Adam turns me loose and whispers: “You can still go back.”
“Shut up.”
Boys suddenly emerge from the woods around us. It’s like they just appeared out of the shadows. Some of them are taller than Adam, older, with big muscles and smug grins on their faces. They stomp through the woods with ease. Some are as small as Denver. One little boy even has the same hair color as my brother. He’s tiny, dressed in slacks, a T-shirt, and blue suspenders. Round glasses perch sideways on his face. I know the look on that kid’s face—when you’re trying to look brave, but you’re scared out of your mind.
“Ooof,” I gasp as I slam into the ground. A cloud of Dust rises around me.
One of the boys just shoved me out of his way as he walked past. “Pardon me, mountain trash,” he chuckles. I look up to see him pushing other people out of his way, too. My insides turn cold at the sound of his voice—and the sight of the sword on his hip. I would know that rotten voice anywhere. Honor Tumbrel. I know he won’t recognize his own clothes; he has so many that he couldn’t care less. But I definitely can’t let him see my face.
A feeling between anger and sheer adrenaline launches me off the ground. I can be rough, too, I decide. I slap away Adam’s outstretched hand, shoving my way past Honor and all the other boys twice my size. I follow the crowd to a large clearing in the West Woods, pushing my way to the front. There are only around thirty of us so far, but it wouldn’t matter to me if there were a hundred. I’m earning those riches untold today. And I need to be at the front of the crowd to figure out how.
Two Guardians herd us to the center of the clearing. They don’t look at our faces or our flyers. “Move along!” they yell. Easy enough, I think. I’m in!
I glance around frantically at the woods, trying to see through them, past them, to whatever it is I’m supposed to be fearful of. Why did they ask for orphans?
I swallow down my fear. I pray nobody sees my knees knocking together.
Present situation: My legs are here in the West Woods.
But in my head—and my heart—I’m home with Mama, Papa, and Denver. We’re safe and happy and no man—no Guardian—will ever hurt us or take us away from one another.
A small wooden stage has been built in the center of the clearing, with steps leading up to it. We all flock toward that stage in a slow, steady push. A couple of Guardians stand at the corners, more around the perimeter of the clearing—all with swords at their hips. They’re stoic, faces gaunt and wiped clear of expression.
Are they here to protect us?
Or to keep us from running away?
I hear Adam call to some of his friends: “Wilder! Connor! Nico! Over here.”
Thanks a lot, Adam, I think. I know all those guys from school. I pull my hat low over my eyes so they don’t recognize me and blow my cover.
“Why’s Honor Tumbrel here?” Wilder says. “I thought it was just boys in the mines?”
Connor shakes his head. “Every boy got one—on the mountain and in the valley. That kid there, in glasses, he’s not in the mines yet, either. He used to sit behind me in class.”
Honor and his friends have noticed the little boy, too. They tease him. Sneer at him. The boy ignores them … but that makes them mock him even more. The boy only squares his shoulders, pushes his glasses up on his nose, and stares straight toward the stage. Honor laughs.
I wish a monster would run out of the woods and growl at Honor, scare the smug expression right off his face. That’d be almost better than untold riches, seeing Honor Tumbrel put in his place.
Adam stands beside me. “Mr. Ramble,” he says softly, tipping his hat.
I nod. “Mr. Peyton.”
Thomp.
Thomp.
Thomp.
Someone climbs the stage from behind it with heavy footfalls. An excited shhh falls over the crowd.
A man strides onto the stage. His shiny black boots are eye level with us, so that’s what I notice first. How glossy and clean they are. How they have no trace of coal dust. He wears black riding pants tucked into the boots. His burgundy coat is velvet, expensive, and perfectly fitted to his chest.
He saunters slowly across the planks, eyes sparkling as he looks us all over.
Then he smiles—straight white teeth, of course. That plus his jet-black hair—only slightly silver at the temples—make him look like a prince or a pirate from a book. He is handsome in a rugged, real kind of way. But there’s no sadness marking his face, like there is on our faces.
“That’s Mortimer Good,” Adam whispers, with a hint of surprise in his voice.
My eyebrows rise so high that my hat pops up. “Really?”
Adam nods.
The Mortimer Good. The Head Guardian of the mountain and valley. I’ve always pictured Mortimer Good as some crabby old codger counting coins in the copper towers of his mansion. But this man looks dashing, brave, and young.
I glance at Adam again for confirmation. “You’re sure?”
He nods again.
Mortimer’s smile widens as he surveys the boys—plus me—waiting in the clearing.
I should hate Mortimer Good. If he’s the head Guardian, he must know children are going Down Below. He must know about all the men, like my father, who are out of work, losing their voices, their sight, their lives. But … another part of me wants to know him. Wants to be close to him. Wants to impress him, maybe. This is the man who’s slain more monsters than anybody, after all. He’s a hero. A legend! Fear and excitement—and curiosity—they’re twisted up so tight inside me right now that I can’t pull them apart. What is he doing here? Why did he bring us?
Mortimer opens his arms wide, not like grannies do when they want a hug. But like he is about to put on some marvelous show.
“Welcome, brave gentlemen,” he says, with a voice so deep it seems to burn through me. His voice is like the moonshine in Mama’s cough medicine. “Destiny is waiting for some of you today. For the fearless among you. For those of you who are still brave enough to dream.”
Flickering,
the Starpatch in my pocket.
Pounding,
the heart inside my chest.
I don’t want to imagine any other place in the world as he speaks.
My heart is here, having a true adventure, I realize. I am one of those brave souls!
Soft rain begins to fall, teardrops tapping through the woods. Running down our faces. We’re shivering. We’re terrified. We’re … excited.
“As you probably know, I’m Mortimer Good.” Boys whoop and cheer, bursts of water splashing off all their clapping hands.
Mortimer waves away the cheers with a gracious smile. “Years ago, before you were even born, the Dust came and blotted out the stars. The magic we once knew seemed to be gone from our mountain. From our lives. But we pressed on, together. We forged a path through the mountain. And all of you have helped sustain that necessary way of life.”
He pauses, takes a breath, and looks out over us like a proud parent. “And now our livelihood is being threatened again. That’s why I need you, gentlemen, to be part of a special group I’ve decided to assemble. Dangerous missions lie ahead of you … if you even make it through today. But if you succeed, you won’t just save your town. You’ll save your family. You might even save yourself. Today, everything changes for you.”
More roaring cheers all around me. I feel it, that energy that hope brings with it like a wave. My heart is fizzy with joy, even though I’m still afraid.
Adam does not cheer, though. Neither does the little boy with glasses. They both look soberly ahead. Even though they aren’t showing the same excitement as the others, I can tell that they’re captivated by Mortimer Good. We all are.
I haven’t noticed the trees above us until this moment. How the empty branches reach for each other, stretch over us, connecting like a cage of bones. Their shadows make a spiderweb on the ground. And we are all standing here in it, I realize. All stuck now, in Mr. Good’s shiny, s
tarry web.
Mortimer Good smiles down on us, proudly. The soft rain only makes him seem more mysterious, more handsome somehow. I’ve always heard of people capable of this: They walk into a room, and everybody turns to see them. They speak, and folks lean in and listen.
“Your fathers and mothers have worked hard to mine this mountain and make a life for you,” Mortimer says, his voice carrying even through the ever-increasing rain. “But the gold they’ve sought is running out. We’re barely finding enough now. Of course, we’ve known for years that Forgotten Mountain isn’t the only source for gold.”
He was right; we all know the rhyme. All tipped in gold, they call for thee. The problem is that scaling these mountains is impossible.
“We’ve always thought the mountains are too difficult to climb. And that’s true. But there’s another way to the top. And it starts with brave dreamers, like you.”
Gasps of disbelief rise from everyone. I look at Adam, and I know he’s thinking the same thing: Mortimer Good has lost his mind. There is no way to the tops of those mountains. There’s no way to avoid all the clouds of Dust we’d meet along the way.
“I hear you, boys!” Mortimer says, smiling at us. “Of course, I understand your concern. But there is a way to the top. No doubt about that. I wonder … do you have what it takes?”
The Guardians on the perimeter are among us now, passing out long ropes. Boys shove at each other to grab them. Adam hands one to me before snatching one of his own. I wish he’d stop trying to take care of me, but I’m also grateful. The rope prickles like hay in my hand; it’s twisted and wet from the rain.
“What’s this for?” I ask Adam. “Are we climbing?” I swallow nervously. Climbing the ladder to the loft in my house is hard enough with one hand. Climbing a rope up a mountain will be way more difficult.
Adam frowns, rubbing his thumb across his rope. “I don’t know. I don’t understand …”
Mortimer’s eyes shine with something that looks like pride. “There is a way to the top of the mountains, boys. It’s hidden here in the West Woods. You’ll know it when you see it. Your mission today is to capture it and bring it back here. This is no easy task. But, if you prove yourself today, you’ll begin a new chapter in our mountain’s history.”
Capture … it. I remember the scream from earlier—the same scream I heard that time in the woods. I feel a tightness across my shoulders; my heart drums a warning inside my chest.
“Adam.” His name shoots out of my mouth as a burst, a frantic whisper. “Does he mean the monsters? Are we catching monsters?”
Adam doesn’t answer, so I glance at his face, which has paled considerably. He’s thinking the same thing I am. We aren’t the only ones. Half the boys around us look nauseated. The other half shout questions at Mortimer Good:
“What do we catch?”
“How do we catch it?”
There’s a dull roar in my ears as I imagine coming face-to-face with one of those things in the woods. It seems fitting, somehow. Our parents rode flying horses into a starry sky. We’ll ride monsters through the Dust.
Mortimer raises his hands to silence us. “True courage comes in the unknown,” he says. “You’ll see soon enough.”
“What’s in it for us?” the small boy shouts. The crowd quiets at the sound of his voice. Because nothing about his voice is small. He’s not rude or angry, but confident. Matter-of-fact. I like those traits. “The flyer says there’s money involved.”
Mortimer grins. “I’m a man of my word, gentlemen. Every boy who finds it—a way to the top—and brings it back here—will earn the chance of a lifetime. If you’re brave enough to handle the adventure ahead, you’ll earn a full thousand Feathersworth for every completed mission. And there are as many missions as there are mountains.”
I feel like I’m staring but not seeing. Everything except Mortimer Good is a blur. He’s spoken my daydreams into existence.
There are endless mountains. They stretch into forever.
Four missions equals four thousand Feathersworth. That’s it—four missions. I will have everything I need to save Denver … and then I can have more than I ever dreamed.
“This could be your new job,” Mortimer says. “Before long, you’ll make plenty for yourself, and for your families. You’ll rid your family of their debt much faster than you would in the mines.”
Rain slides down his face, outlining his sharp profile. His eyes are serious now, like they’re searching our souls for true grit. “But this is not going to be easy, boys. So, here’s your chance: Stay or go. I know it sounds like I’m describing a dream to you, but the path to get there is treacherous and difficult. Is it worth facing your fears to have what you want? You must decide now.”
Some boys waste no time; they drop their ropes, turn, and leave the woods to head home. I understand why—the risk is huge. What if they get hurt just trying to prove themselves? Then they won’t be able to work anywhere. No one teases them as they go, but they hang their heads anyway. I don’t waver. Neither does Adam.
Because I remember a wish I made on a Starpatch: a wish for Denver to be healthy and happy and never ever afraid. No wasted years Down Below. No crows on the mountain. Nothing.
“All right, then,” Mortimer says. He kneels down at the edge of the stage, as if he’s whispering in each of our ears: “You were never meant to waste away underground. You were meant for the skies. Ask yourself now: What is it you really want? If you work hard, you can have it. Starting today.”
My heart thunders. I feel a fire inside me, licking at my bones.
I know what I want: Denver safe. Enough money to fix things. Debt’s a heavy shadow hanging over all of us, and I want it gone. For good. Then Denver might really grow up—wild and free. Papa will be taken care of. Mama will rest her eyes against another mountain far away from here, one full of shining dreams and birdsongs. I will become a wild adventurer maybe. Go down into the mines; I’d find Papa’s voice and catch it. Give it back to him.
Mortimer’s Guardians are among us again, passing out bright red swatches of cloth. “Around the wrist,” they calmly instruct. Our hands tremble as we tie.
“What in the world are these for?” Adam asks.
It’s the little boy who answers us. He’s moved close to us during the ruckus, and he reaches up to help me tie mine when he sees my Popsnap. Normally, I would pull away. I’m perfectly capable of doing this alone. But he’s so nonchalant about it that I don’t really mind. “I heard the Guardians over there talking,” he says. “It’s so they can see us if they have to go find us in the fog. Pull us out if … anything should happen.” He tips his hat to me. “Greer Sutherland’s the name, by the way.” He glances from my face to Adam’s. “I remember the two of you from school. I was a year below you.”
Adam and I throw a sharp glance at one another. Greer knows I’m a girl. Will he give me away?
“Don’t worry,” Greer says, reaching to tie Adam’s red cloth in place, too. “I can keep secrets.” Adam’s hands are trembling even worse than mine. His fingers are so thin and bony. The mines have turned my best friend into a walking skeleton.
“Good luck to you both,” Greer says.
“Stick with us,” I tell him softly. “Mountain kids stick together, no matter what. Right?”
Greer smiles gratefully and steps close to my side.
“Grab your ropes and climb onto the wagons!” Mortimer says. “And look up, boys! Look up! Why are so many of you looking at the ground today?”
We all do as he asks, almost all at the same time. We look up at the tops of the trees, heads tipped back to let the rain drip down our faces. I know why we look down: because we live in darkness. I keep my eyes down all day looking down at someone’s floors, scrubbing someone’s toilet, concentrating on the counter where I roll out stupid powder cakes. We look down because that’s what we’ve learned. I live for the few minutes at the end of every day—at the beginning of every morning—when I get to look into t
he eyes of people I love.
They will be so proud of me, I remind myself.
I jump into the back of the wagon along with the other boys and feel Adam leap up quickly behind me. Greer after him. More boys from Coal Top clamber in after us. Glancing back, I see Mortimer, still on the stage. Beside him stands a figure that looks more like a tiny mushroom than a person—a kid with baggy brown clothes and a large brown hat on his head. There is no expression on the mushroom kid’s face. But Mortimer is beaming, waving as we ride off into the woods. Mortimer Good is the first person I’ve seen in Coal Top in years with hope in his eyes.
The rain rolls over us in waves. Fog billows so thick around us, I lose sight of all other wagons. Chatter dies down in our cart. Everything is silent save the rain on the leaves, the creaking wheels of the wagons. The West Woods stretch for miles, over hills, past all sorts of bogs and ravines. There are plenty of paths along the way, and the wagons branch off, following those trails into the darkness. If rumors are true, these woods make their own paths sometimes, depending on whether they want people to stay … or leave.
Halfway up a steep ridge, our wagon slows. The Guardian driving drops his reins and looks back with a face as gentle and kind as an old grandpa’s. “This is your stop, boys. Good luck to you.”
And then a black-gloved hand grabs me by the shirt and I’m tossed off my seat, hitting the ground. Before I can even catch my breath, I’m shoved again, roughly, down a steep hillside. Fog so thick I can’t see how far I’ll go. How far I’ll fall. Gasping for breath, I scramble for something to hold. But my boots and fingers slide through the never-ending slicks of mud.
“Mall—” Adam almost yells my name, nearly blowing my cover, that idiot—but his voice is suddenly silenced. And the silence feels like a punch in the heart.
“Adam!” I call out, unable to see anything. Or anyone.
The only response I hear is a scream.
It’s not Adam screaming, which is a small comfort. The scream fills my ears again, and I press my forearms against my head to muffle the noise.
That sound … it’s the same sound I heard this morning at the boundary. And months ago when I was all alone, walking home in the night woods. I know it’s a scream that doesn’t belong to anything human. So, I reach for the rope coiled a few feet in front of me and scramble in the opposite direction than the sound came from.
Over the Moon Page 4