Once in a Pink Moon

The Night Before

The church sat empty. Perched on the edge of a hillside, it overlooked the town of Salmon Falls. Streetlights twinkled in the darkness as the town slept below. Dogs barked. A far-off coyote howled.

Fists of fog rolled out from a Pacific Northwest forest, along the path to the church, consuming the building, then spilling over the edge of the hillside into the town below.

A symphony of sound came out of the forest, hidden in the back edge of the fog. The rhythmic low-toned drag–thud was punctuated by the squeal of squeaky wheels. The sound grew louder as an unseen procession approached the church. A chorus of frogs singing in five-part harmony added the melody to this midnight dirge.

A raspy inhale was followed by a sudden whoosh. Fog blew away momentarily to reveal a figure, low to the ground with a hunched back, wearing a tattered cloak. One hand, gnarled by disease and injury, dragged an over-filled burlap sack behind. The other pulled a frayed rope of yellow plastic attached to a platform and mounted on two axles sporting different-sized wheels.

On the platform was a small army of frogs of various species, disfigured by untold battles. Arms and legs were gone in some cases, eyes missing in others, and delicate amphibian flesh scarred from mal-healed wounds, tattoos, and piercings. As they were pulled along, they continued to sing their sad song.

When the procession reached the bottom of the stairs, the hooded figure dropped the plastic rope and hobble-hopped up the steps of the church, still dragging the sack.

The injured frogs stayed behind on their platform and each donned hooded mantels of mourning, patchworked together from bits of cloth, moss, bark, and stone with the finest of stitches and embroidered symbols. Other frogs, less wounded and able to move on their own, emerged from the hovering fog and joined them.

Above, in a stately cedar tree, a pair of barn owls called out their warning.

“Three nights to Pink Moon.”

“Three nights to Pink Moon.”

The shortish figure tilted its head up and hooted back in the language of the owls: “Hush, you foul pellet-pukers. Leave the world in peace.”

But the owls continued to chant.

“Quiet, I tell you. This Pink Moon is no threat to her. She lies safely in her bed. Crying her eyes out. They will not get to her. Believe me.”

“Some fine Watcher you are,” one of the owls said.

“If you had done your job, the father would not now be dead,” said the other.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Every action has an opposite and equal reaction. His death was simply an unfortunate conclusion of an act committed long ago.” The watcher snorted and sent a wad of green jelly-like mucus flying from its snout. “Besides, when I want owl-wisdom, I will ask for it. Whoever said, wise-old owl did not know how shallow and foolish your kind can be.”

“So be it, Watcher. You should hope there never comes a time when you want Owl help. It might not be forthcoming.” The owls ruffled their feathers and flew away, carrying their message to other parts of Salmon Valley.

“Good riddance,” said the hooded figure and ripped its patchwork cape free from the base of the handrail. Then it sorted the contents of its bag onto a tarp spread in front of the entryway. As it worked, it choked out a few notes of the tune the frogs had been singing, then stopped, overcome with emotion. The frogs below continued to sing.

“Regret. It fills me now,” the watcher said. “If I had never played with fire, this part of the world would not have been burned.”

When its task was finished, the watcher surveyed the three piles it had made on the landing outside the main doors of the church. The first pile contained discarded clothes and bits of carpet. Next to that were bags of bottles, cans, and empty containers. And in the third, sat a tidy row of capped bottles filled with solvents, oils, and other poisons harvested from the drains and outflows to local streams.

The watcher brushed a long lock of lifeless hair, strung with beads and twigs, back under its hood. Then it laid a bouquet of pond fronds on the middle pile and said, “Rest in peace, beloved large-toe.”

With the drag of cloth on cement, it took a giant leap to the ground, landing beside the platform of frogs with a thud. The surrounding frogs retreated into the shadows, while the frogs on the platform removed their mantles of mourning. Picking up the plastic rope, the watcher turned the platform around and returned to the forest. The fog withdrew from the town below and followed the watcher back into the forest, leaving the sky sparkling with stars behind.

Below the church, streetlights twinkled in the darkness once more as the town slept. Dogs barked. A far-off coyote howled. And in the distance an owl called, “Three nights to Pink Moon.”