Story On The Occasion Of An Eclipse

"Hey," he says, à propos of nothing, as we sit before the fire in the cabin, "I have another story for you." He has been in the mood for stories lately, it seems. The end of winter can be a tedious, tedious time.

"Yes," he says, "There's that. But I think you'll like this one, and it suits tonight.

"Once there was a girl pale as powder, and not just her skin either; for her eyes were a shining light violet-grey, while her hair was nearly white: and she was unlike the other people of her village, whose skin tended towards a sensible medium brown. She had been that way since her birth, and though it affected her little otherwise, the villagers regarded her as a freak and considered her bad luck. Her parents felt rather the same way too, though they hid it, and so they named the girl Lunissa, after the holiday on which she had been born, as if the color of her skin did not matter to them.

"Lunissa's pale condition did however affect her physically in one important way: her eyesight was not the best. At least not in daylight; but in the nighttime she shone, and could see far better in the darkness than anyone else in the village. And so although the villagers shunned her generally, on occasion they would have need of her talents, like if a goat got loose at night and couldn't be found, or like when the brewer's son fell in the river the night of the terrible storm, and no one could hear his screams over the noise of the rain. But they only ever asked for and accepted her help grudgingly; and though the boy's life was saved that night, Lunissa got little thanks, even from the brewer.

"And so, whether by her own nature or because of the way she had been treated all her life, Lunissa was a restless spirit; and since her eyesight was so much better at night she took to lingering outside after dark. And as she got older and grew out of her childhood she started going on long walks in the night; and she would swathe herself in a great black cloak, the better to conceal her bright skin, so that those with ordinary night sight would not see her. And she was hidden, all but her face, her round white face.

"Now the brewer's son, who was a couple of years younger than Lunissa, was also a restless spirit, which is how he had come to fall in the river some years back; and he too was not exactly suited to village life. For his father, the brewer, had room for one thing only in his mind; and whether due to an unhealthy obsession, or in homage to the substance that paid the bills, he had, in a fit of drunken humor, named his only son Ayle.

"Poor Ayle. He had grown up with the smell of beer in his nose, and by now it nearly made him sick to pass by the brew-house, never mind actually drink the stuff. And he had grand plans to run away one day, one day when he was old enough and brave enough.

"So, restless spirit that he was, Ayle was also out that night, standing in the clearing by the river; and he was content to breathe in the scent of the clean night air, and dream of where he would go and the new life he would lead when he finally got brave enough. Certainly he was going to change his name, at the very least.

"But then in steps Lunissa like an apparition into the clearing, in her black cloak and ghosty face, just as the moon was rising red and fat and full on the other side. And Ayle saw Lunissa, but paid her little mind; for after she had saved his life that night at the river, he, for one, had no fear or dislike of her. Instead he looked where she looked, at the strange red moon.

"And as the moon rose it remained red, a deep bloody red; and soon the dogs of the village began to bark and howl. And then a great hullabaloo and noise arose; and Ayle and Lunissa knew the superstitious villagers were out banging their pots and pans in blind panic at the sight.

"And Ayle sighed and rolled his eyes at the ways of villagers.

"But Lunissa said, 'It's just a shadow on the face of the moon.'

"And she walked to the other side of the clearing where the moon rose through the trees; and it was so fat and full that it almost looked like she could touch it, there in the branches. And she held out her hand.

"But Ayle said, 'No!' For he was suddenly fearful.

"'Why not?' said Lunissa, and stretched towards it. And she touched the moon, just there, between the branches.

And things suddenly went silent. But Lunissa stood there, smiling, her fingertips brushing the moon. The ominous, blood-red moon.

But Ayle was after all a village boy and knew what should not be; and coming up behind Lunissa he locked his arms around her waist and pulled. A little tricky, given that she was rather taller than he, and strong herself; but on the second yank they both fell backwards onto the leaves. And Ayle heard the sounds of the night resume, the bark of a dog, the plash of the river, and the beating of his own heart, which was nearly in his throat.

"'What did you do that for?' asked Lunissa. Ayle did not answer, and he did not let go of her either; he didn't dare, not yet. Not, at least, until the moon was a little higher, or a little less red.

"But Lunissa did not try to get up or get away from him; instead she said, 'Didn't you see?' And she started to cry.

"'See what?' asked Ayle, disquieted, and wondering if Lunissa were simply mad.

"'The true face of the moon,' said Lunissa, sobbing. And when Ayle didn't say anything, 'How could you not see that? It was so beautiful, and so sad, the dark face of the moon. No one ever sees that face. I had to show her I saw her. No one else ever does.'

"But Ayle didn't say anything, just held her there until the moon finally rose high and white. And when he let her go, she gave him one last reproachful look before wrapping herself in her cloak and heading back to the village.

"But Ayle didn't go home. That night he finally decided he was brave enough, and set off walking and did not stop.

"And in a few months' time Lunissa did the same, though in the opposite direction. For she was unhappy that no one ever saw past her strange bright face; and the first city she came to she dyed her hair a mousey brown, and got in the habit of bathing in weak tea. But she never stayed in one place for long, and she was never really happy. For she was a restless spirit. The end."

"That's a pretty melancholy story," I say.

"Well," he says, leaning his chin on his hand, "They can't all have happy endings."