When the Moon Died
A/N: This story was written for Sharlmalfoy's Fairy Tale challenge. My fairy tale was "The Buried Moon" published by Joseph Jacobs in More English Fairy Tales.
A long time ago, not long after the reign of the last darklord, there was a time when the moon was said to be buried in the great bogs of the north. As the village tells it, you may hear some wondrous things you would be wary to believe, but as my grandfather tells it, it is the truth taken from his own heart, and so I will tell it the way he tells the story.
The bog surrounded the small village in great shallow ponds of black waters, and mounds of earth that shifted as you walked and great trees whose roots cavorted with water and dirt and long reeds that hid the creatures that dwelled within it. One's safety in the bog depended upon the age of the moon. When the moon was dead, waiting to be reborn, the dark creatures skipped and played and tricked and feasted upon any light creature caught unawares. When the moon was born again, she shone her light upon the bog, the waters reflecting it back again twofold, and kept those creatures in their darker shadows, pinning and wailing.
On these nights, after the moon was born but before she was fully pregnant with the werechildren, my grandfather Rolf was able to transverse the bog without too much trouble. With the moon as his guide and his wand at the ready (for he was an apt wizard), he explored the bog and enjoyed what beauties few others were able to behold. Knowing that few others would brave the dark forests fueled him to sketch and write in his journals all he witnessed, as in the fashion of his own grandfather.
This night, which should have only boasted a hint of danger, turned out to be most perilous indeed. The moon was in its dying stages, waning away to a small sliver, but had not yet shown her face in the waxing twilight. As the sun disappeared, the night was still warm, and Rolf was distracted by the activities of wild pygmies, so content in their own meadow, playing the day away. Rolf had dwelled too long too far from home.
He searched the sky for the last bit of the moon, but whether she hid her face in the branches of the trees or slept still beneath the horizon, he found no comforting light. He lit his wand to find the path home and quickened toward the village.
It is curious, the lumos spell, in that some creatures and plants will treat it like the sun or moon, and stay far away from its glow. Others, those smart and tricky dark creatures, will recognize it as a false shadow. And so, our poor Rolf found himself driven off the path by the howl of a hound. As his light reflected the eyes of the hound in the nearby brush, the resounding howls of the rest of the pack joined the night sky. Rolf scrambled through the bog, mindful of the squashy mud and the tricky ground, which might look solid, but upon placing weight, the dirt would fall away to water and sink one's hapless foot. He was so caught, being slowed by the deepening water now splashing about his knees, witnessing the dark red flashes of the hound's fur as they darted about, and could find no way out. The hounds continued to circle about him as the brush tangled in his legs pulling him down into the waters. He shouted out cutting curses but his aim was poor in the dark light. One hound boldly nicked his arm before he kicked it away with all his might. In his tumultuous mind he said his last goodbyes to the bog, to his grandmother and even to the little village.
Then, a wondrous light, far brighter than the simple lumos a wand could afford, burst through the trees. Rolf reckoned the light to moonbeams strewn horizontally, as if the moon herself was caught on the ground in that clump of trees yonder. The hounds turned their singed faces away and scampered away, howls directed toward the sky.
Rolf moved toward the light at first, but he had to keep his face averted from the brightness to shield his eyes. As he moved he saw a path, one that would lead him back to the village. Without another glance toward the bright wash of light he stole away down the path. Nearly an hour later, the path dimmed but was still free of dark creatures, and he found himself crashing home, shushing the worried words of his grandmother before tumbling into bed.
He slept in the next morning, until the bright sunshine filled his tiny room to the brim and the words of the villagers roused him.
"No one's seen anyone come back from the bog since Rolf, that lucky boy, made it out."
"I do hope that traveler made it through all right."
"Humph, we won't ever know I reckon."
"Who went into the bog?" he asked his grandmother. She turned about and bustled back into the cottage. She poured him a bowl of stew and wouldn't speak until he had begun to eat.
"Yesterday, while you were off, a strange traveler passed through. She was cloaked and hooded and asking questions about the bog. Not many know the particulars of the creatures that dwell there save you, but she would not wait for you, but persevered through the thicket, despite the warnings of most of the village."
"You let her go there alone?" he asked incredulously.
"She had with her a strong wand and a salamander familiar. I thought at best she might happen upon you in the bog before the night came."
"I saw no one," he shook his head. But something about the figure bugged him and tossed in his mind, even as he did his chores and helped his neighbor. The day passed swiftly.
"Is anyone going to look for her?" he asked. "There was a hound pact chasing me last night, I wouldn't want anyone to face that."
"I think, if she has found her way through, she is long gone from these parts, she looked to be a capable witch." His grandmother spoke as serenely as ever, but he could see the fear in her eyes when she searched the sky again that night.
As Rolf went to sleep, he tossed and turned, for tonight the moon was dead and lightless, and the same was true for many more nights, though by then the moon should have begun to birth again.
"I'm going through the bog," he said on the fourth day. "Something has happened to the moon."
"You must take your wand, keep it ever close to you, and do not speak a word, else those dark spirits will hear and more will gather around you," was his grandmother's advice.
The villagers bid him well and some considered going along, then searched the sky and saw no moon and shrank back into their homes. They did not have even wands to defend themselves.
Rolf searched while the sun was still high, and searched long and far, trying to retrace his own steps from that fateful night; for he knew that the traveler had something to do with the light that had saved him. He followed that path, but perhaps it had been a different path and by the time the sun was nearly setting he had thoroughly confused himself once more.
As the shadows darkened about him, he began to hear a buzzing noise. The buzzing grew into a measured wailing, and called to him from the deeper part of the bog. He moved forward, wand in hand, as the noise droned on ever louder.
He came to a portion of the bog where several trees wrapped around one another, roots forming a cavern that sheltered the waters. Looking down into the cavern was a banshee, wispy as a ghost, translucent but still frightening in her glare as she turned toward him. She let out a great wail and Rolf screamed silencio! in his head, heeding his grandmother's warning.
He knew not too many spells wordlessly, and lashed out with his wand, trying to drive away the banshee with mere sparks and lights. She relented, whooshing away into the wind.
Rolf scrambled down the roots of the tree and peered into the ground. There in the cavern lay a cloaked pile of robes, a pale arm stretched out and caught fast by the brambles of the Devil's Snare.
Lumos, he thought, though he dare not speak out loud. The light was weaker than if he had spoken the spell, and it took some time to untangle her poor scratched arms from the brambles. He hoisted her up, and found her drowsy eyes, large and serene. He held his finger to her lips, though she seemed to already understand the importance of avoiding words.
He helped her to her feet, but already he could hear the banshee returning with greater forces.
Rolf gulped, and stepped to go forward first, when the traveler took his arm and pulled him behind her, fastening his arms to her surprisingly small waist. She pulled his head down so that his eyes were buried in her cloak. She stepped forward into the mass of cackling spirits, and pulled something, so that even in the darkness of the folds of the cloak he felt the bright light cascade through the air into any and all open spaces. Rolf recognized her as the source of the light and followed her safely back to the village.
The ending of this tale varies; my grandfather says he married the woman (he claimed fairy dust in her hair was what had reflected the light so brightly) and she left him with twin boys before setting off on her travels once again. The villagers say she was the moon herself, and returned to the sky to fulfill her duties to keep the darkness at bay. They called him a lucky man, my grandfather, but as the years passed and his sons grew up he was lonely and hastened out on adventures nearly every night, whether the moon was full or new, and that was his undoing.