. We’re supposed to decide things by consensus, which always means a lot of bickering and discussing every last point.”

  “Good luck,” said Ben.

  Nettle and Bracken soared down the slopes and over the Least and Middle Meadows. Home! Nettle gave a little bounce on her broomstick.

  They sped toward the village.

  “Look,” said Nettle, pointing.

  High on the ledge where Toadflax’s cottage had stood, black pointed hats bobbed this way and that among piles of fallen stones.

  Scabiosa was the first to look up. “They’re back! Oh look, everyone! Look! They’re alive!” she cried.

  “We’ve found the Door!” said Nettle, landing amid the commotion. “Everybody! We’ve found the Door! The Door to the other world.”

  “You did?” said Scabiosa in the sudden silence. The others began murmuring and exclaiming.

  “Toadflax told us you had gone to look for it,” said Rose quietly. “We thought we’d never see you again.”

  “We went to a city on the Great River and we found it!” said Nettle. “It’s in a giant oak near a Safehouse.”

  “A city,” said Rose, looking at them both closely.

  “We’re fine,” said Nettle.

  “Bracken?” said Rose.

  “I’m all right,” said Bracken.

  “We think something may have happened to Toadflax,” said Rose. “We looked up this morning and her house had fallen down. Her magic is gone. We think she might be . . . dead.”

  “She is,” said Nettle.

  Then Bracken told them what had happened.

  “She was a fine witch, once,” said Scabiosa quietly. “She wasn’t always like that, not in the old days before humans grew so powerful. It made her bitter. It ate away her heart.”

  “There have been three more humans since you left,” said Rose. “Two of them got as far as the Middle Meadow.”

  “They trompled a big path through the meadow,” said Violet glumly. “Muddy footprints filled with water.”

  “But we don’t have to worry about it anymore! We can get away. We have Woodfolk beads!” said Nettle.

  The others looked startled.

  “Toadflax gave them to Bracken.”

  “Toadflax had a Woodfolk necklace!” said Violet. “Why, that selfish, deceptive . . .”

  “Never mind that, Violet,” said Sedge. “Think what it means, to have Woodfolk beads!”

  “We can wish ourselves back to the Door to the other world!” said Nettle. “And we know how to get through! We know the spell. It will only take a minute—we can whisk you right through before you turn to dust. I’m sure we can.”

  There was a short silence.

  “I’m not taking a chance on being turned into dust, thank you very much,” said Violet.

  “But . . . it’s a new world! A new life!” said Nettle.

  Nobody said anything.

  “Don’t you want to go?” asked Nettle.

  “It’s not the easiest choice in the world,” said Scabiosa finally.

  “I don’t want to leave the valley,” said a quiet voice. It was Gentian, a kind but timid witch who rarely said anything at the Gathering Fires.

  “I don’t either,” said Penstemmon softly. Penstemmon was another witch who hardly ever said anything and sometimes didn’t even come to the Gathering Fires.

  “But Gentian! Penstemmon. All of you,” said Rose. “Think about it. A whole new world! That’s the chance we have.”

  “I’ll go,” said Sedge.

  “I will,” said Reed.

  “I won’t,” said Violet, looking around at the others.

  “You would miss out on the Door to the other world?” said Nettle, incredulous.

  Violet frowned. “You say there’s a door. But you’re only a witchling.”

  Nettle sighed.

  Nothing is ever unanimous among witches.

  Aunt Iris, of course, wanted to go so she could be with Nettle and Bracken. And Scabiosa, Rose, Sedge, and Reed were all going.

  But Violet, Gentian, and Penstemmon wanted to stay, come what may. “This is our home,” said Gentian.

  “Penstemmon,” pleaded Rose. “Gentian. Violet. There’s no future for you in this valley! Even if no more humans come, ever, what life will you have here? There will be no more witchlings without Woodfolk. The last of you will grow old, and die, and turn to dust, and that will be the end of it.”

  “Better dust then than dust now,” said Violet.

  “I would rather die than be the last witch in this world!” said Reed. “There may be other covens in the new world! And the Fading! Think of the Fading when the humans come! Surely you don’t want to just linger on here, waiting for the end?”

  “I don’t care,” said Penstemmon, looking at the ground. “I’m old and tired and afraid. I want to stay in this valley even if the humans do come.”

  Bracken looked at Nettle.

  “Go on,” said Nettle. “Tell them.”

  So Bracken told them about Ben and his idea.

  In the shocked silence that followed, Violet had to go sit down on a boulder and fan herself with her hat. “A human?” she kept saying in a faint, outraged voice. “Us, listen to a human?”

  “He’s a Witchfriend,” said Nettle. “Didn’t I say he’s a Witchfriend?”

  “That doesn’t mean he knows what’s best for us,” said Violet. “Why, humans hardly live longer than, I don’t know. Than insects! What do they know about—”

  Reed interrupted her. “I think it’s a good idea.”

  “So do I,” said Sedge.

  “I think we should try again on the Veil,” said Violet.

  “We have tried,” snapped Rose. “Countless times, as you well know.”

  More talk, endless talk.

  Then at last the stay-in-the-valley ones (except for Violet) agreed t
hat the idea, however strange, was worth a try. Aunt Iris still wasn’t sure, but the stay-in-the-valley ones insisted that if you were leaving, you didn’t get a say, since after all you would be gone soon.

  And thus (after that, discussion was finally over) it was decided.

  “Now, everyone fly to the village, please,” said Bracken. “Stay in your cottages until it’s safe to come out. And don’t argue,” she added quickly.

  “They actually listened to us, most of them,” said Nettle, watching the ragged V of witches fly away. “Amazing.”

  Nettle and Bracken waited until every witch in the coven was sure to be in her cottage, then flew back to the pass.

  “Did they agree to it?” asked Ben.

  “Close enough,” said Nettle, suddenly nervous.

  “All right then,” said Ben. “Now listen carefully. I’m going to go over the instructions one more time. . . . You understand everything I’ve said?” he asked when he was done.

  “Yes.” They both nodded solemnly.

  “Do not use your fingersparks at any time! for any reason! Got that?”

  “I’m staying here,” said the raccoon, wringing his hands.

  “Got it?” said Ben again.

  “We do understand,” said Bracken. “Really.”

  So with Ben swinging between them, Nettle and Bracken flew high up above the pass and looked for a pattern of deep cracks. They needed a kind of network in the rocks. It didn’t take all that long to find them.

  They hovered near the first crack. Ben clambered out onto the rock. He waved them off. “Stay back,” he said, still waving. “Farther!”

  He took a stick of dynamite from his rucksack and then—very carefully—he attached something called a blasting cap. It was small and silver, and it in turn was attached to a long string like a candlewick—a fuse, it was called. When he was done, he stood up, scrambled a little way from the fuse, and waved them back.

  After that, they flew him to the next crack.

  One by one he set all the sticks into the cliffs above the pass. Each stick’s fuse snaked across the rocks to a spot where it connected with all the other fuses, so they could all be lit at once. The place where all the fuses connected was behind a big boulder, far away from the sticks of dynamite.