The Girl Who Soared Over Fairyland and Cut the Moon in Two

CHAPTER XXI
THE GIRL WHO WAS GONE

Twilight made the rounds on the prairie, turning the lights on and sounding the bell for supper. The ruined fence was mended now and all well. A few strands of greyhound fur matted into the wire of the patch. The sun set over the main road, over to Mr. Albert’s farm, the Powells, September’s own small house. The night came on proper, full of familiar, happy stars. The moon, her own moon, our dear moon with its old face in it, came up in the south, full and bright as life.

In the Powell barn, the big roan groaned and sweated and pushed. A tangle of horse came tumbling free. Pure white against the red matted fur of her mother. The colt kicked wildly-and almost immediately tottered upright, her ghostly white body shining in the dim light, so bright against the red of blood and roan and barn.

The full moon rose passed the high barn windows, spilling in like milk.

But September was not there to see it. The next day’s sun will peer in on an empty bed, a woman with engine grease under her fingernails and yelling with panic in her voice like bright paint for her husband to wake up and call her sister, call her now, use Mr. Albert’s telephone and call her sister, stop asking questions-and a little dog nosing through the pillows for a girl who was gone.