Hosting Mount's thing here
The Little Moonchild
[For Mr Mount, who inspired me to stay optimistic no matter what]
It was night before Maggie returned home that day.
The impending storm snapped at her heels as she briskly walked through the town, occasionally bursting into a moment of fearful jogging. She clutched the hood to her crimson cloak tightly to her features, feeling the rasp of her breath on her chilled fingertips.
The streets were deserted but for the few scavenger rats looking for what morsel they could take and claim as their own. It had been the way of Blue Crock for quite some time, a sleepy town with even sleepier inhabitants who were forced into slumber by an invisible aura of fear; for surely it was better to sleep the time away then wake to the true nature of the world. Wake up to reality.
Not even the local tavern was busy - the shutters fastened together, and light an unfamiliar customer to its walls.
Feeling the patter of prophetic rain on her cheeks, Maggie remembered the simpler times, when the little town was buzzing with life; before it had been ravaged by countless and unheeding storms. They had come from nowhere it seemed and there was little chance of them holding up.
Never had she or the others ventured out as late as this…certainly not the ones who had continued on with their lives, that was for certain. Not a fate she aspired to, she meekly thought, gazing above her at the ever-growing clouds. An almighty furore would gather once more, and there was nothing she, nor anyone else for that matter, could do about it.
Continually plagued….but for what design? What immortal creature plagued these skies and had selected such a humble town for punishment? Perhaps it was meant as an example, she mused. But how could punishing a town hardly anyone knew about be seen as setting an example? Not many had the opportunity to view this phenomenon for themselves and so would look upon such news as mutterings and gossip. Untruths. No one, except the people of Blue Crock would learn this lesson…whatever that might be. This spirit didn’t even have the decency to inform his tormented prisoners about their supposed crimes, as small as they might be. Not even the chance to right the wrongs they had obviously committed.
In fact, not even the chance to escape imprisonment. For that was what it was. These souls were trapped in the endless cycle of calm and expectant days and storm ridden nights. The town’s folk had witnessed many a family of stout heart try to flee this town to pastures new - only to be found struck down by the lightening before they left the town gates. Maggie, and others like her, were able to leave the town during the day, but only if they were planning to remain. Such was the way of the town.
Mist crawled out of the river as Maggie crossed the bridge hurriedly. The wreaths of smoky air crawled from its grave and into the night, giving the town an aura of expectancy that Maggie wished with all her heart did not exist. There was a quick moment for a glance at the dancing specters the mist created in the wind, but the horror soon struck her that the storm was on her heels and she had yet to cross a good part of the town before reaching the safety of her home.
The sky erupted in a flash of brilliant ashen light as the storm struck for the first, but not the last, time that evening. In a sudden tremor the ground to the far left of Maggie erupted, struck by that lightening all of Blue Crock feared. It overturned the street bricking, sending clinking noises through the air. And then, then the thunder. The entire world seemed to fall silent and expectant - then was filled with the growling of that immortal beast. It was hungry for something…but Maggie didn’t want to stay to find out what for.
Lightening struck again. And again.
It was ever relentless in its pursuit of something. Anything to quench its eternal thirst. But nothing was ever enough….a roof, the bridge behind her, several bolts elsewhere in town that she could hear…but always never ending…
Speeding through the streets she prayed to someone, anyone, to spare her. The people in these gloomy houses that stared ever so judgingly at her would not save her from the rising storm. No. Too caring for their own doomed souls than to take pity on a poor girl.
Lightening struck two feet in front of her and she made a wild dash to the left and down a winding alleyway, knocking over discarded boxes and picking her way through them as if the beast were there…right behind her in the passage. Maggie gasped as the stench of day’s worth of rubbish assaulted her nostrils; it wasn’t worth thinking about just what was built up in the patchwork of smell.
The thunder rumbled again, like the belly of a large beast that had not found suitable prey to feast upon yet. Amid the half-blind strides Maggie took and the noise of incessant lightening, she was surprised to hear a cry. If it had been anything else she would not have stopped. But on listening and coming to the conclusion that this was the product of a frightened child she felt obliged to stop and do her duty as an aware human being. It meant venturing away from the direction of her home, and her heart tugged at her body to move away from the area and to find salvation within the walls of home.
Pushing herself into the wall as another strike of lightening hit close to her, Maggie looked to her right. Sure enough the child’s cries were coming from this direction but as she walked further down this section of alley, and the light became dimmer and dimmer, she couldn’t help but wonder if this merely a trick of the mind. How could a child be lost down here? But hearing that call again and again, as if hypnotizing her to its will, she could not surrender herself to the call of home just yet. She had to know.
“Hello?” She hoarsely whispered, almost afraid to awaken the beast that threatened to jump out of the blind shadows.
And then she saw him. Wide-eyed and crouched against the corner of a wall so closely that he could almost have been part of that brick structure, leaving those brilliant eyes as the only clue to what he once was.
Maggie was amazed at how pale he was. And how young to be out all alone, especially in this town. This boy could be no older than five years old, she mused, smiling triumphantly and sympathetically - a weird mix of self-absorption and concern for others in her eyes. Reaching out to him and promising all would be fine, if just to earn a reaction from him, he launched himself into her open arms - exceedingly happy for the comfort bestowed upon him. Wrapping the cloak so that it rested still on her head and around his tiny body, she stole off into the shadows again in the direction of her home, carrying this tiny creature as if he were her own.
He whined slightly in her ear as the thunder loomed in on them, his cat-like eyes shimmering in the unlit streets.
Maggie had never taken kindly to looking after children. She never wished to have any, and if someone approached her for the safe-keeping of their offspring she would always, if begrudgingly, say ‘no’. It wasn’t the sight of children, or the noises they made, or even the smell of those tiny creatures - it was that these children would rely on her solely and completely for their well-being, to stay safe in those arms. Maggie hated dependency.
Perhaps this flower of hate had sprung from her own childhood, something Maggie rarely looked upon with fondness. When she had been but the shriveled body of a baby, crying in the soft sunlight, her mother had died. They had told her that she was mad. That she couldn’t stand the sight of her own child. The whispers in church in later years were that she had taken her own life. Such a shame. Such a sin. Those whispers had grown so loud at one point that Maggie had wanted to scream, even if she was attending Mass in the town church. It wasn’t until she found herself at home, sobbing and ripping paper out of books, that she realised that she had in fact screamed.
Maggie’s father had never taken kindly unto this child. A stern man with aging white hair and a wrinkled disposition; life slowly eating away at the carcass of the man who had once been. Changed so suddenly he had. Flowers covered her mother’s resting place, but hate covered and clothed her father, and for that she could love neither.
Books, yes, books held the education and love she desired - that which her father could not deliver. And soon, as he realised her independence at just six years, he left for the neighbouring town of />Colling to become magistrate to the people there instead.
At just six she learnt how to cook for herself, stews of meat and vegetables boiled on the fire and pies brimming with fruit picked in the woods lay on the kitchen table, cooling in the gentle breeze. And still she continued to read. The town library was soon not enough for her and at just seven she made the first of many journeys to the city, riding her horse Sandstone. A beautiful and faithful beast he had been to her, delivering her to the gargantuan library overflowing with words; adjectives, vowels, nouns - they all swam in the river of knowledge, and the birth was in her. What books could give her, she mused, as she tended the garden to her house one sunny afternoon, was hope. Hope that somewhere out there were heroes who fought for love, honour, truth and loyalty. That beauty existed in all people everywhere. That she, like the characters in those stories, could find love - someone who could install her faith in people once more.
And just as unusual as her early life had been, Maggie pursued a job in the city. Pursued, but almost never received. Maggie belonged in a whole different time. Women were not allowed to work, it was frowned upon by society as strange and unusual. Anything that people did not understand was always perceived as strange, the work of the Devil. Oh, it made her laugh, as she was given a job in the city as secretary to a lawyer, and a famous one at that, by the name of S. W. Frimsbury. She danced through the streets hugging and shaking the hands of the people who looked on dumb-struck at the work of Hell. They cowered as she laughed at them, told them how wonderful independence felt coursing through her veins. How wonderful it was for a woman to find freedom - that the teachings of the Church and its ministers had been wrong. She hadn’t been struck down by the Almighty hand of God. And when the men told their wives to take the children inside they had turned on her. Branded her a witch by the hot poker of society.
A witch. The church doors were closed to her, as were the hearts of the townspeople. If her father had not once been magistrate, then she would have been burnt at the pyre for sacrilege and harming the Good Lord’s name. Maggie was merely forced to stay away. And for that, she continued to live in that large house, even though she really didn’t need that large space. But it was away from the majority, on the far outskirts, and really nearer the farmland than anywhere else.
She wished she could find some sort of comforting element of her soul; that this young boy could be warmed by some part of her heart. But alas, the words did not come, and her grip only tightened on him to avoid him slipping out of her hold.
Down a long dirt lane she ran, pursued by the beast by the lightening yet still, but this lane was unlike any that she had traveled that night. Instead of looked upon by house after house, with their iron fences and steep steps, as if stepping up to the ‘civilised’ area of society, this road was no more than a dirt track lying on a bed of grassy countryside. It was as if Maggie had stepped over the threshold of the town and was now trekking the last road of picturesque hamlet.
Lightening struck to her near right and the tiny boy squealed, burying himself tight into her bosom, reaching close into her heart for warmth. The faster she ran, the faster the lightening came - almost as if she were the prey after all. Perhaps it was the Devil’s work. She couldn’t help but smile as the thought entered her mind the town’s folk would actually agree with that point. Several of them had already blamed her for the phenomena -cursing her as a witch and the right hand of the Devil who sought to swoop down on the townspeople to frighten and kill them in their very homes.
“Cursed witch. Go back to the pits of hell where you belong!”
These people had no idea what it was like to be her. To be free of all constrictions, to live her life as she wanted. There was really no problem with money, for her father had been a wealthy man; she did not need to bend the fabric of conventional society like she did. And yet…There was a tremendous freedom she felt in it. The sort of freedom she felt riding bareback in open countryside - the racing wind sending her hair flying and flushing her skin as the blood ran to the surface in an attempt to keep her warm.
Freedom for her, oh yes. And if freedom meant sinning by the Good Lord then so be it. What had the Good Lord ever done for her, she mused. A dead mother and despondent father whom she hadn’t seen in a good 12 years. The Good Lord did not exist. Not in the sense that it meant her suffering would be lifted by her continued faith. Too long her prayers had gone unanswered.
Dependency on him was not a choice she had.
Gathering her skirts in one hand, and holding onto the child with the other, she ran in through her gate, over the flagstone path and up to her front door.
Lightening.
The door was locked.
Setting the child down on the floor near her feet, who wailed as she did so, she pulled out the keys from her skirt pocket and tried to get the key in the door. The lightening continued to strike - in her garden, in the lane, on her roof - sending tiles crashing to the floor quite close to them. The child latched onto Maggie’s leg.
Steadying her shaking hand with the other she heard the welcoming click of the door opening as the key slid in the lock. Maggie grabbed the screaming child and burst into the hallway, slamming the door behind her and locking it. Why she locked it she didn’t know…but now, safe, she slid against the wall and sat shivering against the wall, holding the sobbing youngster to her.
When Maggie had gathered herself together, no longer a shivering bundle of nerves, the child was set down in the corner. The sight of him made her, if a little, apprehensive - heart beating in her ears in time with each painful sob he ripped out into the hall. But, at least she could finally take a more thorough observation of him and his appearance. Perhaps there would be some way of reuniting him with his family. And soon.
His hair was a bundle of brilliant yellow locks, the wisps of such falling over his face in a trembling multitude. Standing over him, Maggie couldn’t help but feel herself slightly aloof in his presence. Judging this youth by his appearance she was convinced his age was no more than five or six years old. His eyes were too bright, his skin too unblemished to be anything different. Where were his parents? His family? Did they not care for him?
There were no complete matches with the families she knew of in Blue Crock. The blonde hair was something quite irregular - most of the inhabitants had brown or black hair, or a mixture of both.
The Von Tafftels already had four children - each one with perfectly formed brown curls; the Radcliffes had no children and were never planning to do so considering their elderly age; and the Mardens had but one sullen child, who spent her days staring at passersby from their front window. No matter which family Maggie thought of, this child fit in nowhere - a star without a constellation.
Wiping his sleeve across his eyes roughly, he stared up at Maggie with those voluminous eyes expectantly. Maggie looked at him, and then looked away. She couldn’t help feeling so uncomfortable…what did he want with her?
“So…what’s your name then?” She asked, her eyes widening as she did so…
“Charlie.” He replied. His voice dripped with tears. The light from the candles flickered slightly as the lightening struck once more. They were dotted around the large hallway on tables and shelves, but only a few near the window were lit. Maggie took this opportunity to find the matches and light several more so that the entire room was bathed in a golden light.
“Well, Charlie,” she started, turning to him and holding out her hand, “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”
Yes. Maggie was not at all one for looking after children, but she knew the kindness that ached to be let out for someone, for anyone, and if this anyone had to be a child…well, she thought, so be it. Wiping the mud from his hands with a hot flannel, she asked him about his family, where he lived and what his second name was so that she might begin to reunite him with those whom loved him.
But he didn’t know. As Maggie made them some meat sandwiches in the country style kitchen she thought what this could mean. How could he not know about his family? Unless…
“Charlie…what do you remember about tonight? Before I found you, I mean….how did you get in the alley?”
“Uhm….” He screwed his face up in thought, his button nose wrinkled round the edges as if there were a ghastly smell emanating from that question. “I woke up there…I don’t know.” He shrugged and moved from the round wooden table, looking at the china plates in the glass cabinet and munching on half a sandwich.
Maggie was exasperated. How could she do anything if the child didn’t remember? How could he not remember anything? Something wasn’t right; she hunched her hands underneath her chin and rested on the table, wondering what on earth she was going to do with this boy.
Wrapping a blanket over the top of Charlie, who squirmed in the chair trying to get a comfortable position amongst the blankets, Maggie sighed uncontrollably. What was she going to do? He couldn’t stay here….he didn’t belong here. She had never had to take care of a child before, and she didn’t want to have to start full - time, even if it did give her some sort of satisfaction.
Just as she went to return to the kitchen to clean up the remains of their evening feast, after lighting the fire for him in the sitting room, he quietly whispered, as if to no one: “There was a man.”
Stopping quite abruptly, and turning to face him, Maggie asked him to repeat what he said. She wrenched her hands together, spreading the beads of sweat over every particle of skin, and listened attentively, if a little skeptical, to his explanation.
“There was a man. He was big and tall. And scary.” He glanced at her as if revealing a great secret. “He told me that there would be loud noises, and flashing lights…that I should wait there until it stopped.”
“Stopped?” Maggie enquired. The rain lashed against the window panes as the room fell silent once more.
He nodded. “Stopped.” Looking down at his hands he uttered those heart wrenching words -“But…but it didn’t stop. It kept going and going. There was meant to be darkness…but it never came. He told me my name was Charlie. I thought he would be nicer to me than the others.”
She moved towards him. “Others? Who were the others, Charlie?” She knelt in front of him, and stroked his hair away from his eyes. It was so natural. So easily fitting. So why did it make her heart squirm?
“They were made of light. They were angry. The others said that everyone would pay. That they would see. They were so angry…”
As much as she hated to draw more out of this slowly ever more sorrowful child she knew it had to be done. “Why were they angry Charlie?”
“The angels cried.” And as he reported on the crying saints, he promptly burst into tears himself. It was very unlike Maggie to respond to such emotion, but, as she justified it, he was very distraught and it was in some part her fault for pushing the subject. Besides, she thought, he wasn’t like other children. There was a certain sense of independence that had emerged in the past hour or so since they had met. Whereas other children would have continued to cling to her as he had done in the midst of that whirling storm, he had relaxed upon entering her house somewhat. So she lifted the child and sat on the chair herself, drawing the blanket around them and rocking them both to and fro in an attempt to quench those tears.
Angels? There could be many explanations for this…a dream perhaps? So why did it seem like he really meant what he said. Charlie was too innocent…too pure to lie. His eyes couldn’t tell a lie. They were incapable of doing such a thing. But…angels? Surely they didn’t exist….
Waking up to the sight of that child in her arms, Maggie felt her heart twinge in affection. Silent and shallow breathing coming from Charlie let her drift peacefully from thought to thought, without having to worry about much else. Who was this child? It almost seemed like fate that the child was there just as she ran through the alleyway. Fate had brought us together had it not?
She heard someone walking up the footpath. Sure enough, there were clicks of someone’s heels on the stone - ominously drawing towards the house slowly but surely. Setting Charlie down again so that he only moved slightly to adjust himself into a slightly more comfortable position; she moved to see who it was.
Peering out of the window she could see her garden in the morning’s light, ravaged by the storm more so than usual. Were they getting stronger? The gate fencing was ripped out in some places, twisted and torn in others. Even the plants had been affected, damaged and wilting under the pressure of the relentless wind and rain. It had been a bad storm - that much she could ascertain.
But where was this visitor to her house? There was no one out the front, unless they were just outside the front door…Grabbing her pistol from the kitchen she called out “Who’s there?”
No reply.
Taking the handle in her left hand she peered round the corner, holding the pistol to the open crack. “Hello?” Pulling the door entirely open Maggie stood looking at her garden, and nothing else. If there was someone there, then they weren’t there anymore.
Just as she went to shut the door again, muttering to herself about pranksters - who often paid her visits as the ‘witch’ of the town, she noticed a slip of paper poking out from underneath the flower pot. Not there before, she mused. Picking it up and returning to the sitting room she looked over at Charlie before reading.
The writing was intricately woven onto the paper with fine black ink - someone had obviously gone into a great deal of effort to do this, although the paper was slightly tattered in some corners, as if ripped from a larger piece in a hurry.
Maggie,
You never knew me, so I’ll make no point in revealing myself. Hear me when I beseech you to watch over that young boy, Eseref…or Charlie, as the others have named him. He is more instrumental than anything that has ever entered this sleepy town. Watch over him, keep him safe…and, above all, keep him out of the storm’s way. The others know where to find him, but you cannot leave.
Be careful my child. I’ll be watching over you.
No one knew Charlie was here, she thought,….what was happening? Had someone been spying on us?
She frantically read it again, unsure of what to think or do about this note. What it meant for her as Charlie’s soon-to-be guardian. Did she have to watch for people spying on her? Following her every move, her every whim and thought?
Or…and she was extremely unwilling to admit to this, could everything be right? Could Charlie be telling the whole truth? It raised too many questions. Questions that might never receive answers.
Looking over at his sleeping form she knew what must be done. He would be cared for. She had to do so…for what other choice did she have on the matter? Where was his family, his home…? No. Before she changed her mind, Maggie told herself, she would be resolute. She would do the right thing.
Even if that meant caring for a dependent child.