Backwards Moon by Mary Losure Page A

felt brave and strong. She hung her hammock, climbed in and swung gently, hidden by the leaves. She listened to the rush of water and felt the warming sun. She closed her eyes and slept.

    When she woke, the sun had set and night had fallen. She clambered out of her hammock, folded it neatly, and stowed it in her pocket. She had just finished eating and watching the stars come out one by one when she heard the first bark.
    She froze, listening.
    It was not one dog, but many, she realized with a chill. She got to her feet and pulled her broom from her pocket.
    Below her, twigs snapped and a smallish, humpbacked animal came lumbering through the trees. It stood for a moment, its head lolling. Then it staggered to the base of Bracken’s tree and began to climb. It had a black mask and a bushy ringed tail. Bracken crouched, watching, as the creature climbed higher. The raccoon, for so it was, crawled along a branch then hunched down, its back to the tree trunk. “Done for,” it moaned as the barking grew louder and higher in pitch.
    Before Bracken could say anything, a dog bounded through the underbrush, barking in mad excitement. It ran to Bracken’s tree, put its two front paws on the trunk and howled into the darkness.
    Bracken leapt to her broom as dog after dog ringed the trunk, all baying in triumph.
    â€œGet on!” she cried, hovering in front of the raccoon. His whiskers quivered. Then he jumped. Bracken’s broom dipped—he was surprisingly heavy.
    The dogs howled frantically. A beam of light raked the tree branches. A dull bang, and something rattled through the leaves.
    â€œGet ’em!” cried a human voice. There was another bang and more rattling. “Get ’em!” the voice cried again.
    â€œThat way!” cried the raccoon, amid more banging andpopping. “Yes!” he said gleefully. “My finest escape ever!” More bangs and poppings sounded.
    A sudden, searing pain shot through Bracken’s leg. The broom lurched wildly.
    â€œThat way,” gasped the raccoon.
    Bracken craned around to see him pointing with one trembling finger.
    â€œThere’s a farm that way, an old one,” he cried. “There’s no hunting there.”
    An owl hooted from a grove. Behind it loomed a swaybacked barn, its hayloft door hanging open. They hurtled through and crashed to the floor. Bracken slid from the broom and lay in a heap, clutching her leg. “You’re bleeding,” moaned the raccoon, wringing his little hands.
    From outside came a crunching, rumbling sound and a tumult of barking.
    â€œIt’s a pickup truck,” gasped the raccoon. “They come in pickup trucks.”
    Bracken hobbled to the hayloft door and watched, trembling, as two men with guns—
guns!
—got out.
    And then a human child—a boy with a gun.
    The men and the boy walked up the farmhouse steps and rapped on the door. A light came on above the porch, and the front door opened. “All right, but be quick about it,” said a man’s voice. The door slammed shut. The dogs barked mindlessly from the pickup truck.
    â€œIt came this way!” said the boy’s clear voice. “It was
huge
.”
    The humans shone lights into the trees, sweeping them in great arcs through the night. Then the boy and one man walked toward the barn.
    â€œFly!” whispered the raccoon. He grabbed Bracken’s broomand shoved it at her, but when she tried it, everything swirled crazily around her.
    â€œI can’t,” she moaned.
    â€œThis way. Hurry!” said the raccoon, his voice shrill with fear.
    Bracken hobbled after him to a far corner where old, dusty hay lay in drifts. She hid herself as best she could. Below them came a sliding, creaking sound.
    Two heads emerged through the opening in the hayloft floor and clambered up, guns in hand. “Here,” said the man, handing the boy a light. “You find it.”
    The boy swept the light