The Moon Thief

by Archita Mittra

Part I

Once upon a time, in a land far away where the trees could whisper secrets and ravens still delivered letters, there lived a girl who loved the moon too much and talked to it each night. She was an orphan who worked in her Uncle’s printing press for a few morsels, regular beatings, and a tiny dusty room that on moonlit nights shimmered with a translucent bluish silver, like a painting softly breathing.
Every night when the stack of sheaves she had to bind by dawn grew too heavy and the rusty needle hurt her roughened fingers to even pull, she’d sigh and look up to the circular hole in the ceiling and wonder about a strange world in grey and white. A world where her skin would be soft as milk, where the criss-crossing scars on her back would open up a hidden map and where the metal alphabets that she measured and arranged carefully each morning in the galley to spell out someone else’s name and someone else’s words, would swirl and dance and sing in glimmering patterns of sound and light. 

Over there, she whispered to the silent watching moon, she’d perhaps have a name that almost rhymed with love.

She didn’t really like working here, but this was the only home she’d ever known. Ever since her mother died giving birth to her in a ditch and her father fled the village, her “Uncle” as he styled himself, had offered to bring her up. She doubted if she was even related to that old cruel man by blood who frequently railed at her mother for being a whore and her father for being a good-for-nothing vagabond. 

After all, he treated her far more cruelly than the other work boys, even to the point of starving her for a day or two if he wasn’t satisfied with her work or caught her trying to read a manuscript instead of binding it. He also turned a blind eye when the other devils mocked her, stole her things and as the years passed, tried to molest her. But she didn’t complain much, because she knew no other love and the other boys working in the grime-stained warehouse would frighten her with stories of what terrible things happened to girls who ran away.

She’d have run away if she could, but she doubted if the few bronze and copper coins that she’d surreptitiously saved up and hidden beneath a loose floorboard would help her much, and she had no idea what lay beyond the tiny village. She’d heard the whispers of course, of the forest where the trees were as old as time and from where the hunters seldom returned, and those that did spoke of feral monsters and a castle whose towers were black as death itself and reeked with dark magic. 

She wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the concept of magic- after all, her Uncle had all sorts of customers and she’d lost sleep, tying together pages from grimoires filled with fiendish illustrations or deciphering the curlicues in black spiky handwriting written by a very violent hand that spelled out instructions to call upon demons or a thunderstorm, and were often accompanied by detailed diagrams of pentagrams and other strange shapes. And she, like everyone else, had grown up hearing stories of shape-shifting beings that hovered within their world, granting boons, scattering curses or whispering stories to dreaming children.

In fact, all she knew of the world beyond came from the pages of the musty manuscripts and books that she bound. At night those illustrations would come to life and she’d dream of boxes with wheels and contraptions that floated on water and strange devices miraculously powered by steam, soaring among the clouds. She wondered if there was something out there that would make her fly, fly all the way to the moon perhaps, and if that would indeed feel like riding on the wings of the night with the summer wind sweet and fluttering against her ears. 

But then again, she was only a servant who had no books or stories to call her own, who could only read them once before they passed away forever from her hands into a world of libraries or houses with a room lined with bookshelves and a blazing hearth, glinting with red-orange sparks. 

Once or twice, she’d come across a book with glittering images so beautiful- snakes and poisonous flowers twining themselves around the alphabets, tiny vine-shaped figures along the margins that seemed to have a soul of their own- and with stories of dragons and princesses that assuaged some secret hunger in her soul. And then, she would consider stealing it, by hiding it under the floorboard and at night, at the witching hour when the world was dark and silent except for the moon, she’d take it out and read it again to herself and to her moon, and for a while that would be the opposite of loneliness. 

But when dawn trickled goldenly from the crack in the ceiling, she would remember that she was a girl without a home or a name, and she’d be too afraid to even think of stealing.

###

One morning as she oiled the fixtures of their ancient letterpress machine, she spied a hooded stranger carrying a bundle, speaking to her Uncle in hushed tones. Dressed in black, she couldn’t even make out his face, or if there was even a face in those shadowy depths, and a strange silver glow seemed to emanate from the bundle in his hands, although she wasn’t entirely sure if anyone else but her could see it. 

Every day visitors would arrive, smelling of far-away places and her Uncle would receive them in his private study and dictate his prices for binding and printing. But there seemed something familiar about this stranger that she couldn’t exactly place. Perhaps he’s a storybook friend, she thought. 

From the corner of her eye, she saw the stranger talking softly and making precise gestures with his hands that seemed to glow a faint silver. A scent of something very old, lingered in the air like a promise. And she thought of a perfume bottle, ancient and tightly stoppered that suddenly slipped from one’s hands and broke into a thousand shards, staining everything, with its overpowering and beautiful smell. One of work boys noticed her looking and immediately castigated her to hurry up and get the machine running. “Little devil,” she muttered under her breath and got on with her work. 

When the front door creaked again, she knew the stranger had left and that she would never know his secret, so she was surprised when her Uncle summoned her and handed her that same sheaf of glowing silver paper, commanding her to have it threaded and bound by morning, as it was for a very special customer and he had struck a very expensive deal. 

She would have liked to ask about the stranger, if he had eyes like them that could see and read or if they were sunken and black, like two dark moons, like holes in the fabric of the night, but she was too scared (her Uncle never liked questions). And a tiny part of her was excited, furiously excited to read what secrets lay concealed within those pages.

She’d had a hunch that her bundle was magic. 

And as she started work on the bundle, carefully laying out the fragile pages, arranging them into leaflets that she’d have to slowly and painstakingly stitch, she realized that this was a book that would never be printed, that none of the fabled bookshops in the cities she’d only heard stories about would ever keep a copy, that this tome, when it was ready and bound with leather, would remain in lock and key in some distant monastery, untouched and unloved, mouldering in a fetid darkness. And that hurt and saddened her immensely, because the stories in the book, were the stories of creation, of the sun, moon and stars.

And she loved each of those stories. 

One of them was about a girl who was so lonely that she dreamed up a moon in the darkness of the night and a boy who was too shy to show his face, who had dreamed up the stars in reply.  Each night he offered her a different constellation and she showed him a different shard of her broken silver face, in exchange. Except one night she had hid herself from the universe and the stars, lost and confused, flickered in and out of existence blinking and weeping, as they searched for her in the spaces between light, in the spaces too dark for light to see. And when the stars failed, he was so desperate that he began to look for her with his own eyes, finally revealing his true face, because they had promised to be there for each other till the universe swallowed them up. That was why on moonless nights, one could sometimes see the stars stitched together like a tapestry with a hidden pattern beneath it, and sometimes they were barely visible, because they were far, far away, in the oldest spaces of time itself. That was why, the pages unfolded, promises are more powerful than any other magic, because they are made of moonshine and stardust. 

There was another story about a little girl stealing the sun out of mischief and then being chased by the spirits of the underworld to return it, but because the girl was cheeky and cunning, she kept a tiny slice of the sun for herself and that became the moon. There was yet another, about the sun and moon who were two very different and disagreeable siblings, meeting at a family reunion, during an eclipse, greeting and shaking hands with their starry cousins from distant galaxies. Then one of the cousins got kidnapped and the duo had to work together to find him and bind him to his place in the sky. 

It was about the power of friendship, she mused and it was funny in places, particularly when the moon recounted all the tricks played on the sun who didn’t know how to take a joke and would get flustered and set things on fire. She sighed, wishing she’d been born some celestial instead, have planets and stars for family, an orbit to spin and freewheel in. It would have been so wonderful, she thought with tears in her eyes.

That night was moonless and the candle had almost burned down and still she had pages to fix and bind. She wished the moon had been there to watch her and to hear her as she softly whispered the tales. She was so entranced with it, and not just with the stories, but with the pictures along the margins, where the sun and moon chased each other across nebulas, laughing the way the village children did as they played in a ring at the hour when the sky was purple and the fields were almost tinged with pink, and even the black ink that swirled in cursive calligraphic precision seemed like tiny universes, dotted with silver stars. 

And there were poems in there too, rhyming melodiously like songs or cantillations- of love, promises, friendship, even prayers- written by souls, separated by the stars and relayed as a constellation or a comet streaking past, and there was one poem that she’d loved too much, that seemed written just for her and perhaps it was because no one had ever written her a letter or there was no moon to silently watch her work that night, that she folded that page, kissed its silver edges with her eyes closed, put in her bosom, and went back to work as if nothing had happened, as if the stars in the night sky hadn’t just been misplaced.

###

The next day before breakfast with sleep-starved eyes and feverish skin, she handed the manuscript back to her Uncle, carefully stitched and bound with leather. He examined it closely for a very long time, but finding nothing to criticize, sent her off. By the time she’d got back, the other boys were at work and the stale broth and breadcrumbs that comprised her usual meal was already gone, presumably eaten by them. Something like hunger or guilt gnawed at her stomach, but she shrugged it off, as she set about oiling the hinges of the tympan and frisket, that formed the gaping jaw of the letterpress machine, with practised ease.
When the stranger duly arrived to collect his book, she tried to take a peek at him. But her Uncle’s loud voice angrily floated back and it seemed there was a furious argument of some sort, of a page being stolen and her Uncle was vehemently defending himself and his business from all accusations of theft. Even the other devils stopped working and paused to eavesdrop.

She felt the stolen poem against her furiously-beating heart, and for a moment, she considered running into the room and returning that which wasn’t hers. But then she remembered the scars that lined her back and her growling stomach- the stranger would probably storm off to another printer’s shop where the workers were perhaps more honest, and her uncle would beat her black and blue and do terrible things on her that he’d hinted about for embarrassing him like that and she thought against it.

But she couldn’t stop herself from stealing a glance at the stranger- perhaps this time his eyes would be visible, like two red fiery pits, ready to shoot down hellfire if need be- but when she looked, he was still a hooded stranger and her Uncle had his back turned to her, and then, just for a moment, the stranger shifted, and even though she couldn’t see his eyes, a spasm of fear shook her and she knew, she just knew that he knew, that something beneath that hood had bored deep into her lonely and depraved soul, had seen the missive hidden in her breast, had seen into her eyes for the thief that she was, and she fled back to her attic room, feigning sickness.

That night, the moon and the stars did not return.
The next morning there was a thunderstorm that threatened to tear apart the house, and icy rainwater leaked through the cracks. She cowered in a corner, her tattered wet dress clinging to her tiny body, the stolen letter in her hand. As the universe quivered, she read it again and again, until it seemed the words were seared into her skin, a love song of the sun, the moon and the stars, a love letter written for someone impossibly far away, someone who inhabited the empty white spaces between the elegant black letters that curled and encircled them like wisps of smoke. The storm seemed relentless, and she was frightened that eventually the roof would give away and then perhaps her Uncle would force her to share a room in the basement with the other boys, and she didn’t even want to think of that. 

When she came down to supper, they were waiting.

A savage hunger glinted in her Uncle’s eyes. “I asked you to bind a book last night,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she replied, looking at the path of ants on the floor.

“Did you bind every page, girl?” His voice was very quiet, but she felt his anger, and the ‘girl’ came out as a growl.

“Yes,” she replied, without making eye contact.

Her Uncle crept closer. “Well, I think you are lying. You see, that customer of mine was very special. And he claimed, that there was a page, a very important page, missing from the book. I told him that he’d probably misplaced it himself because none of my workers would ever dare steal something, but he was insistent. I turned him away and he left, cursing that there was a thief in my midst. And then something very strange happened. All the machines in my shop have suddenly stopped working. Can you tell me why is that?”

She swallowed. His words were laced with menace. “I do not know. I have been oiling and cleaning them regularly.”

“One of my boys reported that an entire cupboard of metal type has disappeared. Another said that our latest delivery of fresh paper from the mills, came in spoiled. There’s been ink spilled one of the new editions that we’re due to send in next week and some of the manuscripts have suddenly become so damp there are mushrooms growing on them. I hear some crops in the village have mysteriously died as well.”

She looked up at him, innocently. “I do not know anything about this. I’ve been up in my room as I’ve been feeling very sick, and my meals have been stolen by—”

He slapped her across her face before she could finish the sentence. “Haven’t I told you enough times,” he bellowed, “that you aren’t allowed to fall sick when you work? I’ve fed and clothed you when I could have thrown you out into the streets and let you become a whore like your mother. And this is how you repay me? By stealing from my customers!”

I could tell him the truth, she thought. I could show him the page I stole and be done with it. 

The truth would kill her of course, but hadn’t she always longed for death? Every day, as she tirelessly worked, bled her fingers, went without the meals and let herself be beaten up for small mishaps, hadn’t she prayed to die? Hadn’t she always hoped, that with every passing day, the pain would finally get to her, that she’d fall asleep staring into the open face of the moon and never wake up again? 

But she didn’t want to die, just yet. “I haven’t stolen anything,” she said with a straight face.

He flung another slap across her face. “Then why has my establishment suddenly been accursed? You see, the gentleman who came in the morning wasn’t an ordinary customer. I know now for a fact, that he was one of the gods. The old gods who visit places in disguise, to bless or curse them. And now I’m sure he was Death himself. And you pathetic girl have stolen from the book of Creation.”

Just then, one of the work boys burst into the room exclaiming, “We’ve searched her room. There’s nothing there, except for these coins.” He handed all of her life’s savings to his Uncle.

“So, you’ve been stealing from me for years, haven’t you?” He laughed, almost demoniacally. “Boys, gather around,” he shouted, “there’s a document on her person that she’s refusing to give up. Strip her and bring that piece of paper to me, and afterwards, you can do whatever you want with her. Perhaps if we kill her, we can save ourselves from the doom she has brought upon us and this village.”

She screamed. It was involuntary, guttural, inhuman almost- and it made the whole building quiver. Dust and ash began to fall, even as the thunder and the storm raged outside. The world was crumbling and she ran.

She ran.

They went after her but she was a few paces ahead. She could hear her Uncle shouting above the din, rafters falling around them, and the one of the boys was onto her. She scratched and clawed at him like an animal, and he yelped, taken by surprise at her ferocity. She grabbed something metal that lay in front and threw it over her shoulder. It hit something that collapsed with a low grunt, even as the wind broke through the panes, shattering glass.  Someone, something grabbed hold of her leg and she stumbled, being pulled away by a strong muscular force, but she kicked at it, got up and ran. 

She didn’t look back, as she ran through the storm, as the footsteps following her slowly faded and she didn’t look back as she ran all the way through her village and into the forest from where the hunters seldom returned. She didn’t look back to her crumbling home at all, even as whatever dark forces her theft had unleashed, wreaked havoc upon the world.

The stars and the moon were gone, and darkness fell upon her like a shroud.

Part II

She’d rarely been outside the confines of the printer’s shop, let alone the village, and the forest was as alien to her as another planet. It was dark and windy and the rain kept pattering and she shivered. She didn’t know which way she was going, if she was even walking in the right direction or going around in circles. She didn’t know what she was doing anymore- she’d stolen a poem from a very important book it seemed, and had lied to her Uncle and had run away. She hadn’t eaten, hadn’t any clothes except the rags that clung to her wet skin and she had no money or a place to go and her Uncle’s voice kept echoing in her ears.

You see, the gentleman who came in the morning wasn’t an ordinary customer. I know now for a fact, that he was one of the gods. The old gods who visit places in disguise, to bless or curse them. And now I’m sure he was Death himself. And you pathetic girl have stolen from the book of Creation.

It was rumoured that the forest was a realm of death, that within its shadows lurked a strange castle ruled by the prince of darkness. If she died right here, would death appear before her to take what was rightfully his? Or would her body be devoured by wolves and the poem be lost to the wind? 

If only I hadn’t stolen the poem…But it was only a poem and she had no idea of its significance. 

But was that even true? She’d sensed there was magic in it, that was what had entranced her to it in the first place, and now she had unwittingly called upon a curse on herself and her Uncle’s business and her sleepy village. She didn’t have any choice but to run, because if she didn’t, her Uncle would have snatched that page from her and let her be raped by his own men. 

But was dying cold and hungry, in the dark heart of this strange forest any better? 

At least she’d die with a love letter that wasn’t hers, clinging to her bosom. She touched the paper and for some reason, it was remarkably dry.
Magic, she thought. Oh, what have I done? 

Thorns and bristles dug into her skin, as she stumbled through the thickets. There was neither moon nor star to guide her path now as she edged deeper and deeper into the darkness of this labyrinthine forest, coughing up blood and struggling to breathe. She was ready to die here, if only Death would appear to take back what was his. 

She knew now what she’d done, by ripping a hole in the fabric of the world and she needed to return it before she could die. She lay her body against a gnarled oak tree, felt the moss against her skin, and took out the poem which despite the rain and the dirt and the grime was undamaged- perhaps there would be instructions, an address, a map written in invisible ink- but there were none, only a love letter written in black blood. She wept.

###

An owl hooted somewhere above her. The only light came from glimmering fireflies and strange silver will-o-wisps that waded through the air. She remembered stories where humans spoke to animals and where the animals themselves were forest spirits or lesser gods. 

Gathering her little strength and courage, she looked up and called out to it, “Creature of the night, there’s a man I seek, whose heart is as black as a moonless night. His name is Death and I have a letter for him, which I must return while I still breathe.”

The owl circling above her, flew down and perched on one of the branches of the ancient oak tree. It observed her sagely for a while and then spoke, “My eyes in the dark can see into the heart of things and far into the darkness none dare traverse. The Death that you seek lurks in a castle inside this forest’s old and beating heart. But its path is hidden from mortal eyes and none may pass.”

“Please,” she whimpered, “Show me the way, for I fear this storm is my doing, and I need to make my mistake right. Name your price and I shall pay it, if it is within my power to do so.”

The owl regarded her. “I will give you my eyes to see the hidden path, but once your work in the castle is done, you must return to give me your sight, in turn.”

Eternal blindness, she realized. That’s the price I have to pay.

She could barely see in the glittering dark and yet here she was still breathing, still standing. In a way, this was like blindness and yet she was still making her way through by instinct, by listening to the murmuring trees and the faint sounds of creatures that lurked in the shadows. And she was sure she wouldn’t make it out of this alive, so how bad could real blindness be? Wasn’t Death the ultimate blindness she had longed for?
She closed her eyes. “If I return from the castle alive, I will certainly pay your price.” 

The owl’s eyes suddenly glimmered amber and then it flew away into the night.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that the forest was lit up with a different sort of darkness. She could make out the shadows, the mushrooms clinging onto the rotting branches, the vines that wrapped around trees like snakes, the tiny insects biting into her skin, and the fireflies glimmering more brightly and leading the way ahead. Leaves rustled in the whispering wind and the cold moist smell of the forest settled on her skin like moths. 

The path was never-ending and she was too tired to even go on. Perhaps she would die before she even reached the castle and that thought scratched within her like a beast. She didn’t care about her Uncle’s business failing or the work-boys being buried in the rubble, but she couldn’t leave the village without the stars and the moon. Hunger had faded long ago, but the pain in her legs had not and nausea was threatening to overtake her. She slipped on a pebble, lost her footing and plunged headlong into a soft darkness. 

Something jerked and she felt herself being thrown back, her head hitting the lichen-lined forest floor. Her vision faltered and bile rose up in her throat and she spotted a great beast towering over her. It was a gigantic wolf with glittering red eyes, snow-grey fur and knife-edged ivory-white teeth. 

She remembered the owl and pleaded. Her voice seemed to flow like the words of a poem, as though the stories fumbling inside her were beating their restless wings. 

“Before you devour me, there is a mission I must complete. There is a letter that I stole in my loneliness that I must return. You wolf traverse this forest with swift light-spun feet. If you gave me your strength and your speed, I promise to return to you and pay your price, once my letter to Death is given and the world again alight.”

Saliva from the wolf’s jaws dripped onto her face, burning her skin but she was too petrified. 

The wolf softly growled. “I will give you the strength to carry on ahead without food or sleep, for Death’s castle is still a long way off. But in return, I will claim your body as my own.”

It seemed as if a knife tore through her ribcage, slicing her heart in two. She thought of her body, covered with scars and bruises that had for all these long years imprisoned her. She remembered of the work boys’ sweaty hands creeping upon her when her Uncle had been out of earshot. 

Her bones wailed, like caged birds fluttering to be let out. 

Perhaps it would be nice to let go what was rightfully hers, yet had never managed to call her own. But she didn’t want to and she would never want to- it wasn’t just her sight, but her body that was being demanded and her body was the only home she ever had. 

But you never really had a home, a strange voice whispered.

She remembered the darkness and she gritted her teeth. “So be it.” 

The wolf howled and with one ferocious leap, was gone.

When she slowly got up, strength had returned to her limbs. She could run and leap like some feral creature, and a new joy that tasted perilously close to freedom took over her. The forest was suddenly her territory and she knew it like the corners of a secret cave. It could have no more secrets, for she was its benevolent master. She dashed through the bushes and the brambles and her fingers and toes seemed like hooves that no thorns could ever pierce again. 

The Castle finally loomed before her, a deep granite-black against the soft dark of the whispering trees. She knew what she had to do but fear clung to her, like a tight suffocating scarf. 

A rabbit scampered past and this time, she knew exactly what to do. She got down to her knees and called for it. It turned its timid back to look at her sadly. 

“Little rabbit, I have a favour to ask. Fear sits like a ball wrapped in your heart and yet you venture out to search for food, skirting death at his own door. I must venture into Death’s castle but I have no courage left. Will you lend me yours?”

The rabbit came closer and nibbled at her feet. Its long pink-white ears seemed to shine. It whispered, “I do not know if what I have is enough, but I will give it to you for your cause. We approach what we fear because we must and you too have no choice. But in return I ask for your soul, because I’m giving up whatever it takes to come out from my hole in the ground and into this world of traps and dangers.”

My soul, she thought. My soul. 

There was no returning from this, then. If she’d even survived death’s cold fury, there would still be no world or a life to return to. But the letter would still be delivered and the balance in the world be restored. Already her Uncle and his printing shop seemed like fragments of a past life, unreal in this strange forest and the Castle that beckoned straight ahead. There was really no place she could go back to, after all.

She nuzzled the rabbit at the neck and smiled. “Yes, my little one. You’ll have all of it, if I return.”  

With that, the rabbit hopped away and she turned and walked towards the castle entrance.

The guards, looming like amorphous black shadows, drew back their spears and hissed, “No mortal may pass these gates.”

Her voice was resolute. “I have come for your master. Let me pass.”

“No,” they hissed back, “Who do you think you are, a filthy wretched girl come to seek an audience with our master? He has no time for mortals like you, who bargain with the forest spirits and try to enter our sacred domain. If you really want him to have you, we can skewer your heart and serve it to him on a platter.”

One of the guards grabbed hold of her arm. She could feel something black scald her skin and she instinctively kicked him in the shins. 

“You will not touch me!” she shouted with tears in her eyes.
“Then leave, before we do,” the others hissed, their spears still pointed at her. 

“You’re right,” she said quietly, “I may be filthy and wretched, and I know I’m not worth much to anyone, either way, but I have a piece of paper that holds this fabric of the universe together, and I’ve given up everything to come and deliver it to your master. If you won’t let me see him, I’ll tear this missive apart and watch your world burn.”
She paused, regarding them with savage fury in her eyes. “And then once this world has burnt to a cinder, I think, your master would like to have a few words with you?” 

She unbuttoned the front of her dress and took out the letter and waved it gently at them.

The door fell open with a thud and the guards scattered. 

###

The hooded stranger loomed before her, silver light shimmering at the edges of his silhouette. He was taller than she remembered and so menacing that she took a few steps back and nearly stumbled. All her courage and her strength seemed to have left her, as if sucked dry. He looked at her and she felt suddenly naked under his gaze and shuddered.

“Come in.” 

His voice was only a whisper but she felt the forest tremble.

Once she stepped into the hall, the door closed itself shut. It was dark and cavernous with a revolving greenish-yellow light illuminating the place from the ceiling. Statues of half-monsters-half-men lined the walls. 

If moss had glittering green eyes, this was how it would shine, she thought. 

He walked to one of the statues of a griffin and murmured something to it. A dark patch appeared in the wall, as if the bricks had suddenly melted. Without looking back, he led her down a spiral staircase, all the way to the dungeons, till they reached a small room. 

There was a pulpit there and on it lay the book half-open, the book she had bound all night and stolen a page from. But the book looked strangely different. The silver sheen had gone and it was frayed at the edges, the paper full of holes.

His back was turned to her. He could have been a black statue that had sprung up from the ground. 

“I’m sorry,” she said before he could speak, “I will not ask for your forgiveness, I do not deserve it. But I wish you’d try to understand why I did what I did.”

Very slowly he turned to face her. But he remained silent. 

Taking that as her cue, she went on, “I didn’t know who you were or what that book was. All I knew was that it was magic, the most beautiful magic I’ve ever seen. The stories in it were so wondrous, so strange—” She stopped and held back her tears.

“You see, I read in snatches whatever passes through my hands, when they aren’t looking, and I’ve never come across tales sadder or as beautiful. That poem, that one page I stole, it was so exquisite, it was the only thing that seemed to make my life worth something. That everything I’d suffered over the years, all that pain, it was worth it, for that one night when I read that love-poem, when I saw a shard of the universe, a universe that never wanted me and with whom I’ve been fighting a losing battle all these years.”

He didn’t say anything, but only regarded her sadly. She went on, tasting the warmth of her tears, “I never had a book to call my own, yet the books I print and bind are scattered in cities all over the world, cities I’ve only dreamed about or seen pictures of, cities with gas-lit streetlamps and cobblestoned roads and with carriages thundering across them and houses filled with tapestries and songs. No one’s ever written me a letter, and for a moment, I just wanted to pretend that I wasn’t alone, that there’s someone on the moon who loves what I do, who was so far away that all he could do was write a letter and let the stars carry it for him, to me, because how else can two lonely souls meet?”
She took a deep breath and wiped her tears. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have stolen what isn’t mine, what can never be mine.” The despair had been welling up inside her erupted in a jet of tears. She unfolded the paper and reached out her hand, offering him to take it back. 
She thought his hands, as they emerged from the depths of the cloak, would be skeletal, that when his fingers would brush against hers, it would sear her skin and she’d die on the spot, crumpling into ashes.
But when he reached out his hand, she saw that they weren’t skeletal, but soft, with a silvery sheen to it. She blinked back her tears. He took the paper and glanced at it, and then looked back at her. 

Then he pointed to the book and spoke. “Will you fix that for me?”

She nodded. He handed her the paper and immediately her work tools appeared beside her. Or perhaps they had been there all this while and she never noticed. Tears flooded her eyes again and fell like raindrops on the paper that seemed charmed against anything. 

He spoke again, and as he spoke, she thought she could hear the wings of ravens flapping all around, and the wind murmuring a song of the night. “Perhaps you’d like to dine and rest awhile? Go to the room to your left and come back when you’re ready. I will wait for you, here. The night is endless, after all.”’

“What’s in that room?” she asked. “Am I now your prisoner?”

“Go and find out. And no, tonight you’re my guest.” There was no malice in his tone, but no love either. “But you can leave anytime you wish, and I can do nothing to stop you.” There was something sad and powerless in his voice, as though he were an ancient and dying god.

Nervously she went into the other room. It was small and greenly-lit. A table had been laid out for her and the smell of fresh food wafted at her nostrils. It was probably some bread and cheese and milk, but the suddenness of it jolted her. There was another room to the side, where there was a warm bath waiting and a beautiful black gown on the rack. A guest, then, she thought and stepped inside, taking care to shut the door behind her.
Neither of the rooms had a mirror, and a part of her was grateful for it, though she didn’t wish to admit it. 

When she returned, he was waiting for her, still standing near the pulpit, his gaze buried deep in the tattered book. He looked up as she approached.

“I’m ready,” she said.

He gestured for her to sit on the floor. “May I watch you work?” he asked. 

She swallowed. “Yes,” she replied faintly, “I know you have no reason to trust me after last time.”

“That’s not how I meant it.”

She shrugged and sat down to work. Once the needle was back in her hand, the familiarity hit her like a gust of summer wind. It seemed that she was back in her attic room, working as the world slept and the moon watched and the candle flickered. 

He sat opposite her on the cold floor, arms folded on his lap.  She felt his searching gaze like lamplight against her skin, as she read certain pages, as she arranged the sheaves and stitched them, as she cried silently at a certain turn of phrase. This was the task she had cheated at and it seemed the universe had offered a second chance. But after this was over, surely he’d kill her? She remembered the story of a woman who spun a story each night to stave off death and she wondered if she could do the same- stitch a few pages, feign tiredness, beg for another night. That way she could live and read and read the stories till she knew not where she ended and the tales began. 

But with her wolf-strength she could never be tired and with a guilty pang, she remembered the animals waiting for her, blinded, weakened and terrified. She was their last hope.  

And so she tirelessly worked, binding the pages of the universe, magic threading through her fingers. Occasionally she’d look up, to see him looking at her from the depths of his black hood. She wondered again if he had eyes, if he had a face, if he could bleed like she did. She knew that her face had revealed all that there was to her and there was nothing else that she could hide. And with it, it seemed, her shame had also dissolved. 

Once the job was done, she handed the book back to him. Impassively, he took it, his fingers brushing hers for the faintest of moments. They both stood up. She drew a few steps back.

“Follow me,” he said.

From the depths of the earth, he led her all the way up to one of the castle towers. There was hardly any light here and some of the long, mullioned stained-glass windows, inscribed with images of the moon and the sun, had panes missing and the wind tore through in gusts. This is an old castle, she thought. And it is crumbling like a man on his deathbed. She could see the sky moonless and starless and the tops of trees, an ocean of black stretching far ahead. 

An orrery stood in the shadowy centre, all the brass planets fixed in a single moment and a little farther ahead was a raised platform with another pulpit. He placed the book, and then very quietly, he began to sing.

It was the poem that she had stolen, a love song of the stars and the moon, and as he sang, the world began to glow. A faint silver at first and then brighter, as he sang his plaintive song of heartbreak and renewal, of promises unbroken, of secrets buried in the wind. The book glowed silver, and finally, by that light, she looked upon his face. 

It was a young face, the face of a boy scared that his precious universe would blow up any second but with eyes as old as time. His skin wasn’t pale, but seemed to be made of some translucent iridescent light. Ripples seemed to shimmer beneath his silver-lit skin. They could have been his feelings or tiny planets or just trails of blood swirling in strange patterns. His eyes too glinted silver, as though two stars were trapped in its black depths. 

His song grew louder and slowly the stars began to appear. She rushed to the windows and saw the night sky alight with constellations, with the moon shining a crescent smile, with comets streaking past the darkness between the stars. The room too was bathed in silver, and the planets in the orrery began to hum as well, and she could hear an owl hooting in the far-off distance. She vaguely wondered if it was the same owl, calling her to hold onto the promise. 

When he was done singing, she stood spellbound, too shocked to speak. 

He let his hood fall back and edged closer. Fear scuttled at her heart.  

“Thank you,” he said softly. 

She gulped a fistful of the night air. “Are you a god or are you death?” she rasped.

“A lonely puppet,” he answered, “tasked with keeping the stars and the celestials in the right place, keeping them safe from the ravages of time and other evils.”

“It was beautiful, what you just did.” She meant every syllable of it.  

He laughed. It must have been a really long time since he’d last laughed, for it was rough at the edges. 

“It was the book. Without the book, I cannot sing the stars into place if I lose them. Without it, I am powerless. When the Dark Queen tore it into shreds, I was ravaged beyond measure. I gathered the pieces and I did what I could. I asked the forest to guide me to the one person who could fix it and it led me to you.”

Her eyes filled with tears, as she fell to her knees. “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t stolen that page, you would have suffered much less, wouldn’t you?”

Suddenly, the faint silver lines rippling beneath his skin, seemed to her like scars. Likes the ones on her back, that once bled red and now had darkened to angry black lines. But his was a map of the universe and hers was the story of her own pain. She imagined him, fumbling on the floor, fingers frantically reaching out for the pages, ravens pecking at his face and his chest, the cruel laughter of the Dark Queen like her Uncle’s threats, ringing in the air, drowning out his helpless screams. 

“Hush,” he whispered. 

He was on his knees too, she noticed, bending towards her, “It’s over now. The world as we know it has been restored.” He placed his hands on her shoulder. She felt hot tears against her cheeks. She didn’t know who they belonged to.

“I need to go back,” she said.

“You sound reluctant.”

She let out a laugh that sputtered into a cough. “No one looks forward to their death.”

“I thought that was what you always wanted.”

“I did. At least, I think I did. If I hadn’t wanted to die, perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to come all the way. Perhaps like a fool, I wouldn’t have stolen it in the first place.”

His voice was laconic. “Yet you don’t wish it anymore. Why do you do that which you do not wish?”

She looked at him incredulously. “Because I don’t have a choice. A promise is a promise.” 

With that she stood up, ready to leave.
And he did not stop her. 

She thought of him as a letter, pressed between the pages of a book that no one read anymore, mouldering in a dusty cabinet until one day, scar-less fingers would once again ruffle those pages and find that sepia-tinted smell of childhood and summer, within them. A vision flashed inside her a mind, a woman dying in a ditch, whispering a name that was drowned in the wind and a man running, like she did, into a different golden light, his back turned firmly against the past. 

When she reached the door, she heard him call her, his voice carrying all the way to her ears, the way moonlight would trickle in from a hole in her attic ceiling, a million years ago. “If you hadn’t returned and fixed the book, I’d have perished. The world without light would have slowly wasted away. There never would have been a moon for you to tell your secrets to. You saved more than one life tonight.”

She stopped. “In exchange for mine. It seems a worthy punishment.”

“I do not mean to ask you to stay. But I would dare to ask you to return if you so wish.”

She didn’t know what he meant by that. 

For a moment she imagined herself as a ghost, haunting this castle, dissolving into the stories painted on the stained-glass windows. Or becoming one of the stone statues that guarded locked doors and treasures and secrets. Perhaps he would come and whisper tales to her at times, and if she liked them, she would reveal to him what lay beyond the doorway. 

But then that moment passed, and she said, “I can’t.” 

He didn’t reply as he stood near the pulpit. And she didn’t look back, as she ran down the stairs, all the way from the castle, past the guards and back into the dark forest.

###

She would have liked to say goodbye. Not to her uncle or the boys from the warehouse who had shown her nothing but cruelty or to the hooded celestial figure whose castle she had left, but to the moon and to herself. To the girl she had always dreamed of being, dancing in the silver world, her song rich with colour and shape, like a wandering minstrel’s tale. She looked up at the crescent moon, that shone through the canopy of death-black leaves and dappled her skin and the forest floor with silver. She wished to smile for one last time, but the smile wouldn’t come. She would never see the moon nor know her own body, or even know herself, ever again. 

I am here, she said in her mind. I am here to pay the price with was always mine.
She didn’t have to go very far, for they were waiting for her. The owl, the wolf and the rabbit.

She prostrated herself before them.  Perhaps she had died long ago, ravaged by one of the boys, bleeding out on the cold floor, and all this had been a quest in the afterlife. Perhaps she was still in the tower, bewitched by a spell the stranger had cast, held against her will. Her vision blurred and the world swayed from side to side. 

Everything hurt so much, still. 

“Take it,” she cried. “Just make it quick.”

The wolf and the rabbit circled round her, as the owl flew overhead. The air prickled, as if aflame. Her heart skidded to a halt as she waited for the end to come. 

Perhaps, the stranger had been Death after all and he would offer her his hand for the final time. She would kiss it, she realized, wondering about the taste of silver light on her dried lips.

When the creatures finally spoke, they spoke in unison.

“We cannot take what was never ours. You’ve always had the second sight, to see beyond what others could not. Your body is your own, as is your soul. No one else can claim it, no one else can define it. You always had the strength and the courage, although you never wanted to believe it. Go back to where your heart wants, your promise is fulfilled.”

When she opened her eyes, the world seemed duller. She could feel her fingers digging into the mud and her heart raced.
The creatures spoke again. “We shall carry your tale far and wide. Your village lives as does the place you ran away from. Your heart is yours and you may go where you want.” 

And with that, the creatures dissolved into mist, as though they were never there.

And she was lying on the cold shimmering forest floor, hugging her arms to her shoulders for warmth. Everything was silent. A dim darkness stretched all around her. 

She was free then. 

It felt like death. 

Go, go, go, something in the air seemed to whisper, go back. 

She ran all the way back to the castle. It took her longer; she couldn’t see clearly and her whole body ached. She stumbled over roots, stepped on mushrooms and bugs, their cold juice staining the underside of her feet.  

But this time, the guards weren’t there and the gates were open, and he stood there as if waiting for, a silver-black figure silhouetted against the night. 

She paused at the gateway, afraid and unsure. 

“Are you real?” she whispered.

“As your moon? Yes.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m an aspect of the Moon,” he said.  “And I’m the Keeper of Stories. You’ve seen me as a stranger. You’ve seen me as a broken puppet. And now you see me, as I’ve seen you.” 

This was it, she realized. She imagined turning her back and fleeing, to be swallowed up by the forest and be released of all the pain. There would be no more stories and no more hurt. He would have granted her the final wish. 

She beheld him from a distance. He stood, lonely and dark and silver. 

“This is all I am, and perhaps all I could ever be,” he said.
She thought of her Uncle, of the books that he sold to far-off places that spoke of untold wonders, even as his mind remained cruel, closeted and narrow. She thought of the forest spirits, who had guided her to the stranger, instead of devouring her like the hunters who had trespassed before, when all hope seemed lost. She thought of herself, a lonely girl, dreaming up strange worlds and talking to herself and discovering a universe in the pages that she’d bind into a book. A girl who’d traversed the dark forest of her soul, to find that spot of silver light, a chance to make things right. 

And she thought of him, a boy who could sing the stars to life, a moon to tell her stories to, a stranger with arms strong enough to carry the night sky. He wasn’t everything what she’d dreamed him to be like. She wasn’t everything who she thought she was.

She ran and flung her arms around him. She felt his fingers on her back, in her hair, as he pulled her close. They held each other tightly for a while and then slowly let go. A look of silent understanding passed between them.
And for now, that was enough. 

There was a whole universe waiting to be explored and protected from creatures like the Dark Queen and her Uncle. And they could help each other, the way the broken notes of a song can sing of far more pain and heartache than a perfectly-timed tune.  

She took his hand, pulling it to her still beating heart and kissed his lips chastely, like a promise, like star-song, as the night lit up in silver and the world shimmered like a dream. 

THE END