Over the Moon

by Natalie Lloyd

I try again, flinging my leg until I’m able to climb on Leo’s back. My stomach flips. I’m higher off the ground than I thought I would be. And I’m about to be very high off the ground.

  “It’s okay,” I say as Leo shifts uneasily. “Just … go forward a little. Go.”

  I nudge him with my heels, and he breaks into a trot. As he speeds up to join the other horses, I’m bouncing hard in the saddle. If trotting is this hard, how in the world am I going to fly?

  Honor Tumbrel sees me for the first time. His nostrils flare. I ignore him, riding ahead. Adam and his horse trot up beside me.

  “Mallie Ramble,” Adam says, patting his horse’s silvery neck, “meet Jeff. Iggy says he’s the oldest horse here and probably the slowest. But he’ll get the job done.” Adam swallows hard. “I hope. Did Iggy give you the lowdown?”

  “No, not really.”

  Adam’s forehead wrinkles. “Oh no. Okay … let’s see … You’ve got to speak with authority. Hold on with your legs. Use the reins to guide the horse—gently—and nudge—don’t kick—with your heel or calf. Don’t yank or pull at the reins; that could hurt him …”

  I nod quickly. “Okay, okay—nudge, don’t kick. Guide, don’t pull. Speak with authority.”

  Adam rambles on anxiously, giving me way too many directions to memorize. I feel Leo’s excitement as we all ride out of the woods and begin climbing a tall green cliff. My stomach flip-flops again at the edge, but Leo isn’t nervous at all. He comes to a stop at the edge of the cliff and stomps his hoof against the ground excitedly. Gravel pieces rain down into the valley far below us.

  “Every horse needs to stand right on the edge,” Mortimer instructs. “You won’t be going far today. Just across this canyon, you’ll see Mount Carson. Visibility is good today, so you shouldn’t have any low Dustclouds to deal with. Just remember not to get too close to the ceiling of Dust above us, yes? You might remember Mount Carson from the rhyme you learned in school. Pinkberry trees bloom everywhere there. Pink leaves fall this time of year. But the winds around Mount Carson can be difficult to navigate. Fly to the top of Mount Carson, and you’ll see gold powder clinging to the edges. Take the Keep at your side—just like you were taught—and scoop up the gold powder. It’s that simple, my friends. That simple, and that hard. Steady your hearts … set your sights … go.”

  Suddenly, Mortimer’s men shout in unison, startling the horses, startling all of us.

  “Fly!” I hear the boys all shout, tapping their horses with their boot heels. So, I shout the same thing:

  “Uh—fly?”

  Every horse jumps—including mine.

  “Whoa!” I yell. “WHOA!”

  For a split second, I forget to hold on. My body reacts like I’m falling, not flying, and I drop the reins and wrap my arms around Leo’s neck.

  Leo soars only for a moment—then launches straight down toward the valley—so fast my face burns. He flaps his wings once, a sound so loud I nearly let go to hold my ears.

  I can’t remember anything Adam told me.

  All I remember now is how to scream.

  How am I supposed to do this? And how do I do it without throwing up?

  I missed all instruction in basic riding before we launched. Now the ground is getting closer. I see the rooftops of homes in the valley. Towers and church spires and wagons so small they looked like ants a second ago.

  Today’s lunch swirls around way too fast in my gut.

  “STOP!” I yell. But Leo curves, zooming skyward. Not sure what to do, I reach for the reins. I tug, which is not easy when flying this fast. He changes direction … sails back toward the cliff we just jumped from. Guardians stand on the edge now, laughing, pointing. But then they’re running because they think I’ll crash into them. Faster, faster, the trees on the cliff are coming toward my face. “Stop. Pull up. LEOOOO! DO SOMETHING BESIDES CRASH.”

  Again, Leo arches upward. I tug the reins. Gently, I remind myself. Just like Mama always tells me.

  “Turn … please?”

  Leo pivots his body so gracefully this time, as if he’s swimming in water instead of flying through air. His left wing lowers as he swoops to the left. Mount Carson is bright pink ahead of me, and it looks like it’s surrounded by a swarm of bees. But those aren’t bees. They’re boys on Starbirds, who are accomplishing the mission right now. I’m so far behind!

  “Faster?” I ask it like a question. I don’t know what to say, exactly, to communicate to Leo which way to go.

  I try barely pulling the reins toward the middle, pivoting my body so I’m steering Leo with all of me and not just my arm.

  I don’t know if this idea is effective, because all I can see is Nico and his white horse flying right toward us.

  “Mallie!” Nico shouts, waving his arm. “Move!”

  “I don’t know how!” I call back. But Leo does. He dives. Again.

  “Stop!” I scream, tapping my heels against his side.

  Leo’s hooves bang down on solid ground … but something is wrong.

  Leo has landed sideways on the cliff’s face, perpendicular to the ground. The cliff we just jumped from. I hear Mortimer’s men laughing as they look over the ridge at us. Below us, the ground is rocky, and gravity is doing its best to pull me headfirst in that direction. I groan as I try to keep my upper body upright.

  “Leo.” I tap my heels against his side. “Off the cliff.”

  But Leo is busy. Eating. He’s munching on the grass growing between the cracks of the rocks.

  Adam said to speak with authority. I think about Mama, who is confident but still kind when she helps me work through a problem. I should try speaking like she would. With strength in my voice I command, “Leo, JUMP!” And I tap his side with my boot.

  Leo’s head snaps up. He lifts his front feet and pounds the cliff with his back hooves, sending a tiny waterfall of mud and dirt and rocks into the valley below.

  “UP,” I command firmly, and I stand in the stirrups to illustrate the point. Leo flies in a circle, like he’s perfectly confused. The other horses fly past us, back toward the launch spot. They’ve completed the mission. Leo follows suit.

  I slide farther sideways on the saddle as he zooms toward the clearing, my thigh muscles shaking as I fight to say balanced. When Leo’s hooves hit the ground, I bounce off the saddle and hit the ground, too. Pain bolts up my tailbone. But the embarrassment I feel hurts even worse than the fall.

  I have nothing. Not a drop of gold powder. Nothing in the bag on my belt. I didn’t even make it to Mount Carson. What if Mortimer makes me leave now? He’s seen how terrible I am. As I fight back angry tears, Leo nuzzles the side of my face. I sit up, slowly, to find Mortimer’s men red-faced with laughter.

  Adam lands soon after me, managing to stay on his horse. He swings off the saddle to check on me. I can see his bag is at least half-full of dirt. Honor Tumbrel lands after him, bouncing in the saddle, slowing his horse to a trot. He stares down at me, beaming.

  I wipe the dust from my face and glare up at him. “Seriously? I could have fallen off my horse and bashed my skull and you think it’s funny?”

  “Not funny,” Honor says. “Hilarious. And very satisfying.”

  Someone reaches to help me, and I assume it’s Adam.

  “I’m fine,” I say, pushing the hand away. But it’s the small boy I met yesterday. Greer. The new purple stripe in his spiky hair makes him look fierce. “Nobody did good out there,” he says. But I know this isn’t true. Every other rider got at least a little bit of gold powder. That’s good. Some riders even did great.

  I stand slowly so I don’t fall over. I won’t give them anything else to laugh at. This isn’t funny to me.

  “Mallie!” Mortimer calls out, concern thick in his voice. “Are you all right?”

  I spin around to face him, fighting to keep the tears from my eyes. Not to mention the desperation from my voice. “I’m so sorry! Next time, I’ll do better. I’ll fill up four bags of gold!”

  Mortim
er bites his lip as he looks at my empty bag of gold powder. And then he looks in my eyes.

  “I can do this,” I tell him. “Another chance, and I’ll give you more gold powder than any rider.”

  “That’s a big promise to make me, Mallie,” he says uncertainly.

  But I shake my head. “I’m not promising it to you. I’m making a promise to myself. I don’t break those.”

  He looks in my eyes a moment longer, like he’s searching for something. And finally, he nods. “Of course you will. Everyone deserves a second chance.” He looks at my empty bag, then back at me. “By next time, I’m sure you’ll have the hang of it. I’m sure you’ll do your part.”

  “Yes! I know I will.” The sudden release of worry makes me feel tired. Exhausted, even. My disappointment in myself doesn’t go away.

  Greer and the rest of the boys all unhook their Keeps and hold them out. Mortimer beams, so pleased by what he sees. “We are well on our way,” he says, clapping some of their shoulders as he moves around. “Iggy, make sure these boys get the Feathersworth they’re owed.

  “No Feathersworth for Mallie today.” His hand settles on my shoulder, too. “But don’t be discouraged. I have no doubt you’ll complete the next mission.”

  Iggy shuffles up beside me and passes a small sack of Feathersworth to Greer. The clear sound of jingling coins inside reminds me of water. A whole waterfall. I stare into my empty Keep. My heart’s as dry as it’s ever been.

  “Are you going to make fun of me, too?” I ask her.

  “Nah,” Iggy says with a shrug. “You’re good to my horses. That’s saying something.”

  “Your horses?” I ask. “What makes them your horses?”

  “I’ve got my secrets, Mallie,” Iggy says, sadness pinching her voice. “Everybody’s got secrets.”

  “Mallie?”

  My head, which was about to nod splat into a piece of pinkberry pie, jolts up at the sound of Mama’s voice. We are all around the table together. Night has closed in around our cottage. The fire in the hearth behind us fills the room with flickering warmth and dancing shadows. An old book rests half-open on a chair arm. Blankets Mama stitched are billowed around us on the floor. The pictures Mama has drawn over the years are stuck to the walls: pictures of us when we were little; pictures of flowers, back when the sun shined. She believes the details of a place make it special. And now she’s leaned in, studying the details of my face, her forehead wrinkled in worry. They’ve all leaned in, waiting for me to speak. Even Honeysuckle, perched on Papa’s shoulder, cocks her head at me.

  “I should go on to bed early,” I say. “Or I’ll wake up with pinkberry pie on my face.”

  Mama frowns. The dim light softens her features, makes her look as young as she actually is. “You hardly ate anything. How will you ride if you don’t eat?”

  It’s the first time she’s mentioned the ride since I got home. The families of the Coal Top riders were waiting when we came out of the woods tonight. Connor, Nico, and Adam all gave their families Feathersworth. The pride shined in their eyes even brighter than the coins. My family didn’t come, and I was grateful, in a way. I had nothing to show for myself.

  I glance down at Denver, beside me. So little his chin could rest down on the table. I swallow the lump of sadness in my throat. So much for the lucky Starpatch.

  “Mama’s been making you pie all day,” Denver says, pushing my plate in front of me. “Eat some. And tell us what it’s like to fly.”

  Mama scrapes a piece of pinkberry with her fork, a slash of red across her plate. “It’s dangerous. We know that much.”

  My heart sinks again. I want my mama to be proud of me, always. I’ve had a long day. I really need to hear her say it now, but she doesn’t. I lift a piece of pie to my mouth at the same time as I fight back tears. Mixed-up tears, from anger and hurt and flat-out fatigue. And I wonder if—for the rest of my life—I’ll remember the taste of pinkberries when I get sad.

  I swallow and speak: “It’s a wild and wonderful feeling, too—flying. Better than any dream. Better than you could imagine.”

  “You’re so close to the Dust,” Mama says with a shiver. “You’re gonna breathe all that in. Get sick and—”

  “I’m careful,” I say, more forcefully than I should.

  Mama rises suddenly and goes to the kitchen, as if it’s just another night. As if nothing strange has happened.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. She doesn’t respond.

  Papa rests a hand on my arm. He leans over to kiss the top of my head, and I fold into his hug. It’s just the three of us, alone at this quiet table with an old lantern lighting the distance between us.

  “I thought she’d be proud of me,” I say.

  Papa doesn’t answer, of course. But I wish he could. Denver does: “She’s proud of you. She’s pie proud.”

  I smile at the expression on his face, so adorably thoughtful. So Denver. “Explain.”

  “We don’t have pie stuff here anymore. Ever. That costs a bunch of Feathersworth. But today Mama went into town and bought pie stuff. Because it’s a special day. Because you’re our hero, and you’re doing a brave thing. I think she’s so worried about you that it’s hard for her to say she’s proud of you. Even though she means it. Mama doesn’t say stuff sometimes, but she shows it. She’s pie proud. I am, too.”

  I smile, sinking back into my seat. “You’re smart for your age.”

  He nods. “I’m smart for any age. Now, tell me about flying.”

  Before I tell the story, I’m aching for some comfort. I pull off my boots and hear them drop underneath the table. The grid on the bottom of the boots is packed with yellow dust. “I stepped in Timor powder. Adam says they keep it in the mines to use as medicine sometimes? I’ve been seeing traces of it now that he’s pointed it out. Have you heard of it?”

  Denver shakes his head and I push the thought to the back of my mind. I tell them stories about flying that make them laugh. Laugh until we yawn. Laugh until it’s time for bed.

  Until it’s time to lock the doors. Bolt the windows. Keep the wind—and the crows—out for as long as we can.

  That night, I’m asleep in seconds. But I keep jolting awake, thinking someone is there.

  Trying to get in.

  Breaking down the door.

  Or I wake up thinking it’s time to go. I used to get this way before tests in school; I would wake up all night worried I would be late.

  But the room is filled with dusty darkness. My family’s still sleeping. I’m the only one awake.

  I imagine the sound of Leo’s hooves running toward me.

  The sound of him galloping—on land and on air.

  The SNAP of his wings in the wind.

  How weightless I felt for a few brief seconds in the sky, on the back of a Starbird. How much better will I feel when I bring my parents all the money we need?

  I can’t fail again.

  I won’t fail again.

  THOMP.

  The sound comes from the rooftop.

  “What is that?” Denver asks, leaning over the bunk upside down like a wild-haired bat. “Hide me! Mallie! Go wake Mama!”

  “Calm down,” I whisper, rustling out of bed. I’m already at the window looking up, but I’m not worried like he is. Guardians don’t come through the roof. They march right through the front door.

  I glance around the side of the house. There’s nothing except the trees, swaying in the wind. Then I look up again, and a big-eyed horse face looks down at me. I jump back, startled.

  “What is it, Mallie?!”

  “Go back to sleep,” I tell Denver, tugging on one boot, then another. Why in the world would Leo come to visit me in the middle of the night?

  “Why?” Denver’s voice softens to a whisper. “Mallie … is that your horse? Is that Leo?! I want to see him!”

  “You will eventually,” I whisper. “But we can’t wake up Mama. We don’t want her to worry. Go to sleep for now. I’ll be back.”

&
nbsp; I sneak outside and climb the old ladder we prop against the side of the house. It’s been a long time since any of us have used the ladder—twists of ivy are spiraled over every rung now. I climb slowly, hoping none of the rungs are rotten with age. We used to climb more often. Most people use their rooftops for practical things, for drying apples and picking the ripest pinkberries that grow in the treetops. Mama said she and Papa used to let Starpatches dry up here before they wove them into book covers. Coats, quilts, and books, things that give you comfort. Things that make you dream good dreams.

  Back when I was little, they’d carry me up here and point to places where the stars used to be. Where the sun used to set.

  I climb gently onto the roof and see Leo, chewing loudly on some weeds growing up through the slats. He raises his head when I climb up on the top. Stops chewing.

  And his mouth tips sweetly, as if he is smiling.

  “You scared me,” I say, leaning my face into his. “What are you doing here?”

  He nuzzles my face. That’s his answer. He just wants to see me.

  I yawn, without realizing it. Leo kneels down on the flat rooftop and opens his wing—like he’s inviting me to sit against his side. So I do. I cuddle against him, under his wing, like it’s the strongest, softest blanket in the world. Because it is.

  “Aren’t you afraid of the monsters?” I ask. “They’re always out at night. Maybe it’s okay since you fly?”

  Leo snorts, as if the monsters are nothing to worry about. He leans down to chomp on a piece of mint growing on the roof slats.

  Ping.

  An acorn bounces across the roof.

  Ping.

  Another, popping against Leo’s nose. The horse grunts. A familiar whisper comes from down below. “Hey. Freckles.”

  “Adam?” I whisper as loud as I can, and crawl to the edge of the roof. Below me stands my best friend, as wide-awake as if it was true morning. He tips his hat at me. Leo clomps up beside me and looks down, too, nickering happily.

  “Have you lost your mind?” I whisper-shout down below. “There are monsters in the woods at night!”

  “I live just over that hill, Mallie,” Adam reminds me. And then he holds up a big stick. “Plus, I’m prepared.”