Shadows of Sherwood (33 page)

“. . . caught in the Elements . . . a good and safe night to all. All breath and blood and bone, for Sherwood. Zero one thirty.”

The radio fell silent.
Breath and blood and bone
. The refrain hung in the air. What did it mean? People said it so often that it had to be about more than those three words alone. Robyn huddled in the corner with a blanket. She lit the lantern and opened the library book.

The Moon Lore: A Love Story

The story begins when the universe was young, when Shadows lived one place and Light another. These forces were so powerful, so enchanting, and so opposite, that the universe was sure they would fight to the death if they ever met. The universe tried everything it could think of to keep them apart. Light was sneaky—it never stayed where you put it—so the universe captured it and tied it into a ball. But in the deep, dark cosmos, Shadows were everywhere, and they could go anywhere. The Shadows and the Light eventually met, and instead of fighting, they fell in love.

Shadows and Light ran away to one corner of the universe and tried to hide. Shadows untied light, and the two were joined. For a while they were extremely
happy. Their child, the Earth, danced between darkness and light, relishing in both equally.

When the universe discovered the breach, it cursed the two lovers, casting them into exile. The curse ensured they would live side by side, but never meet. The universe tied the Light back into its ball and tossed it into the sky, just out of reach of its daughter, the Earth, who lay cradled in the deep arms of the night. The Earth herself was cursed to spin and twist, seeking the attention of both its parents at once. But wherever there was Light, Shadows faded. In order for the Shadows to return, the Light must be blocked out.

In time, the Earth's own children, humans, forgot what their grandparents had taught them, about the pure love between Shadows and Light. They fought bitterly, just as the universe had predicted.

The children of Light built great palaces, their halls lined with blazing bulbs, where Light's glow burned all day, and all through what should have been night. They forgot the power of Shadows.

The children of darkness burned quiet fires into the night and watched the shadows dance. They never forgot the Light, for the Earth's mother, the sun, rose every morning to remind them—but they alone cherished the return of their grandfather each night. As a gift, Shadows gave them the moon, a precious orb that could only be seen in darkness, but which held the glow of the sun. It was the closest possible thing to a
reunion of Shadows and Light. These children worshipped the moon and prayed to the universe to end the curse and bring the children of Shadows and the children of Light together under one banner as offspring of the Earth.

But as the centuries wore on, the divide only deepened. The children of Light, unable to see the missing half of themselves, developed an insatiable craving for power. The children of Shadows craved unity, but this hope only led them deeper into despair. They fought back.

Witnessing the enmity between her children, the Earth's heart broke. The Earth bore additional children, by the hundreds and thousands, some dark and some light, but none imbued with the true spirit of Shadows or the true spirit of Light. The Earth hoped that without the ancient spirits yearning inside them, the children could find peace. But these soulless children simply joined in the fight.

The once beautiful Earth began to crumble. Storms, fires, earthquakes, floods—all were desperate cries for her children to return to her bosom . . .

 

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Storm

Storms, fires, earthquakes, floods . . .
Robyn did not want to read anymore. Not while she was alone, and so high up in the rain and the dark.

A pocket of night, Mom used to call it, when a storm darkened the sky in the afternoon. Robyn could picture the delicate tremble of her shoulders as she spoke. Of course, now it was actually night, but it still felt like a pocket of something.

Mom was afraid of storms, but Robyn secretly loved them. At least she did when she could look out from the safety of her bedroom window. The tree house rocked with each gust of wind. The boards beneath her were solidly built, she thought, but still it was not a comforting feeling. The air itself churned as the rain tumbled down.

Dad, on the other hand, found water from the sky almost holy.
The tears of Earth's mother
, he would say.
Her sorrow helps us live.

It sounded like something out of the moon lore, Robyn now realized. Dad said things like that all the time, things that confused her. But Robyn hadn't had time to be confused back then—she'd always pushed confusing things aside. She liked easy things, things you could do and things you could touch. A somersault was easy, or a back handspring. Of course it could be hard to actually perform one well, but it wasn't hard to understand what it was. Building things was easy, too, or making electronic gadgets run. There was always a right way—an answer that was clear.

Unlike now. Now Robyn was just confused, with no way to push aside what she didn't understand.

Laurel tripped in the door, sputtering like a drowned rat. Robyn was startled—over the sound of the storm, she hadn't even heard the footsteps. Laurel was back, after all. Robyn felt hugely relieved.

Laurel carried something large, metal, and awkward in her arms—it looked like a pot or bowl. “Wet . . . wet . . . wet . . .” The girl coughed and trembled.

“It's like a shower,” Robyn told her, trying to put a positive spin on it. Eyeing Laurel's dripping T-shirt and jeans, she added, “Or a washing machine?”

“Not if you don't have soap,” the younger girl grumbled. She set down the pot and shook out her limbs like a dog.

“Hey,” Robyn cried, as droplets pummeled her.

Laurel stripped off her soaking shirt and shorts and rummaged in the cardboard box that held their few items of clothing. She wriggled into a sweatshirt and a pair of leggings
that would have been a better fit on Robyn. She squeezed her hair in her fist, up and down the length, until the steady stream of water faded to drips.

“Where's Key?” Robyn asked.

“I don't know.”

So he hadn't come back with her. Robyn lowered her head. “Oh.” She hoped he was hunkered down somewhere warm and dry, not caught out in Mother Nature's melee.

When Robyn raised her head, Laurel was glaring at her. “I do have parents,” she said stiffly. “I just don't know who they are.”

“I'm sorry,” Robyn said. “That was really mean of me to say.”

“I would look for them if I could,” Laurel whispered. “I don't want to go back to being by myself.”

“Me either,” Robyn said.

“I don't think friends should leave each other behind,” Laurel said. “Next time you try to follow the clues, don't leave me behind.”

“I promise,” Robyn said. “And next time I'm mean, just yell at me.”

“Okay.” Laurel threw her arms around Robyn, hugging her tight. “But don't be mean.”

Robyn laughed. “Right. That's what I meant to say. And if I do find out what happened to my parents—when I find them, I mean, you can come home with us.” Robyn knew her parents wouldn't mind. Once they met Laurel and heard her story, they could never turn her away. “It'll always be you and me.”

“I brought dinner,” Laurel said. She pushed the pot toward Robyn, who could now smell the wafting warmth of rice and something else. Meat?

Robyn's mouth watered. “Awesome. Thanks!”

“Steam grates work wonders,” Laurel added. “But I would've done it tomorrow if I knew it would rain.”

The girls huddled under Key's warm wool blankets and scarfed down two-thirds of the steamed rice and canned meat Laurel had prepared. They stared out the window at sheets of water so thick, the space between the trees appeared almost white.

“Are we going to float away?” Laurel whispered.

“I don't know,” Robyn answered. “Where do you want to float to?”

Laurel leaned her head on Robyn's shoulder. “Someplace that feels like home,” she said, drawing out the
o
, so the word sounded round as a hug.

“Yeah,” Robyn agreed. But the dreamy distant hope in Laurel's voice felt light enough to be washed away by the rain. For Laurel, a true home was the stuff of fantasy. For herself, Robyn feared, it was a thing of the past.

 

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Key Returns

Robyn tossed and turned that night, but Laurel slept soundly. And late. Robyn sat in the tree house, fiddling with the hologram and listening to the remnants of the rain dripping off the leaves outside. One of the fine wires Barclay had given her seemed like a right fit, but now the hologram wouldn't even start. No matter how she held or rubbed or squeezed it, nothing happened.

She examined Barclay's modem. Knowing what it was helped a lot—it looked basically functional. Modems were very old technology, like the TexTers, like the radio. It was how people used to access the web and the Nott City databases long before the wireless technology that was ubiquitous now. But there wasn't much she could do with the modem until she had a place to plug it in. Robyn couldn't imagine how something so old that it wasn't even wireless could be useful at all. Scarlet had seemed excited about it, but for now, Robyn put it aside.

She used the circuit board to test the TexTer batteries. They were charged and ready. She fiddled with the devices to learn how they worked.

When Laurel finally woke, Robyn had gotten the TexTers working. You could type a message into one, and a few seconds later it would show up on the other. The messages had to be short. Just barely a sentence or two. Robyn wondered about the range of the devices, but she imagined it could cover most of the city. The signal bounced through old cell towers stationed around the city. These towers were everywhere, just now defunct. No one ever bothered to take them down when they became obsolete.

“Check this out,” Robyn said. She held up one TexTer.