Broken Angels

37

Moon's book is the most precious thing in his life. It is large and leather-bound, heavy, with gilded edges. It had belonged to his grandfather, and his father before that. Inside the front, on the title page, is the signature of the author.

This is more valuable than anything.

Sometimes, late at night, Moon carefully opens the book, looking at the words and drawings by candlelight, savoring the fragrance of the old paper. It smells of his childhood. Now, as then, he is careful not to get the candle too close. He loves the way the golden edges wink in the soft yellow glow.

The first illustration is of a soldier climbing a great tree, his knapsack slung over his shoulder. How many times had Moon been that soldier, the strong young man in search of the tinderbox?

The next illustration is of Little Claus and Big Claus. Moon had been both men, many times.

The next drawing is of Little Ida's flowers. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, Moon used to run through the flowers. Spring and summer were magic times.

Now, as he enters the great structure, he is filled with magic again.

The building stands above the river, a lost majesty, a forgotten ruin not far from the city. The wind moans across the wide expanse. Moon carries the dead girl to the window. She is heavy in his arms. He places her on the stone windowsill, kisses her icy lips.

As Moon goes about his business, the nightingale sings, complaining of the cold.

I know, little bird, Moon thinks.

I know.

Moon has a plan for this, too. Soon he will bring the Snow Man, and winter will be banished forever.