Drawing the Moon Read online

  Drawing the Moon

  a short story by

  Janni Lee Simner

  "Drawing the Moon" copyright © 1995 by Janni Lee Simner. First appeared in Bruce Coville’s Book of Nightmares, edited by Bruce Coville and published by Scholastic Inc.

  Cover image © 2011 by iStockphoto.com/song_mi

  Visit the author’s website at www.simner.com

  Smashwords Edition

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  Andrew knew that the moon had stolen his parents away.

  He tried to explain to Elizabeth once, after the funeral, but she didn’t understand. Her face turned horribly pale, and she whispered, “They’re dead, Andrew. Don’t you know that?” And then, just in case he didn’t, she drew him a picture. She used her red pencils, and some of Andrew’s crayons, besides. She used rusty-red for the brick buildings, brownish-red for the mugger’s jacket, rosy-red for Mom’s torn sweater on the sidewalk. And bright red for Dad, where the knife had gone through his chest.

  Andrew tore the drawing up—not because looking at it sent icy shivers up his spine, though it did—but because she’d gotten the drawing all wrong. She’d left out the moon, large and round in the night sky, and that was the most important part.

  Even though she was older than him, Elizabeth didn’t remember. Andrew did. He remembered how silver moonlight had reflected off the knife. He remembered how the moonlight had bubbled up from the cracks in the sidewalk, pulling Dad to the ground. He remembered how streams of moonlight had flowed over Mom, already face down on the pavement, keeping her from getting up. And he remembered how the light had turned brighter and brighter, until his eyes hurt so much he had to close them. That was when he’d screamed. It was also when the police had come running, their footsteps hard and loud against the street.

  When Andrew had opened his eyes again, the light was gone. A policeman stood on the sidewalk, twisting the mugger’s arms behind his back. Another policeman knelt in front of Elizabeth, talking in a low, sad voice. A siren wailed down the streets. Somewhere, very far away, a girl laughed in the darkness.

  Andrew had known, then, that his parents were gone. Not dead, though the policeman had used that word over and over. Stolen. That was a different thing entirely.

  * * *

  After the funeral, Andrew and Elizabeth moved to the country to live with their grandfather. The woods were quiet; Andrew liked that. A hurt had started deep in his chest the night his parents were taken. The woods were the only place that could make the hurt go away, at least for a little while. Although she didn’t say so, Andrew knew Elizabeth felt the same way. She spent a lot of time outside, drawing the trees and the river.

  At night, though, they had to come back inside, and that was harder. Dinner was bad enough, and the time they spent sitting in front of the television afterwards, with nothing to do but watch the flickering pictures, was worse. But bedtime was the hardest time of all.

  Andrew’s room had a row of high windows. On clear nights the moon shone through them, so bright that Andrew could see the dark trunks of the trees, stretching toward the sky. As long as the moon stayed outside, though, it didn’t bother him. He could still close his eyes and go to sleep.

  But when he left his window open—something his grandfather insisted on, at least for hot summer nights—the wind blew through the screen, brushing his cheek and tugging at the blankets. Sometimes, the wind whispered his name. And it did something else, too. It took the moonlight from outside and blew it into his room.

  The moonlight was cold, and it got down into Andrew’s bones; no matter how hot the night was or how many blankets he wrapped himself in, he couldn’t stop shivering. But the cold wasn’t half as bad as the pictures.

  Once the light got in, it snaked up the walls, hundreds of little silver strands of it, and the strands wove themselves into pictures.

  The pictures were of his parents. They showed Andrew the night Mom and Dad had disappeared, over and over, until the hurt in his chest got so bad he thought he would explode. He tried closing his eyes, but even through closed eyelids he could see the scenes the moon painted—all in silver, with none of Elizabeth’s colors, but sharp and real just the same. He saw Mom and Dad walking down the city street, holding hands, Elizabeth and Andrew just behind them. He saw the mugger jump out of the shadows. He saw Mom being hit and falling to the ground, where her head smashed against the pavement. He saw the knife go through Dad’s chest.

  But in the pictures, Mom died of the falling, and Dad died of the stabbing. That wasn’t right at all.

  The moon had stolen Andrew’s parents. So why would it draw him pictures in which that hadn’t happened, in which other things had happened instead? Andrew wondered about that for many nights before he came up with an answer.

  The moon didn’t want him to know what it had done. Or now that he knew, it wanted him to forget.

  * * *

  Andrew couldn’t make the pictures go away, and he wouldn’t stop believing what he knew was true. So as the summer wore on he slept less and less at night, and felt more and more tired and grumpy during the day. The hurt in his chest was still there, too. He didn’t think it would ever go away.

  He had to do something. After thinking a long time, he decided he had to catch the moon. He’d lock it away, and then it wouldn’t bother him ever again.

  He didn’t tell Elizabeth. He knew, somehow, that she would think the idea was silly, that she would insist the moon couldn’t be caught. But if the moon could get into his room in the first place, then somehow, Andrew knew, he could trap it. He just had to figure out how.

  He thought of the silver light, reflecting off the silver blade as Dad fell. Maybe the moon liked silver. As soon as he thought that, he knew it was right, though he couldn’t say why.

  He searched the house for something silver, something with space inside and a latch to keep it closed. The only thing he found was a tarnished silver box, with flowers carved around the edges, under his grandfather’s bed. The box was filled with things that used to belong to Andrew’s grandmother—a gold watch, a faded blue ribbon, a tiny locket. Andrew felt a little bit guilty as he pulled them out. He put everything but the box back under the bed, as neatly as he could.

  He took the box into his room, hiding it under his pillow. And then he waited for dinner to be over and for night to come.

  * * *

  The wind started as soon as he turned out the lights. “Andrew,” it whispered. “Andrew.”

  Andrew buried his head under the covers, pretending to be asleep. He clutched the box close to his chest.

  He knew when the light had come in, because all of a sudden he was cold, shivering so hard that his teeth chattered. He didn’t want to get out from under the covers, not ever.

  He took a deep breath, then poked his head out. The entire room was filled with light, so bright that if someone turned the lamp on, he wasn’t sure he’d notice. On the walls, the light had already started forming pictures. He could just make out Mom’s long hair, Dad’s bearded face. He almost reached out to them, but he pulled his hand away. They were only pictures, not real. Touching them wouldn’t change that. Andrew swallowed. His throat felt suddenly dry.

  He reached under the covers and pulled out the box. He opened the lid, held the box out toward one of the walls—the one beneath the
windows—and waited.

  At first, nothing happened. For a moment Andrew thought he heard laughter, but a moment later he decided he’d imagined it.

  He cast the covers aside. The cold raised goosebumps on his arms and turned his fingers as numb as if he were holding a snowball. He stood, clutching the box between his hands. He walked to the wall and touched the box against it.

  The picture of his parents flickered, like a movie going out of focus. Andrew just stood there, shivering. His toes were cold now, too, so cold he couldn’t feel them.

  Another flicker, and then a lick of moonlight leapt toward the box like a silver flame. Suddenly moonlight was streaming down the walls, hundreds of thin liquid rivers of it, all of them flowing into the box. The box pulsed between Andrew’s hands, icy cold. He fought not to drop it, even though his fingers froze against the metal.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. The room was dark, darker than it had ever been. It was warm, too; Andrew’s fingers and toes tingled, as if he’d just come in out of the snow.

  He quickly shut and latched the box.

  Outside, rain pattered against the roof. There was no moonlight, no moon. Elizabeth might have blamed that on the rain. Andrew knew better.

  For the box in his hands pulsed with light, far too bright for tarnished silver.

  Andrew smiled. He slid the box under his bed. Then he crawled back under the covers and slept soundly for the first time in a long, long while.

  * * *

  The light didn’t bother him after that; the sky remained moonless and dark. Something else troubled him, though.

  Beneath his bed, within the silver box, the moon started weeping. The sound began so softly he thought he was imagining it, but got louder every night. It was the last sound Andrew heard when he fell asleep, and the first when he woke up. It followed him into his dreams.

  At first he thought it was an awful trick, the moon trying to make him feel sorry after all it had done. But after a while, curiosity got the best of him, and he pulled the box out from under the bed. He meant only to glance at it, to make sure the lid was still safely closed.

  The light had disappeared. This startled him so much that he set the box down on the bed to get a closer look. The metal was ordinary tarnished silver, nothing more. Yet Andrew could still hear the crying, not soft at all now, the sort of choking sobs that make it hard to breathe. Andrew couldn’t help himself. He unlatched the lid and cracked it open, just a tiny bit.

  A wind started up, first a low whistle, then a sudden, icy gust. The box flew from Andrew’s hands onto the floor. The lid clattered open. He saw a flash of light, gone before he could cover his eyes. Then the wind died as quickly as it had begun. Andrew stared across the room, trying to figure out what had happened.

  A girl stood by the windows, staring back at him.

  She wore old jeans, faded and torn at the knees, and a short-sleeved green sweater. Her hair fell in two dark braids down her back. Her eyes were red and swollen, as if she really had been crying.

  “You’re just a kid,” Andrew said.

  The girl brushed a hand across her face. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded cross, not sad like he expected. “What did you expect? The moon herself?”

  “Yes,” Andrew said.

  The girl laughed then, a bitter sound. Ice trickled down Andrew’s spine. The night his parents were taken, he’d heard that same laugh.

  “Did you think the moon could be held in a box as small as that? All you caught was the moon’s poor messenger.” The girl’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And I’m sure I’ll be punished for being gone so long.” She pulled her thin arms around herself.

  For a moment Andrew stared at her, not sure what to say. Then he asked, very softly, “Is it true? Does the moon really have Mom and Dad?”

  “Of course she does.” The girl sounded annoyed again. “And if you had any sense at all, you’d forget about it as soon as you can. Sooner, even. Humans aren’t supposed to know about these things; that’s what the moon always says. You won’t have any peace until you forget. Nor will I, for that matter. Do you know how much work it is, carrying all that light back and forth, making all those pictures?”

  Andrew didn’t care how much work it was. What he did care about was that he’d been right. Mom and Dad had really been stolen. He’d known that, of course, but being told for sure still made him feel strange.

  “Can you bring me to them?”

  The girl laughed again. “You’re a fool,” she said. “I don’t think I knew what a fool really was, until I met you.”

  “But can you?” To see Mom and Dad, for real and not in a picture, even for a very short time—Andrew was sure the hurt in his chest would go away, if only he could do that.

  “Of course I can do it. But I’ve sense enough that I won’t.”

  “Why not?” Andrew couldn’t bear to come so close and then not see them.

  “Go to sleep,” the girl said. “Forget you ever saw me, forget there’s such a thing as moonlight that can make pictures on your walls. Go to sleep and live your safe, normal human life. The moon will leave you alone, if only you do that.”

  “No.” Andrew took a step toward her. “If you don’t take me to them, I’ll put you back in the box, next time you come. And I won’t ever let you out again.”

  “Oh, I’d get out. I did this time, after all.”

  “But it would take a long time.” Andrew hesitated, trying to remember something she’d said. “And you’d be punished. Probably worse than you’re going to be punished now.”

  The girl rubbed her hands along her arms. “Yes,” she whispered. And then she said, “I can take you, if you want. But you shouldn’t want it. You don’t know what can happen.”

  “I don’t care.”

  More laughter. “Oh, you will. But I’ve given you fair warning. That’s all I have to do. Now any mistakes you make are your own.”

  She reached out and took Andrew’s hand. Her grip was cold and smooth; Andrew had to twine his fingers around hers to make sure his hand didn’t slip away.

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her feet left the ground so slowly that Andrew didn’t notice at first. It took him even longer to notice that he was floating upwards, too. He realized he was still in his pajamas and barefoot as well. He wondered if he should have changed. It was too late now, though. They were almost at the window.

  “You have to pull away the screen,” Andrew said.

  “No, I don’t.” The girl passed through the window screen as easily as she’d risen through the room. Andrew expected to fall to the ground as soon as the screen touched him, but he didn’t. He didn’t feel the screen at all. He slid through, into the dark night. Raindrops glistened on the leaves of the trees. The rain was still falling, but he couldn’t feel that, either.

  They floated, farther and farther from home, until the lights of his grandfather’s house turned to flickering specks and disappeared. All that Andrew saw were dark clouds, moving across a darker sky. There was no moon, not that he could see.

  Silence surrounded them, so heavy Andrew’s ears hurt. To break the silence up, he asked the girl, “Do you have a name?”

  For a long time she didn’t answer, and Andrew thought maybe she hadn’t heard. But then she looked at him and said, “Yes, I do. Not that there’s anyone to use it anymore.” Her voice sounded strangely sad. “My name is Lydia.”

  “But that’s a normal name,” Andrew said, not sure what sort of name he’d expected her to have.

  “Of course it is.” Lydia’s voice turned sharp. “I was a normal kid once, too.”

  She turned away from him and wouldn’t say anything more.

  * * *

  Andrew lost track of how long they floated. It could have been five minutes. It could have been forever. After a time, though, the wind picked up. It tugged at the edges of Andrew’s pajamas and pulled at his arms. He tightened his grip on Lydia’s hand until his knuckles hurt. The win
d whipped about his legs, and it shoved his feet out from under him. Andrew tried to pull himself back up again, but instead he started falling, faster and faster, head and feet tumbling over each other. Lydia’s hand slid out of his own. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t hear his own voice.

  The clouds parted. Suddenly silver light was everywhere, so bright that Andrew couldn’t tell up from down. He just kept falling, and even when he closed his eyes, the light was still with him. The cold was there, too. It cut through Andrew’s pajamas, straight down to his bones. If he’d rolled naked in the snow, he couldn’t have felt any colder.

  Then he hit the ground, so hard his teeth rattled. For a while he just lay there, staring into the light, not sure whether his eyes were open or closed. He reached out and touched his face. He couldn’t see his hand, even when he pushed it right against his eyeballs.

  “Get up,” Lydia whispered. He couldn’t see her, either. “That’s no way to present yourself, not here.” She took his hand and helped him to his feet. He looked around, but all he saw was silver light.

  A voice cut through the brightness. “Lydia.” The voice was softer and more still than anything Andrew had ever heard, but he couldn’t have ignored it if he’d tried. “You’re late, Lydia.” The words wrapped themselves around Andrew, slid into the space between his ears, brushed against his cheek like silk. He couldn’t move, not while that voice spoke.