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Moonchild

remembering the stars

By Lucia LinnPublished 2 years ago 17 min read
1
Moonchild
Photo by Casey Horner on Unsplash

A time long ago when time was new, when the sun’s first children still flourished unbroken, the night took a lover and the moon bore a child.

No, I don’t know if it’s a true story, but it is an old one. Ancient as the earth itself. Now hush child, and listen. No more interruptions.

Everything was perfect. But only for a little while. The sun’s children woke in the day when it was too hot and they were reckless and wild. The paradise was yet young when their rashness shattered it. Things became harder and the people grew but still would only come out in the blinding hours. They built families and cities, tools and instruments, countries and empires. But the moon child was not with them.

Why was he not with them? What a silly question, if you just will sit and listen it will be answered. The moon child woke when the world was magic. Dark and glittering. The moon caressed him and the night whispered in his ear.

‘Stay away from the sun and his children, they will only bring trouble.’ For a while, the moon child obeyed. It wasn’t hard. He was nothing like the others. They were loud and stubborn while he was careful and patient. They were bright with things of their own creation while he glimmered in stolen silver. But a time came when the moon child grew lonely.

‘I want friends.’ he told the night. ‘I have no one to love.’

‘You have me.’ The night replied. ‘and the moon.’

‘But you cannot play with me, you cannot hug me or laugh with me or keep me company when the sun rises. I’m all alone.’

‘Play with the stars.’ The moon said. ‘You have no need for friends from the day light hours.’

So, the moonchild played with the stars.

Years went by. The child grew older. The stars grew distant and no longer would reach down to tousle his hair or tell him riddles. The night was always the same.

But the moon did not stay the same. The moon aged. Wrinkles and craters covered her once pure face and she became weary. And one twilight, the night awoke to find that the moon had died. The face still hung in the sky, but it was nothing but a lifeless mirror of left-over light. The stars shook with the night’s grief and their once ceaseless chatter was silent. The moonchild was left along again, his father would not be comforted and the child did not know how to comfort.

Somewhere in the world, he hid and some say still hides from the sun and dreamt of better years, when time was young and the moonchild still had a mother.

And the night grew lonely.

Kila knew what she was. No one had told her, her mother’s husband never treated her worse than his own children, there was no bitterness or jealousy, no whisperings behind her back.

But she still knew.

People were silent when she walked by. And their silence spoke louder than they knew.

When she asked her mother about her real father, she hadn’t asked how she had found out. It was all in the past anyway, unfaithfulness was forgotten. Or at least forgiven. But her mother’s answer had been odd.

“I never did nothin’,” Her dark eyes watched the ceiling as her fingers worked the needle through the cloth and out, again and again. “Mac didn’t believe me, the bump was proof enough e’en afore you came along. But I still don’t know. It was a dream. I know it was a dream. I think. I dreamt someone comin’ to me, tall and dark, lookin’ like night itself. But I never did nothin.’ Not really. I don’t think. But no one believes me.”

Kila just decided her mother was confused.

But that was before she met the boy with the stars.

When a girl is too young to be thinking of marrying, she often helps the traders with errands for an extra penny and to keep her out of trouble. Kila would soon reach the age when everyone started unsubtly implying that she should start having babies and she was making the most out of this last year.

She rubbed the clean cloth of her skirt appreciatively as she trotted towards the market. She didn’t get new things often and she loved the feel of the clean dress. It was just made and unblemished, by the end of the month it would be a mess and would never feel like this again. But it was good while it lasted.

“Lurvely candles!” one stall owner bellowed, “Different colors! Light up your home with the newest shades of green and brown! All yer neighbors’ll be green with envy!” he paused “but not half as pretty a green as yer candles!”

Kila dropped sixpence on the makeshift counter.

“Missus Easely wants a large bees wax. No funny business this time, she says, no paint. The green washed right off last time she says.” Kila grinned. The candle seller sputtered.

“How’d she knows it was paint? Who washes their candles?”

“Missus Easely apparently.” Kila shrugged. It was none of her business, she just wanted coin. “Probably to see if it were paint.”

“That old...” he paused, noting the age of his audience. “…woman. A pain in my arse and has been for as long as I’ve been alive.” He grumbled but handed Kila the candle and a penny for her troubles.

Kila strolled down the road, swinging her arms in an unorganized march, gripping the candle tight. Missus Easely’s termite infested home was only a minute’s walk away. If one more termite moved in, the whole thing would probably crumble to dust. But Missus Easely was almost dust herself so she probably wouldn’t mind.

Wiping her feet by the door, Kila knocked and let herself in. Missus Easely was sitting in her ancient but not as ancient as her rocking chair staring at the last candle she found dissatisfactory. She sniffed as Kila walked in.

“Dearie, this candle is atrocious. Please replace it, and if you could come back tomorrow, I shall tell you what’s wrong with the new one.”

“I’ll come by, Missus Easely.” Kila lit the new candle with the old flame and blew out the first candle. There was still a lot of time left in it, so she’d bring it home and give it to her mother.

“Goodbye, Missus Easely.” Kila backed towards the door. Missus Easely waved vaguely, staring at the little flicker of fire.

Kila headed back towards the market. This wouldn’t be her biggest job today.

Once every spring, the most expensive item came into the village. Paper. Mostly everyone stared at it and moved on, since none of them could afford it, but always the entirety of what was left was bought by someone in the woods. The only Someone in the woods, actually. No one had seen him, but they knew he was there because he always bought the paper. They said unless you were on an errand for him, you could never find his cottage. You would just walk in endless circles until you were driven mad or got eaten by wolves. Every year there were less and less children volunteering to deliver the paper. And since the merchant would rather die than set foot in the forest, rumor had it, he was now offering a whole shilling to anyone who would deliver to his best customer.

Kila very much wanted a shilling.

She wanted a shilling very much more than she was scared of the someone in the woods.

Kila kicked up dust on the road as she ran to the wagon that had just arrived. A fat man with peculiar hair was unloading. He grinned at her enthusiasm.

“You want to look at some paper, young lady?” she shook her head and held out a hand.

“I ‘eard you was offerin’ a shilling for a delivery.” The fat man’s face said that he would have offered less if he knew it would be so immediately taken up.

“That’d be correct.”

“So here I am then.” Kila kept her hand out. The fat cheeks shifted downwards,

“I don’t trust you urchins. Not one mite. Shilling comes after the delivery.”

“Alright ho.” Kila stuffed her hands in her skirt pockets. “But prove you got a shilling first or I’ll call ya names as well and I know some mighty fine ones.” The fat man smiled, but he didn’t mean it. He fished a dirty coin out of one of his deep pockets.

“See!” he flourished it. “Proven. Now deliver some paper.”

This year, there was enough paper that Kila needed to fetch her little brother’s wagon to carry it all. Heaps of not quite white pulped and repulped luxury. This someone in the woods had to be very wealthy to indulge this much, though Kila had no idea how he made his money. If it was a he. If it was a person. It would be exciting if it was some sort of bug eyed tentacled thing. Angus said he had seen one in the woods once, and even though Kila called him a liar she very much wanted to see one too.

It seemed Kila very much wanted a lot of things. She very much wanted a shilling. She very much wanted to see a bug eyed tentacled thing. She very much wanted to be a hero, or rather, heroine and have adventures and have everyone look at her and see something other than the result of a foolish wife.

So, she very much wanted herself all the way to the cottage.

It was out of the village by maybe three miles. Unless you believed the rumors of its movements. There was no road to it, just a thin path that could have just been for animals. The wooden wagon bumped up and down and Kila had to put her hand flat across the top and push down to keep all the paper from flying off. She kept on thinking she saw a glimpse of it, that it was just around the next corner, but it kept on not being. Until, infuriated, Kila stood in front of a twist in the path and proclaimed loudly,

“If yer house ain’t around this next corner, I’m going back home and chuckin’ the paper in the river! And shilling be… danged.” She remembered herself last minute. Even if she was alone in the forest, she still had standards. Surely enough, she walked around the corner and there it was.

It was a bit anticlimactic. It was small, and built from stone so it probably didn’t move around much. There was a garden in front of it, but Kila didn’t recognize any of the plants and the blooms were all closed. The only abnormal thing about the cottage was it had no windows.

Kila stomped her way up to the door, dragging the wagon behind her and knocked. No answer. Then she saw a little folded paper star hanging from the doorknob on a string. An intricately folded star with a dozen points. A waste of paper. She pinched it in her fingers and unfolded it. There was writing inside.

Now, Kila could not claim to be a reader. But her mother did make sure she had a kindergarten education, even if that was the entirety of it. She squinted her eyes.

“Um… L…. E….. A….. lea….V…..E…..leave…..P…..A….pa….P…..E….R…….paper…..H…..E….R…..E…..

Leave paper here! I’ll be… danged if I do that! I didn’t trek all this way not to see the someone in the woods! Hey! You in there!” She pounded on the door. “I got your paper and I’d like a respectable ‘hello nice to meet you’ or I’m taking it back with me!”

The door swung open mid knock. She froze. The inside of the cottage was pitch black and somehow seemed a good deal bigger than the outside would lead you to suspect. She held her breath and stepped it. It was like jumping into a cold lake. Freezing water hitting you everywhere at once, knocking the breath out of you. She gulped in as much air as she could and looked around.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” It was almost an echo, but not quite. Just a little off.

“I’m Kila.”

“Kila.”

She twitched nervously. The voice was young and similar to hers, was there even anyone there?

“Repeating people is creepy.”

“Creepy?” it sounded like a question.

“Like weirdly uncomfortable for other people, you know.”

“I don’t know.” Yup. Definitely another person. Kila glanced across the shadows. Her eyes were adjusting. She could see a chair and a table and something round in the corner that seemed to be… glowing silver.

“Can I see you?”

“Can you?” Kila felt her face flush.

“I mean could you show yourself to me?”

“Show myself?” yes, there was definitely something silver behind the chair. There was a pause. “you mean you want to see my face?”

“Ya, sure.” There was a long silence.

“I have a face.” The voice said suddenly.

“Well, it’d be weird if you didn’t.”

“I have a face.” The voice insisted. “Because my mother had a face but now her faces is empty and covered with scars. But my father had no body so I had to make my own.”

“Um.” Kila scratched her neck. “Whatever you have, could I see it?” there was no answer for a moment but then the silver moved and grew bigger. And then there was… a face. It was round and smooth with large eyes and a small mouth. The eyes were black. Black holes inside a glowing disc. The face had a body too, but it wasn’t glowing and was shrouded in darkness. The face was that of a young boy, topped with silver hair.

“Why, you’re jus’ a boy!” Kila exclaimed. The face looked puzzled. Then it moved, the shadow body seemed to climb the walls like a spider and then the face was in front of her again, but upside down. Like he didn’t understand and wanted a new angle.

“What is a boy?”

Kila bit her lip. Hard.

“Um, like a man who hasn’t been alive very long.”

“Oh.” The face turned and the body scuttled across the ceiling to the corner and turned around again. “Then I am not a boy.”

“You look like a boy.” Kila retorted.

“But I am not.” The silver moved to the other corner. “I have been alive a long time. I look as I wish to look. Sometimes old, sometimes young, but my light hasn’t aged. My mother aged. But my father does not.”

“Yeah, your light.” Kila tried to keep an eye on the face as it fidgeted. “Why do you glow?”

“Why do you not?” the someone in the woods was on the floor again, something on the ceiling was rustling as a breeze came in through the door. “I suppose it must be that I have more practice than you. I cannot make my own light like sun children so I must collect and save what I can. Then when it is dark, I let it out.” When he said those words, his face suddenly brightened and lit up the who room for a brief moment. Kila gasped as it shimmered and revealed thousands of folded stars hanging from every rafter and surface, packed tight and rustling against each other. Then it was dark again.

“You have asked too many questions for one who came uninvited.” The face approached her. “I must ask some. To even the balance. It has been long since I’ve spoken with anyone, the stars have abandoned me, my mother is dead, my father is yet grieving, and I cannot speak with the sun or his children. You are none of these and you entered the dark and are still breathing. So tell me, what are you?” the short brightness had messed with Kila’s eyes and she couldn’t see anything but his face. But she felt as fingers touched her cheek and she saw the dark eyes studying her.

“I suppose I’m a person. A human.” Kila was beginning to feel uncomfortable and a good deal less confident. The fingers were cold. The face shook back and forth.

“I would know if you were a sun child. Sun creatures can’t stand in my home. I cannot speak to them.”

“Well that’s what I am.” Kila couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed despite her fear.

“Who was your father?”

Kila was silent.

“You do not know?”

She still said nothing.

“Well,” the pale face smiled thinly. It was sincere but frozen. “I shall ask the night when he wakes. Maybe he will know. Now give me my paper so I can remember the stars. Then leave.”

Kila felt her muscles begin to obey before she processed what he said. But she couldn’t speak, even with her burning curiosity. She unloaded the wagon and left without another word, head swimming.

۝

When the strange girl left, the moonchild wondered. She felt like his father, but her mind was bright and tangled like the day.

He didn’t like feeling confused. So he didn’t.

He picked up a piece of paper and began to fold.

۝

Of course, the night has a voice, I have told you he spoke before, were you not listening?

No, it is not like ours, he isn’t human. It’s more of a feeling than a noise. A deep, low, and dark whisper straight into your head, straight into your soul.

Does he have a soul? That’s a strange question. One I do not know the answer to. He has no body to hold a soul in, maybe he is a soul. A soul that stretches from one end of the sky to another, holding up the scarred face of his dead bride.

I don’t know if the moonchild has a soul, I don’t know if he has a body. I just know that he is forever remembering the stars…

۝

The moonchild was old. Older every day. He did not understand that appearances had anything to do with it. He looked like how he felt.

Now he felt cold. Cold and worn. His body grew rough and his hair and beard grew long and silver to cover his trembling shoulders and warm his shivering skin. But his skin was smooth.

It was night. The garden was blooming. Pale blue and white flowers releasing their sweet fragrance to be lost in the darkness. The moonchild did not like to be out of his cottage. It hurt to see his mother’s face and the light of friends from long ago. But the night’s presence comforted him a little. The darkness tightened around him, reminding him that he wasn’t completely alone.

He spoke as the night had taught him.

Father.

Son.

The feeling shook him gently, pressing against his created body from the inside.

I met someone today.

I know.

Who was she? The night rarely spoke anymore, but he still watched his son. Nothing happened that he did not see.

A comfort. He did not waste words; he did not have many.

To who? The moonchild paused. Whom. He corrected. Who? I don’t know which…

Whom. The night answered. I think. To me. To you. To memory. To darkness. To herself.

Who is she?

Your sister.

The moonchild did not ask any more. He didn’t understand. But he didn’t need to. He just felt. And he felt… light.

۝

Kila sat with her head on her hands, staring out the window. She didn’t know what she was looking for, she didn’t even know why she was awake. No one else was. She just wasn’t tired.

Watching the shadowed woods, she tried to decide what she was hoping to see. A second moon in the darkness? Or maybe she was just making sure there wasn’t one. Kila shifted her position and looked up at the sky, the dead moon and the distant stars. The silver boy had said the night itself talked.

“Hi.” Kila whispered. She felt stupid. And curious. “Can you hear me?” The darkness continued being silent and overall dark. But was there a feeling? No. Just cold.

When she got back from her delivery, Angus had asked her if she had seen Someone in the Woods. She found herself saying no without thinking. Why hadn’t she told him? She had just ignored his disappointed expression and turned away. He wouldn’t have been interested anyway. The Someone she met didn’t have any tentacles.

Kila didn’t believe in magic. That would be like believing in her own nose. She knew it was real, as real as leaves and porpentines.

But the Someone in the Woods didn’t fall into any category she could come up with. He felt magic, but nothing like the magic she imagined or dreamt. Nothing like the magic she came across in the bright shining daylight.

Shivering with a strange thrill, Kila grinned. He was interesting. She liked nothing better than something she absolutely could not understand. Rumors schrumors, no way she was leaving him alone. The next chance she had, she’d be back in the woods.

Fantasy
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About the Creator

Lucia Linn

”Some days I feel like playing it smooth and some days I feel like playing it like a waffle iron.” -Raymond Chandler

Bits of fantasy and poetry and whatnot here, comedic comics on Instagram @mostlymecomics

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