The Goat Who Ate the Moon

Ivy had a goat named Buttercup, and Buttercup had one talent: eating things that were not food. She ate the laundry off the line, the newspaper off the porch, and once, a whole birthday card. “Buttercup,” Ivy said, pulling a sock from her mouth. “That was my lucky sock.” Buttercup chewed calmly and swallowed. The sock was gone.

On the night of the Moon Viewing, the whole town gathered at the pond. Lanterns hung from poles, and everyone brought blankets and pies. “Keep that goat away from the food table,” said Mayor Trumbull, eyeing Buttercup. Ivy held the rope tight. “She’s just curious,” Ivy said. Buttercup was already nibbling the corner of a picnic basket. “See? Curious.”

The moon rose, big and round and golden, and everyone sighed. “Beautiful,” said Mrs. Pemberton. Buttercup bleated and tugged at her rope. “Hold still,” Ivy whispered. But Buttercup had spotted something on the dock: a bright, wobbly circle floating on the water. She lunged.

***

The rope slid right through Ivy’s fingers. “Buttercup, no!” Ivy shouted. But Buttercup was already galloping down the dock, hooves clattering on the wood. The moon’s reflection bobbed on the pond, and to Buttercup, it looked like a big, round, glowing snack.

She skidded to a stop at the dock’s edge, leaned her neck out, and took a huge bite. A splash of water flew up. The reflection broke into wobbly rings, and Buttercup stood there with her nose dripping, looking very pleased with herself.

“She ate the moon!” a little boy yelled. “The goat ate the moon!”

Ivy ran down the dock. “She didn’t eat the moon!” she said. “She just bit the water!” But everyone was pointing at the sky, where the moon had been. It was gone. The pond was dark. The lanterns seemed suddenly dim.

Mayor Trumbull dropped his pie. “That goat,” he said, “has eaten our moon.” Buttercup burped, and the sound echoed over the water. Ivy grabbed the rope and pulled her goat back from the edge. “She didn’t,” Ivy said. “I promise she didn’t.” But nobody was listening.

Mayor Trumbull climbed onto a wooden crate so everyone could see him. His hat was crooked and his voice came out squeaky. “Citizens of Pond Hollow!” he called. “Our Moon Viewing Night is ruined! The moon is gone, and we all know why!”

A hundred heads turned toward Buttercup. The goat blinked her long eyelashes and chewed on a ribbon she had pulled off somebody’s basket.

“That goat,” said Mrs. Pemberton, “has been trouble since the day she was born.”

“She ate my prize tomatoes last spring!” shouted Mr. Oakes.

“And my newspaper!” said old Mr. Finch. “Every single morning!”

Ivy stood in front of Buttercup with her arms spread wide. “She’s just a goat,” she said. “Goats eat things. That’s what they do.”

“She ate the moon!” the little boy yelled again, and this time half the crowd yelled it with him. Somebody started to cry. Somebody else said the pond would never shine again. Mayor Trumbull waved his arms and told everyone to stay calm, which made everyone much less calm.

Buttercup chose that moment to nibble the mayor’s shoelace. He hopped off his crate with a yelp. The crate tipped over, the pies slid sideways, and a paper lantern floated up into the dark.

Ivy felt her ears go hot. Everybody was shouting at once. It was loud, and it was all about her goat, and none of it was true. She took a deep breath and looked up.

***

That was when Ivy saw it. High above the pond, a fat grey cloud sat right where the moon should be. The cloud was moving, slow and steady, like a sleepy sheep crossing a field. A thread of silver light curled around its edge.

“Wait!” Ivy shouted. “Wait, everybody, look up!”

Nobody looked up. Mrs. Pemberton was telling the mayor they should lock Buttercup in the tool shed. Mr. Oakes was saying they should lock her in a stronger shed. The little boy had started a chant of “Goat ate the moon,” and three other children had joined in.

Ivy grabbed her friend Sam by the sleeve. “Sam, look at the cloud. Tell them.”

Sam squinted. “Oh! There’s a glow on it. The moon’s right behind it.”

“The moon is just behind the cloud!” Ivy called out. “It didn’t go anywhere!”

Mayor Trumbull paused. “Behind the cloud?” He looked doubtful. “Young lady, the moon was full and bright a moment ago.”

“It still is,” Ivy said. “Clouds move, sir. My grandpa says the sky is always moving, even when we can’t tell.”

“She’s making excuses for her goat,” said Mrs. Pemberton, folding her arms.

“Goats can’t eat the moon anyway,” Ivy said. “The moon is enormous and far away. Buttercup only bit the water.”

A few people glanced upward. The cloud drifted on, stubborn and grey, hiding every bit of silver. The pond stayed dark. And Buttercup, who had no idea she was in trouble, chose that exact moment to eat a corner of the mayor’s hat.

Mayor Trumbull clapped a hand to his head. “My hat! That goat ate my hat!”

Buttercup chewed calmly, a scrap of blue felt hanging from her lip. The crowd gasped, then laughed, then gasped again. Ivy saw her chance. “Buttercup!” she called. “Look up! Look at the sky!”

Buttercup did not look up. She looked at the mayor’s shoes. Then she looked at the food table, where a tower of mooncakes sat. Before anyone could stop her, she trotted toward it, hooves clacking on the dock boards.

“Not the mooncakes!” cried Mrs. Pemberton.

Ivy ran after her. “Buttercup, no! Those are for everyone!”

Buttercup reached the table and sniffed the tallest mooncake. It was round and golden, with a pattern pressed into the top. She took a delicate bite. Then another. The crowd groaned. Ivy grabbed the goat’s collar and pulled. “I have an idea,” she said to Sam. “Help me lift her.”

“Lift her where?”

“Onto the table. Quick!”

Sam’s eyes went wide. “You want the goat on the food table?”

“Trust me.”

Together they hoisted Buttercup onto the table. The goat stood among the mooncakes, blinking. Then she did what goats do when they are nervous. She bleated. It was a long, loud, wobbly bleat that echoed across the pond.

Every head turned. Every face looked up. And there, behind the drifting cloud, a thin rim of silver appeared.

“The moon!” shouted the little boy who had started the chant. “The moon is coming back!”

The cloud slid away like a curtain. The full moon shone down, round and bright and whole. It was so bright that the pond turned into a mirror again, and every mooncake on the table glowed.

Buttercup bleated once more, softer this time, and the whole town cheered.

***

Mayor Trumbull stared at the sky, then at his hat, which was now mostly gone. “Well,” he said slowly. “I suppose the moon was there all along.”

“It was,” Ivy said. “Just behind a cloud. Buttercup only ate the reflection. She can’t reach the real one.”

Mrs. Pemberton stepped forward. She looked at Buttercup, who was now nibbling a mooncake crumb off the tablecloth. “That goat,” she said, “is a menace.”

Ivy’s heart sank. Then Mrs. Pemberton smiled. “A clever menace. She made us all look up.”

The mayor laughed. It was a big, booming laugh that made his mustache wiggle. “Then let her stay. But someone get me another hat.”

Sam found a paper lantern and put it on the mayor’s head. Everyone laughed again. Buttercup, who loved a good party, stood on her hind legs and bowed.

The town settled back onto the dock. People shared the mooncakes that were left. Someone brought out a fiddle, and the little boy taught Buttercup to bob her head in time. Ivy sat beside her goat and looked at the moon in the pond. It was whole and bright and calm.

“You didn’t eat it,” she whispered. Buttercup burped, and a tiny piece of blue felt floated out. Ivy giggled. “Almost.”

When the lanterns were lit and the music played, Mayor Trumbull raised a cup. “To the moon,” he said. “And to the goat who reminded us to look up.”

Everyone cheered. Buttercup ate a napkin. Ivy leaned her head against her goat’s warm side and smiled. The night was full of light, and she had never felt so at home.