In which Grandma Luna sets out from Eastmoor with little Alvar.

The sky had cleared up by the time the miller's lads were gone. It was a bright, lovely morning. Sunrays spilled over the rooftops like honey.

In slow steps, Luna ambled out through the kitchen door and into the garden. She sat down under the apple tree, beside where Oliver lay. It was his favourite spot to sit and smoke his pipe, watching the clouds drift by or listening to her hum softly as she worked in the garden. He loved to hear her sing.

"I'm falling for you all over again, dear," he would sometimes say at the end of the song--or when the wind tossed her hair back, or when the sun shone in the flecks of gold in her eyes as she gazed skyward.

"Well, that's nice." Her response was the same every time. "Shall we have another wedding then?"

"Why not? We did have loads of fun last time. Remember the fireworks?"

She remembered them. The years that followed were just as colourful and bright.

This apple tree was her favourite spot also, for here she would rest under the cool shade after a hard day's work, watching the flowers bloom in her garden--her hard-earned labours coming to fruition. The two of them had sat together like this for many summers, watching their children play. Then, many more summers had passed, and before they knew it, there were grandchildren playing in the garden. Luna never realised how fast the time had gone, not until one day she sat just like this, leaning against the coarse bark of the tree, and watched Oliver while he read.

Streaks of silver gleamed in his hair and there were creases around his bright eyes. Yet she loved him just the same, or perhaps even more with each passing day.

Luna sighed now, placing a frail, wrinkled hand upon the empty place beside her. The ground was uneven. He lay beneath the soft earth under the apple tree. She hoped he had found some peace at last, after going through the ordeal of having to see their blessed life crumble and fall apart around them.

When the Rust Plague struck Eastmoor, the poor people died left and right. The disease spread faster than wildfire. Some said it came from the swamp flies, others said it was the sweltering heat, for the summer this year was unlike any other--hot and humid like sizzling oil.

But none knew how to get rid of it, not even the old healer who lived at the end of the lane.

Those who caught it succumbed to it within days, giving in to delirium and a terrible fever. Awful red-brown spots crawled all over their faces and limbs as the disease took hold. By midsummer, it became so bad folk would cross to the other side of the street if they so much as saw a hint of red-brown upon one's face.

So when little Linnea--eldest of her three grandchildren--returned home from play one evening, feverish and pale with those telltale spots just beginning to appear on her face, her parents put her to bed in the room upstairs and made sure no one saw her.

Luna tried desperately to save the sweet child, toiling day and night at her bedside. In her youth, she'd dabbled a bit in the arts of healing magic. Besides, she knew all sorts of remedies for ailments, as grandmothers do, and had written them down neatly in a little red journal, lest she should forget. She knew how to deal with a fever that just wouldn't go away, how to cure a stomach ache and to soothe a sore throat, how to ease off pain in the limbs and ways to treat many more ailments. She was not born with the gift of magic, but working closely with the earth for so many a year had its way to imbue one with powers--the gentle magic of the earth which healed.

But it turned out there are evils in this world that are far too strong for a good grandmother's remedies.

The girl fought bravely for days until she gave in, closing her eyes one grey dawn, never to open them again.

Yet there was no time to grieve, not even for a proper burial, for her son Filip caught it next. This time, he decided to take no risks. He put his wife Amelia, the remaining children, Luna and Oliver in the downstairs rooms, as far away they could possibly be from him.

He locked himself upstairs, hoping he would be fit to join the rest when he got better. He never did.

Luna carried the meals to him when he grew too weak.

"Let me see you," she pleaded every time she placed the food outside his door. "I can help--if you'd just let me in, just this once--"

"No, Mother," he'd say through the door. His voice was weaker than the last time, each time they spoke. "There's no cure for this curse. Even the healer has no clue. You saw how it was with Linnie."

"It all happened so quickly." Luna sat down on the floor, tears filling her eyes. "Let me try again. Everything will be fine once the fever goes down. Won't you please open the door and let your mother in, my sweet child?"

"I'm sorry." His voice was choked with tears. With a click, she heard him bolt the door shut. "Keep the others safe, Mother. Don't let any harm come to them."

One morning, he did not answer the door. On the other side, there was only silence.

Luna could protect no one.

Her daughter-in-law Amelia spent her last remaining strength in grieving over the loss, too great for her heart to bear. It was grief that broke her mind, before the accursed Rust Plague could take hold of her--and no matter how much Luna soothed and comforted her, it was not enough. One night, she ventured out in the woods without a word, never to return.

When the telltale marks began to appear on Oliver's face, he knew he was done for as well.

"Keep them safe," he'd said to her, before removing himself from their company, much in the same way Filip had done. He retired to the spare room upstairs. He never came back down.

In the end, there was only Luna and her two grandchildren--Hazel and Alvar, the youngest. She kept vigil over them like a dragon guarding its hoard of gold. But it seemed there was no way to keep the disease at bay. With so many villagers dying around them, the very air was poisoned.

The night Hazel lay dead in her bed, Luna sat upon the doorstep, tears streaming down her face, holding onto Alvar. The little three-year-old had caught the fever as well, and drifted in and out of consciousness for days.

But the youngest turned out to be the most resilient of them all. Somehow, beyond all her hopes, he managed to hold onto life.

She devoted the last bit of healing magic to the boy. She was ill as well, and her powers had weakened, but she gave him all she had. Even as the rust-coloured bruises crept up her arms, his marks faded and colour returned to his face. He shifted in her arms and fell into a quiet sleep, his breathing even and the fever receding.

Alvar lived.

Afterwards, she had them all laid to rest at their favourite spots in the garden. The village cemetery was awfully crowded, and worse, hardly anyone was left to dig the graves. So Luna had asked the miller's lads to help. Filip and Amelia were side-by-side, their eldest, Linnea, nearby. Hazel slept by the rose bushes, where she loved to play with her dolls. She put Oliver under the apple tree.

Of her daughter, Elena, there was no news. She was sailing with the crew of the North Wind, and had not written to her in a long while.

The flowers in Luna's garden whispered in the breeze that rolled off the river, but the wind carried no sweet smell, only forlorn leaves drifting homeless. Sitting under the apple tree, she watched her plants wither and droop in clay pots and flowerbeds.

Nevertheless, it was a fine morning. It was unfair that the world should look so beautiful when she had lost everything that was dear to her.

Well, almost everything.

"Gran!" A small voice cried out.

Luna looked up and caught a glimpse of the little face watching her through the upstairs window.

She had not dared to let Alvar leave his room until a week had passed after the burials. Even as she threw open the windows this morning, the reek of death seemed to linger in the empty rooms. But the silence, the heavy, deafening, ear-ringing silence was the worst of all.

She could not stand to remain in the house. Not even looking out the window brought her any resemblance of peace, for in the garden awaited a scene of desolation. All the flowers were dead and the plants stood withered and bare. The ground was strewn with brown leaves. If she walked up to the gate and looked around, a sadder scene greeted her.

Around her, Eastmoor was a ghost town.

Most of the houses were empty, and when night came, their windows no longer shone with light. The fireplaces were cold. The chimneys did not puff out smoke. Ivy climbed on the blades of the windmill. The pastures were deserted. There was only the howling of lonely winds that swept over the river. She shivered in her shawl as she watched.

It was time to leave. Perhaps she would not make it, but the boy could.

She could feel herself growing weaker every day. Her illness had never really cured, but settled in, a dull ache in her bones, and a stubborn fever ever burning-- but if she could get Alvar out of the boundaries of this cursed place, there was hope for him yet. She wished to leave him at the care of her old friend Ruth in Frostspire up north, but she doubted she could travel that far without giving in to the disease.

She wrote a letter to Ruth, asking her to come to the nearest town, Greenwater. She
handed it to an innkeeper, who was preparing to leave Eastmoor with what remained of his family.

"Has mum returned yet?" Alvar asked at breakfast, the very first time he was allowed to leave his room. "Hazel said she's gone into the woods."

Luna wiped porridge from his chin, at a loss for words.

"They took Gramp away. I saw it," he muttered, fumbling with his spoon. "When's he coming back?"

Never, sweet one.

Yet Luna could not bring herself to be honest with him. She gazed into his bright, wide eyes and wondered if he even understood death. He'd seen them all go, yet he kept asking when they were coming back, as if death was something one could come back from, like a village fair or a walk by the river. She wished it was.

"We have to find a new house soon," she told him, trying to change the subject as she fed him the rest of the porridge. "We cannot stay here anymore."

"Why not?"

"You saw how everyone's getting sick around here. That's why we have to move away where the sickness can't catch us."

To her relief, he agreed. "Alright," he said happily. "A new house would be nice."

But the trouble began when she started to prepare for the trip. Alvar became restless, demanding why she was only packing his things. He refused to go, fearing the others would be left behind.

"What about Hazel?" he kept asking. "Hazel needs her dolls. She takes them everywhere. And Linnie--"

Luna had never felt so helpless. "They're not coming with us, dear. It's just you and me."

"Just us? Why?" He ran out of patience and his demands grew louder and louder, though he'd always been a timid, soft-spoken boy. "You have to tell me. You have to tell me, or I'm not going."

She sat down on a chair heavily, holding her head in her hands. Her forehead was still burning. Alvar tugged at her sleeves, on the verge of crying.

"Gran," he asked softly. "Where's everyone? Please, please tell me."

Luna took a deep breath and dried her tears. She didn't want to lie to him, but she found no other way around.

"Alright," she said. "Alright, I'll tell you."

He waited, wide-eyed in anticipation.

"You see, they're gone on a picnic."

"What?" His head snapped up, brown curls springing. "They went without me?" He puffed up his cheeks and stamped his feet. "How horrible!"

"Horrible indeed," agreed Luna. "I'm very angry with them, you know."

She took his hands into hers. It took all the strength in her body to crack up a smile. "That's why we're going to catch up with them. We'll give them all a surprise!"

"A surprise?"

"Oh yes. What's more, we'll have a picnic of our own on the way--much, much better than theirs. Now will you come with me?"

His face lit up with a smile and he wiped his eyes on his sleeves.

"Yes, Gran," he said, wrapping his little arms around her. "I'll come with you."