Over the Moon

by Natalie Lloyd

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1: Mallie Ramble

  Chapter 2: Open Windows

  Chapter 3: Familiar Faces

  Chapter 4: Dustblobs

  Chapter 5: Crows on the Mountain

  Chapter 6: The Invitation

  Chapter 7: Brave and Wiry Young Fellers

  Chapter 8: A Quest, Explained

  Chapter 9: Creatures

  Chapter 10: Rules of Play

  Chapter 11: Explanations

  Chapter 12: Girl with a Green Stripe

  Chapter 13: Powder Cakes

  Chapter 14: Mount Carson

  Chapter 15: Midnight Rider

  Chapter 16: The Pember Range

  Chapter 17: Truth and Flame

  Chapter 18: Taken

  Chapter 19: Secrets and Smoke

  Chapter 20: The Tale of Iggy Thump

  Chapter 21: The Rescue

  Chapter 22: The Weaver

  Chapter 23: Sword Lessons

  Chapter 24: Rules Worth Breaking

  Chapter 25: Dust to Dust

  Chapter 26: Stars

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek

  Copyright

  Dustflights are trained to sense explosions in the Down Below.

  Honeysuckle is my papa’s Dustflight, a tiny yellow bird they give every miner in Coal Top. When I was a little girl, Honeysuckle brought me heaps of comfort as I watched Papa walk to the mines. I couldn’t go with him to the Down Below. But our brave yellow bird could. She perched like a speck of plump sunshine on his shoulder. She’d coo lullabies in his ear if he got lonely. She could keep him safe. Papa hasn’t been Down Below in more than a year now, but Honeysuckle stays right near him most of the time. Until the work whistle blows. That’s when she floats down to Windy Valley to find me.

  Alloo, alloo, Honeysuckle sings against the window. I run to the glass and raise it just a notch. A cool, dusty breeze carries her sweet birdsong into the room. The sound is a hint of home, and for a second, I forget I’ve been covered in dirt for hours. Honeysuckle snuggles her feathery face against the pane.

  “I’m hurrying,” I promise her. And she sings a chirpy tune to help me speed up cleaning Mrs. Tumbrel’s floors.

  That’s one of the reasons all the miners get a Dustflight when they start work in the Down Below; their sweet presence helps you work faster. Here’s another: The birds can warn the miners if they’ve gone too deep. Or if they’re about to find gold. Not that anybody finds much gold these days. Mostly, I believe the birds are a tactic the Guardians use to get kids to join up young. In a town the color of dust, who wouldn’t want a bright yellow bird they can take home every day?

  I stretch my stiff neck and hear a cluster of pops. The fingers on my left hand are clenched in the cold rags, so I stretch them straight, slowly. One by one. My hand will stay that way, eventually. Bent and clawed like I’m always clutching rags. Old maid’s grip, mountain people call it.

  Honeysuckle taps the glass lightly with her beak, her way of telling me it’s time to get out of my slop pile and get on up the mountain. My mountain. If I miss the train, I’ll have to walk to the top. I did that once, and I will never do it again. For as long as I’ve been alive and breathing, I’ve heard stories about monsters who roam the woods at night. I used to think our parents made it all up just so we’d stay close to home. Now I know better. Still, sometimes I wonder if walking through the monster woods is any worse than being around valley people. They can be monstrous, too; these snooty folks who want their floors cleaned and toilets scrubbed and powder cakes made just so, just soooo.

  I stand, balance the bucket full of filthy water in the crook of my right arm, and haul it back to the kitchen, careful not to slosh it over the newly polished wood. My right arm ends just below my elbow, but I’ve never had a problem getting things done one-handed. I’m not going to lie: Sometimes I think it’d be nice to have two grippy hands. Especially when it comes to opening stuck windows. Braiding hair faster. Carrying this nasty muck bucket around. Scrubbing floors might go by a little quicker, maybe. But it doesn’t matter much. I was born this way, so I’m used to it. And besides, I’m a fast worker.

  I check my Popsnap to make sure it’s secure—that’s my fake arm, complete with a fake hand, that I keep attached to my right elbow when I’m working in the valley. This way you’ll blend right in, the valley doctor told me. It’s a universal color that fits everybody. Thing is, Popsnaps only come in pale orange. I’ve met all kinds of people, who look all kinds of different ways, but I’ve never met a soul who’s orange.

  I spin around quickly when the front door squeals open. This is payday, and there’s nothing that makes me prouder than giving my family the money I’ve earned for all of us: Papa, Mama, and my little brother, Denver. We need this more than ever today.

  We have to have this today. Money’s not just running low for us Rambles. Our money has flat run out.

  The front door slams shut, and four kids—wild as mountain chickens—run screaming across the floor I just mopped.

  I lurch forward and nearly yell—QUIT IT!!—but the words gob up inside me. Be gentle, Mama always tells me. Be gentle in the valley. That’s her polite way of telling me not to get so fired up down here. Not to argue. Not to disobey. And I get it: I’m all the income my family has now. I have to keep this job. So I clutch my apron, bite my tongue, and watch the ruckus. The Tumbrel kids stomp red-clay clusters and clots of grass all over my handiwork. Their mother—Mrs. Tumbrel—saunters through behind them, bracelets jangling. She clutches her velvet skirt and lifts it, trying to avoid her offspring’s sloshy path of yuck.

  She snarls at the mess on the floor. Then she looks at my right elbow, at my Popsnap.

  “I worry you aren’t capable of the work, Mallie,” she says with a sigh of fake concern. “Finding another mountain girl might be best for us both. Perhaps you’d be better suited for other chores.”

  “No! I’m perfectly capable.” I try to sound calm and submissive. Gentle, like Mama says. But I’m not a gentle soul. I’m still learning many things about myself, but I already know this much: I’m wild and brave on the inside, a fire-popper in a glass jar. Some days I can’t help but spark a little. Some days, my heart is a raging fire.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, sweetie. You are … an inspiration!”

  I bite my tongue so hard I wonder if it might fall off. Mrs. Tumbrel knows only two things about me: my name, Mallie Ramble, and that I have a Popsnap where part of my right arm should be. Neither one of those things makes me inspirational. She’s only saying this because my arm looks different from hers. That is called pity. And pity feels like an insult. Words leap off my tongue before I can cage them: “If your children hadn’t—”

  “Hadn’t what?” One black-inked eyebrow arches at me.

  I gulp, trapping the words I really want to speak back down in my heart. “They must not have realized I’d just finished these floors. They tracked mud all over the place!”

  “Mmm.” She cocks her head at me, thinking. Does she really not believe I’m capable of scrubbing a stupid floor?

  She saunters close enough to peer down her long, regal nose at me. “I’ll keep you on, Mallie. Because I am a good woman. But some advice: Having high spirits will make it hard for you to find another employer. And you already have your loss working against you.” She glances at my right arm again and clears her throat.

  She’s always looking at my Popsnap. Just flat-out staring at it. I get having a little bit of curiosity about people—I’m a curious soul myself!—but she can’t even make eye contact with me. Sometimes I imagine pulling it
off and throwing it at her so she can have a good long look and be done with it.

  “Here, now. For your work.” She drops two Feathersworth in my hand.

  That’s only two days’ wages. She hasn’t paid me in a week.

  “Mrs. Tumbrel, I don’t mean to be disrespectful. But this is the wrong amount. I earned—”

  “I decide what you earn. Remember that before you unleash your temper again. And anyway, these are hard times.” Mrs. Tumbrel flutters her eyelashes dramatically. They look like little ink bats, flapping over her lying eyes. Because I see the velvet bags of goods she brings in every day. The new dresses she wears. It’s not that the Tumbrels don’t have enough money. They just don’t feel like paying me.

  But the words Yes, ma’am float out of my mouth. And the coins make a dull jangling sound when I drop them in my apron pocket.

  “Finish this before you leave,” she says dismissively, waving at the floors as she walks away.

  No time to grumble, so I lean in to the day:

  Bucket, refilled.

  Knees, grounded.

  Lean in, Mallie, lean in.

  Finish strong,

  Finish proud!

  I don’t see the shiny brown boots of my enemy until they’re right in front of me, tracking more sloshy lines of mud and crud across the floor.

  “Better hurry, Coal Top.” Mrs. Tumbrel’s oldest son, Honor, stares down at me. If I didn’t know Honor so well, I’d believe what girls in class used to say about him: that he’s storybook beautiful, with pale hair, tan skin, and pretty eyes. But I do know him. And I’ve picked enough apples from the orchards in Coal Top to know that what looks shiny on the outside can be rotten at the core. This is why looks don’t mean a Feathersworth to me. Looks tell you nothing about a person’s soul.

  He smirks and rests his hand on the spiraled handle of the shiny sword strapped around his waist. It’s a gift from his parents. In case he ever has to fight the monsters, they said. Ha! It’s all I can do not to laugh out loud just thinking about this scenario. Honor Tumbrel would only use one thing if he got close to a monster: his running shoes. Still, he’s been showing off that sword for weeks. He probably holds it when he sleeps.

  “You don’t want to walk through those monster woods alone, do you?” he continues, leaning down closer. “They might eat you.” He glances at my Popsnap. “What’s left of you, at least.”

  I pull my rag from the bucket and wring it out on his shoes.

  “What the—”

  “My mistake,” I say sweetly.

  He glares at me, eyes shining with menace. “Remember what we used to call you in school? Before you had to quit? We called you the mountain pirate. Maybe you should get a hook next time instead of a Popsnap.”

  I fight not to hide my arm from Honor’s mean gaze. I’m not ashamed of my body—not any part of it. But that doesn’t change the hurt when he teases me. It takes effort to fold my arms in my lap, casually, and pretend his words didn’t settle inside me.

  I look him square in the face. “I do remember. That’s what you called me at the May Day Races last year, when you were beside me at the starting line. Just before I outran you.”

  Slowly, he crouches down until we’re closer—too close—eye-to-eye. Just as he’s about to speak … a shiny blue piece of paper slips from his pocket, swooping down to the floor, where dark water stains spread from the corners.

  Honor snatches it away before I can read the rest.

  “That’s not for your eyes, mountain girl.” He grins as he shoves it in his jacket pocket. “It’s for somebody going places. Not for a girl covered in slop water.”

  I close my eyes against the inevitable: Honor kicks the dirty bucket so it sloshes all over my dress, and all over the floor.

  “Take my clothes home and wash them.” He drops a stinky bag of his laundry in my lap and walks away, smiling. Honor’s rotten mom buys him new clothes every week. But he still gives me his dirty laundry to take home and mend. “See you tomorrow, Mallie in the Muck.”

  Angry tears—tired tears—warble in my eyes as I refill the bucket. Again. And lean back in to work.

  I want to scream. So, I decide to sing instead.

  Well … first I look around to make sure nobody’s within earshot. Singing’s not allowed in the valley or on the mountain. Not unless you’re a bird. Even the Guardians can’t control wild things—like Dustflights.

  Like me.

  Singing could be deadly up on the mountain, they say—we’ll take in too much Dust. But I’m not on the mountain right now. I keep my voice soft and low:

  Mountain girl, lift up your eyes,

  the stars are shining bright for thee.

  Reach out and take the silver cord.

  Braid beauty now for all to see.

  Honeysuckle chirps madly at me from the window, flapping her wings against the glass. Her wing tips make little dot prints all along the Dusty pane. At first, I think she wants to zoom inside and peck Honor’s eyes out, and I wish she would. But then I realize she’s trying to get my attention. I suck in a quick breath when I realize why.

  Something nearly invisible, the size of a feather, floats in through the open window.

  It’s flat as a ripped piece of paper, crisscrossed with hundreds of tiny veins of color.

  Just the sight of it makes me catch my breath.

  A Starpatch.

  They’re so rare these days that I think my tired eyes must be playing tricks on me. Starpatches are leftover beauty from a better time, a time way before I came along.

  Here’s the story I know:

  Years ago, before the Dust came and covered the skies, mountain people took starlight and wove it into cloth: clothes and blankets and spangled capes. Those dreaming clothes settled over weary shoulders, giving them adventure and hope—and peace—as they slept. And the dreams settled over the sleepless and reminded them tomorrow would be better, even if today broke their hearts. The ability to weave starlight would be magic enough—all by itself. But there was a better magic than that, even.

  The better-than-best magic, we called it.

  But we never talk about that anymore.

  Some memories, even sweet ones, are too painful to discuss.

  The ending is always the same anyway: The Dust swept over us and snuffed out the stars.

  People claim they’ve seen patches of light here and there, floating on a forgotten breeze. Maybe there’s light left over, they say. Maybe sometimes the light finds a way through.

  I reach up—gently—and take the bright patch between my muddy fingers. Flatten it against my palm.

  This is how starlight feels:

  cool like wind,

  soft as a feather,

  special as a spoken wish.

  My little brother will love to see this, I decide. He’ll be as happy as I am to know there’s a little piece of bright magic still floating through this dark world.

  The Starpatch pulses so bright against my hand that I feel like it’s alive somehow. A solid thought settles immediately in my heart. As sure as I know my name, I also know this much is true:

  I am still brave enough to dream.

  The light dims low in the valley, spreading shadows all around town as I run for the train station. There’s not much light around here to start with. The Dust has covered the sky—blocking the sun and the stars—for as long as I’ve been alive. That’s twelve years. But the Dust stretches back several years before that. We only know the sun is setting when dim gets dimmer, then so dark that the world looks swallowed whole.

  As I scramble through the muddy streets of Windy Valley, the firelight lamps flicker awake. I pull the scarf around my neck up over my nose, and see folks I pass do the same. Clouds of Dust settle thick in the valley when the night presses in. That Dust weighs you down, if you breathe in too much of it.

  But it doesn’t do any good complaining. That’s what Mama told me when I first groaned about working for the Tumbrels here in the valley. And then
she taught me this trick: When the present situation is abysmal, you go someplace else in your heart. So, I rethink it this way: I might look like Mallie in the Muck. But in my heart, I’m Mallie over the Moon. Flying to worlds unseen on wings made of Starpatches. I bust up the Dust. I smash it. I bring back the light. The light … and the better-than-best things that went away with it.

  Allo, allo. Honeysuckle pecks my cheek, soft as a kiss, and grabs my attention before I run through a mud puddle.

  “Good eye, Honeysuckle!” I tell her, and we make our way through the busy streets toward the train stop.

  Mountain girl, lift up your eyes,

  the stars are shining bright for thee.

  I hum the old mountain tune as I pass a row of stores. The Starpatch flickers like butterfly wings in my pocket.

  Star-goods used to sparkle brightly from the shop windows here. The brightest things in the valley now are the roofs on the Guardians’ houses. Those are the men chosen to take care of us. Pointy golden spires are affixed to the corners of their copper-plated rooftops, like rusted crowns scattered all over the valley.

  The house with the tallest spires belongs to Mr. Mortimer Good. He’s the Head Guardian of the mountain and the valley. I’ve never seen the man. Most people haven’t. But we’ve heard all about him. Mortimer has slain more monsters than any Guardian in history. Little kids pretend to be him, using sticks for swords when they battle in the streets. I pretend to be him, too, sometimes.

  The train hasn’t arrived yet, so I duck around the corner of the building and slink down against the ground for some rest. This is my favorite hiding place. I can see everything happening on the platform.

  Close my tired eyes.

  Cough when the wind blows a sheet of thick Dust past my face.

  Two. Feathersworth.

  Their weight in my hand is nearly nothing. Almost as light as the weight of the starlight in my pocket. The money won’t last us a week.

  Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. It’ll send Mama into a frenzy if I walk in a crying mess. She has enough to worry about.

  Smudge-faced kids from the valley mines are showing up on the platforms now, all sleepy-eyed with yellow birds perched on their shoulders. They’re waiting for the train that takes us all an hour’s ride back to the top. I stay hidden but strain my neck, hoping to see a face I’ve dearly missed.