THE MOON AND THE ARROW

Old man Tatum had been dreaming of his grandchildren, Sonny and Sarah. They’d all been treading dry pine needles in a huge forest, on their way somewhere. He couldn’t remember where. Then he was aware of pressure on his legs. In an eye blink, he realised someone was sitting on the bed. A young woman, skin as pale as the full moon burning through the curtained window. He thought his heart would pound right out of his chest, then she smiled, and suddenly he was calm.

“Greetings, George,” she said.

It had been a while since someone had called him by his name. It was ‘old man’ or ‘dad’ or ‘granddad.’ “Who are you?” he asked.

She stood up. A tall slim woman, clad in a diaphanous wrap barely covering her pale shoulders. She drew the curtains back, and silver light flooded the room. “I am Artemis.” She gestured towards the moon. “That is my alter ego.”

George cast his mind back. Artemis, a goddess. “Lady of beasts and the virgin huntress,” came out of his mouth.

She sat back down on the bed. “Yes, I have many names. The Romans knew me as Diana, but I’ve left my bow and arrow at home.” She laughed, a sound that reminded him of wind chimes.

“Am I dead, I’ve been so tired?”

“Far from it, you’re alive and kicking. In your dream, you were in my forest with a young boy and girl.”

“Sonny and Sarah.”

“Only I may hunt in the sacred forest!”

“Well, ma’am, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Again, she gave her tinkling laugh. “Anyway, Sarah has a great talent, I am come to tell you. A sport at which she can go far, represent her country even. A sport that has a place in my heart – but in miniature.”

“What?”

But then George was waking up, blinking his aged eyes, remembering the strange dream. As he made his way downstairs, he was startled to see something on the living room table. A long golden arrow. He turned it over, eying dusty trophies in a cabinet, and wondering.

–

After breakfast, the phone rang. “Hello, Dad, don’t forget it’s Sarah’s birthday next Tuesday. She’s fourteen. Imagine!”

Old George felt a rush of enthusiasm. “Look, I’d like to give her a dartboard. I could put one up in your hallway.”

His daughter laughed. “OK, if you dust your old ‘arrows’ off and promise to come and show her how to play!”

With any luck it would blow over. I wouldn’t miss her, though. In fact, now I thought about it, I could quite happily live without Alice wandering around the empty, echoing corridors of Thurkett Grange, dressed in nothing more than a long-sleeved shirt – pale green stripes on white – with her small, hard breasts showing through the material like two cherry tarts. As often as not she’d be humming tunelessly, frowning, pacing up and down, sometimes muttering to herself. And as for ‘Steve’!

I couldn’t even be sure how we came to be together. I’d met her somewhere, a restaurant, a party, my mind’s hazy on that point. She had a lean, smooth face, with mediumly-full lips, neat white teeth and large grey eyes, all framed by an inverted ‘v’ of tight curls in straw coloured hair, cascading down to her shoulders.

She wasn’t especially pretty, but attractive, if you know what I mean.

“Hello, I’m Alice, who are you?”

“Stephen, … well, people call me Steve.”

She’d seated herself opposite me, plonking a large glass of lemon-coloured wine down on a table between us, so that some splashed onto the tablecloth. She giggled. “Whoops! … That’s a coincidence, my cat’s called Steve!”

“Why did you call him Steve?”

“I didn’t. He told me that was his name.”

I laughed. “Sounds like an unusual cat!”

“Someone said you live in the old manor house. On your own. Do you get lonely?”

I’d blushed. Truth was I did sometimes. Since Lorraine had left a year ago. “Not really.”

“Can I come and see the place?” She smiled a quizzical, endearing smile, smoothing her short black skirt down over long slim legs with orange-painted fingernails.

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