Short story: Maggie’s Moon

Monday, November 22nd, 2004

The moon was gloriously full and the air cold but clearer
that night than it had been for the past seven, making it
easy for Maggie to see the face of her friend on that
distant sphere; she’d communicated with the so-called
‘man in the moon’ many times over the years, often when
out gathering herbs for her spells on the prescribed nights
and times of the lunar cycle.

It had been her moon spirit friend who had shown
her where she could find the rarest of herbs for her
potions. He had also kept her company during devotional
workings in honour of Brigid, times when her stomach
had growled in protest at her fasting while the fires she
had lit seemed to offer no real warmth. Her bones chilled,
she had closed her eyes and begun dialogues with the
moon spirit which had always been both comforting and
rewarding.

Once, the moon spirit had told Maggie a poem of
such sadness she had cried for several hours after
hearing it inside her head. The verses had told the tale of
how, once, the moon had been a part of the very earth
beneath her feet. There had been no other moon in the
sky. Then, one terrible day, a violent and fiery celestial
body, not unlike a small sun, had come along and collided
with the earth. It had torn out her heart, killing her many
children who had been living in a Golden Age.

For millennia, the earth was filled with grief and
held back by melancholy and darkness until she found the
strength to grow a new heart. In so doing, she came to
life again and opened her eyes to see the recompense for
her long suffering: her old heart had become the moon,
her special child who she grew very proud of because he
carried within him her own essential spirit.

Maggie wondered why the memory of the story
came back to her now, but she was grateful as it offered
her some comfort on this, what seemed to be the
bleakest night of her life. She recalled how she had tried
to write the poem down but had been unable to. Her
fingers had proven strangely unequal to the task, clumsy
and wooden; her letters, quite hopelessly unreadable, had
turned out worse than those of the most ignorant child
with no schooling behind it. Frustrated, she had come to
the conclusion that some things were meant for the
telling, not the writing. Yet she knew that as writing
became an increasingly dangerous even impossible act,
so too did the telling carry its own potential for disaster if
carried out indiscriminately without due caution in the
current climate of oppression.

Still, she wished she’d had the opportunity to tell
someone, at some time or another, about the moon
spirit’s poem. She hoped her friend in the sky might tell
others the same tale, if indeed he had not done so
already in times gone by.

She fell, her old legs failing her in the cold. She
looked behind her but could see nothing which could have
been said to have caused her to fall. She swore under her
breath, which streamed out of her in icy curls and strings.
The invisible noose around her very existence, which she
had been conscious of now for months, seemed to grow
tighter and ever more restrictive by the day, by the hour,
by the minute now. She had a vision of her mouth being
stitched closed, her hands tied behind her back and her
back itself broken in two. She shuddered, hearing in her
head the violent snap, dismissing the images as fanciful
but not the fears which had provoked them.

Now, as she looked across the moor land and saw
only bleak, snow-covered and anonymous terrain
stretching out ahead of her on all sides, she was glad the
sky was bright, the moon full; while no protection against
the infirmity of old age, its light offered some hope, at the
very least, of her being able to avoid tripping over couch
grass and breaking her leg. Maggie had seen sheep do
that over the years. Once, she’d come across a sheep’s
leg, just a leg, nothing else, stuck out from between two
great clumps of couch grass like a wicked signpost; a
bloody stump warning travellers away. How the leg had
become detached from the poor animal, she could not
guess – perhaps a wild dog had attacked it? – but the
thought, coming to her in the present moment, of one of
her own legs being violently ripped from her body
unnerved her. She wasn’t scared of death because it was
a natural part of life and as inevitable as the sun following
the moon following the sun. No, Maggie had a fear of
violent death. She hoped that when her end came, it
would be quick and painless but in these times, she knew
she couldn’t count on that.

At the back of her mind, Maggie had always seen
herself reflecting the goddess in her aspect as Crone in
relative comfort, a village healer respected by all for her
access to the ancient arts, her knowledge of the natural
principles which held rule over the human body and spirit.
She knew of the ways in which plants could interact with
the animal to bring healing where needed. She also knew
that this knowledge was going to be blown away by the
wind of change, lost forever, removed from memory and
practice by the Christians and their God, a deity who
tolerated the worship of no other. The rising popularity of
the new religion meant bad times for Maggie and her
sisters in the Craft. Bad times which would see no end.

Maggie shook herself and flexed her fingers to
relieve the aching cold a little. She didn’t want to be
thinking like that. It served no purpose only to darken her
mood, which was no purpose at all worth pursuing.
Besides, she thought, gritting her teeth and turning to
look back at the distant burning pyre which had been her
home until that evening, these Christians were fools, the
lot of them, if they thought they could destroy anything
which was natural and of the maker; why, they might as
well set themselves against the sun and the moon!

She laughed out loud, despite having lost
everything – at least, everything material she had ever
owned. She still had the fire in her belly; she still had the
comfort of the Great Mother’s breast, her energies to call
upon for help and guidance. More, perhaps, than anything
else, she still had a woman’s instincts, made keener by
experience and sharpened by acquired knowledge.

This Christianity was a religion dominated by men.
Maggie knew it afforded women little opportunity, if any,
to learn and grow; worse, it treated women as evil, the
cause of all men’s sorrows, things to be owned, to be
beaten, treated no better than cows or sheep. She knew
more about this new religion than many of the villagers
who had taken torches to her home. She’d made it her
business to know because ignorance never served anyone
other than the wicked and the powerful. It never would.
The notion that an apple, handed to a man by a loving
and sensible woman, her mind on practical matters such
as avoiding hunger, could lead to them both being cast
out of a garden, well – Maggie could see no sense, no
rhyme or reason, in that.

The goddess was tolerant, loving and patient with
all men and women. So why had this Christian death cult
caught the imagination? Maggie’s eyes narrowed. She
knew the answer. She was no hater of men but she knew
their weaknesses, for sure. Most but not all of the men
she had ever encountered were slow-witted and blinded
by lust for sex or battle most of the time. They were
rarely a match in an argument for a woman’s ingenuity
and natural intelligence. Maggie knew she needed to call
upon her mind and her sex as well as her gods if she was
to survive the night. She saw Christianity as an attempt
at matricide: an effort by men to kill the goddess, and,
again, she found herself laughing. What fools. Why did
these men not try to stop the air from entering their own
lungs? Or prevent their pricks from standing tall when the
senses were excited by beauty?

She forced her eyes to look away from what had
been and was no more, instead setting her gaze on the
distant horizon. She set one foot in front of another, then
another, then another and began to make good progress
across the moors. If she was lucky, the villagers who had
turned against her so quickly would not follow.

She half-walked, half-stumbled for hours across the
barren countryside; her fingers and toes were dead to her
by the time she came to the crest of a hill and saw a
small town in the distance. It was, for the most part, in
darkness; everyone was asleep. She knew the town too
well, she realised. She had spent many summers
travelling to market there to sell her charms and poultices
and so it would not be a safe haven for long from the
persecutions she sought to escape. Still, it would do for
the one night. She had no intention of drawing the
attentions of any of the townspeople. She would find
herself a stable somewhere and settle, out of sight, into a
corner until daybreak when she would depart from the
county forever.

Maggie considered for a moment the possibility that
the villagers might be in pursuit, perhaps on horseback
travelling the old Roman roads around the moors, but she
dismissed the idea from her mind. They would likely get
an ice-cold reception like no other if they woke an entire
town in the middle of the night; few townspeople, even
the most passionately Christian, would be willing to get
dressed and undertake a laborious search of their own
premises on the off-chance they might be inadvertently
harbouring a witch. She smiled as she saw in her mind’s
eye images of men, leaning out of windows, pouring
curses and shit from slop buckets onto the heads of those
daring to awaken them. She almost wished it would
happen, for the sight would be something after the
horrors she’d witnessed already. But no, it would not
happen and she would be safe indeed, for a short time.

After spending so long trudging across a landscape
undifferentiated by tree or bush, Maggie found herself
moving onwards with a renewed hope and energy which,
until she’d reached the top of the hill, she had feared was
ebbing away to nothing. She looked up at the moon and
said a silent prayer of thanks to her friend, the moon
spirit, for providing her with his pale but constant white
light, if not heat. For that, she needed the sun as her
benefactor and, at this time of year, she knew the sun’s
charity was unlikely. The day was likely to be almost as
cold as the night had been. Conscious of a growing
hunger in her belly, Maggie reached into the small bag of
belongings she had with her and found a piece of bread.
It was dry, and her own mouth being dry for want of
water made for a difficult few minutes spent chewing and
swallowing but she did both, out of necessity, while
moving ever closer to the town. She knew the bread likely
carried no real goodness within it to speak of; still, better
a full belly than an empty one to distract her or even
draw attention to her presence with its grumblings.

She had just finished off the last piece, and was
wiping her hand across her mouth to clear it of any
remaining crumbs, when she became aware of a presence
nearby. Somebody was watching her. She became
acutely aware, for the first time, of the night, the silence
and her own isolation. She dropped her bag in a panic,
her head turning this way and that as she sought out who
it was observing her. She could see nobody, just the town
in the distance and the relentlessly monotonous moor
land. Puzzled, and still feeling as if she was being
observed, she reached down and picked up the bag.

When she raised herself up, bag in hand, she
dropped it again. There, in front of her, was a remarkable
sight: a man, easily six feet tall in height, if not seven all
told, and naked. His skin was like nothing Maggie had
ever seen: translucent, pearl and smooth as a pebble
washed over by a million tides.

“I should be embarrassed,” she found herself
saying. “Seeing a grown man with no clothes on, out
here. I’m not, though. I just find I’m a little curious as to
why you’re here and who you are.”

The man smiled and Maggie noticed his lips had a
faint bluish tinge to them; they made her think of a cold
blue winter sky, and she found herself shivering. “You’re
cold,” he said.

“Tell me something I do not know,” she barked,
immediately regretting it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve had
better days. And nights.”

The man said nothing.

“Are you not cold, standing there with no clothes
on?” Maggie asked. Her eyes travelled down the man’s
body. It was muscular and far from unattractive but, she
noticed with surprise, there wasn’t a trace of hair
anywhere to be seen on his body other than on his head.
The hair there was long and wild, gossamer-like,
appearing to have been blown in all directions by the
strongest of winds, but there was no wind to speak of.
The hair was a bluish-white the like of which Maggie had
never, ever seen before.

The man didn’t answer her question; or, if he did, it
was with another gentle smile. She looked into his eyes.
They were black and had stars in them. She could see
them twinkling, tiny but significant. They were the most
beautiful eyes Maggie had ever seen and she knew, then
and there, in that very moment, she was in love. Despite
the cold, she felt a surge of heat through her body, her
most intimate places coming alive in a way she had not
experienced for some years, surprisingly warm and wet.

“I know you,” she said, after a time spent
swallowing hard and trying to collect her senses.

The man nodded and beckoned to her to come
closer. Maggie was happy to approach him. She felt no
malice emanating from this beautiful vision, which she
knew was no human being. Whether this was one of the
faery people or some other elemental being, she could
not say; she only knew his energies of love and healing
were washing over her like a cleansing tide.

“You’re connected to the sea, aren’t you?” she
found herself asking.

This time, the man answered. “The waters of the
earth dance to my tune,” he said, his voice cool and his
breath like freshly cut mint on Maggie’s face. “The cycles
of your womb, too, when once it danced, not long past by
my reckoning. But then, I am old. You appear not so old
to one with eyes such as mine.”

“That’s nice of you to say,” said Maggie, aware that
the cold had now departed from her fingers and toes, and
so she reached up tentatively and placed a hand against
the man’s cheek. He closed his eyes for a moment,
seeming to enjoy the sensation of touch. When he opened
his eyes again, he brought the hand away from his cheek
and held it in both of his.

“It is time,” he said.

Maggie coughed, pulling her hand free, then
laughed. “You’re telling me it’s time? Now? When I’ve
walked across the bloody moors to get to that town,
which is less than quarter of an hour’s walk away? When
I’ve seen my home burned to the ground?”

The man locked eyes with Maggie’s own. She knew,
then, that there was a deep sadness locked up inside him
and that he was not the one dictating time and place but
a higher, altogether more powerful, being.

“It is time,” he repeated, holding out his hand.
“Come with me.”

“Can I ask one thing before we go?”

The man nodded. Maggie took his hand in her own
and they began walking – not in the direction of the town
but back, back across the moors. She didn’t think to pick
up her bag; nor did she question retracing her steps.

“Well,” she began. “I’ve two questions, actually.”

The man smiled again, this one broader and
perhaps a little warmer than the others had been. “I
know,” he said. “Ask your questions.”

“First,” Maggie said, coughing to clear her throat, “I
was wondering, is the old way of life coming to an end?”

The man didn’t hesitate in answering. “Your beliefs
honour my mother and myself. For as long as man and
woman walk upon the earth – longer, even, than that -
your beliefs will endure and find a home in the hearts of
those who are open. They are rooted in truths eternal
which can never be buried by any who might be foolish
enough to try. Believe me, many will be foolish enough to
try. All will fail. Your beliefs will survive. In one form or
another.”

“That’s good to know,” said Maggie. “May I ask my
second question of you now?”

The man squeezed Maggie’s hand tight in his own,
a gesture which surprised and pleased her. “Of course,”
he said. “Ask your question, though you know the answer
already. Nevertheless, I recognise you have the need to
ask. So please, do.”

“Is it really you?”

The man opened his mouth wide and laughed, not
unkindly. A thousand blue-grey moths emerged and flew
off into the night sky, their wings rustling like a multitude
of whispered, breathless compliments made by lovers in
the throes of passion.

“You ask me this question?” he whispered, after the
last of the moths had flown away. “You, who have loved
me since you were a little girl, looking out of your
bedroom window at night, sighing with such longing that I
noticed you then and have noticed you ever since? Come
now. You will always be a child to me and I love you as
much as my mother loves me – and loves you, as a point
of fact.”

“I knew,” said Maggie, grinning. She didn’t feel like
an old woman anymore; she had a spring in her step and
a lightness of spirit which took her back to the days of her
youth. “I just had to ask. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t ask.”

“And your gods ask nothing more of you, when all
is said and done,” began her friend, “than for you to be
yourself at all times and in all things.”

Maggie didn’t even notice when her feet left the
ground. She was too busy with her friend, who was
teaching her to dance in a way she’d never danced
before; and, much later, as she climbed a staircase made
from stars, she sighed happily with the deep satisfaction
of one who had lived the best of lives for whom the time
had come to set off on an entirely new adventure.

categories: creative