A Waning Moon is a split narrative that begins centuries ago in northern Europe and ends in the 1980’s in a small town on the prairies. The two stories develop concurrently, complimenting each other, until the final conclusion in the eighties. Each narrative could be a stand alone story, but they are much better interwoven into a single tale. The novella fits into a larger group of stories involving the same characters and ending with a novel titled Ashes (which is still in rough copy). I’m excited to see how they develop.
Here are the set-ups for each of the narratives: Centuries ago, in a northern European mountain range, there is a remote temple devoted to the worship of the White Goddess. One day, during an unnatural storm that has raged for days, the head priestess of the temple spots the figure of a man curled outside the walls of their keep. They bring him in and discover that life still stirs within his snow-encrusted body….
In a town in the foothills and at the edge of a primal forest, news of a series of murders has brought a chill to the normally festive summer season. While she is working one evening, a young waitress watches uneasily as a strange drifter comes into her diner….
Genre: Fantasy, horror.
Length: 80 pages (double spaced) and 30,826 words.
Sample Text: A Waning Moon
(This is the first 13 pages.)
It is winter.
In rusted snow,
I slouch shivering
beneath the goddess night.
Talons steam –
gleam with shimmering moonlight
that pales the murdering stain.
I’ve killed again.
Part One: Strangers
I
Shannon O’Cleirigh stood shivering on the balcony of the keep library. Her tall form was wrapped in furs, yet the icy wind still found its way through the folds of her clothing. The keep, little more than a small fortress that sheltered the temple of Lunan Sa, was located high in the northern mountains and a week’s travel by horseback from the nearest settlement. The isolated setting of the keep allowed for the Kemplere—the priestesses of the temple—to be free from distraction and devote themselves to the worship of the White Goddess.
Looking out from the southern wall of the temple keep, Shannon stood on the lee side of the storm that had trapped them indoors for more than two days. Even on the sheltered side, snow whirled, and the voice of the tempest howled around her. The surrounding forest was only visible through momentary gaps in the blizzard and then simply as a darker smudge in the linen landscape. The mountains, which usually dominated the landscape, were completely lost to sight. To her left, on the eastern side of the temple keep, the land dropped away to a frozen river and a chaos of boulders piled against the keep wall. This too was a wash of white.
Once, when the wind paused to catch its breath, Shannon thought she saw sets of eyes glistening through the veil of snow—the resident wolves were always watchful.
Shannon had been the high priestess—the Re Sa Kempler—of Lunan Sa for five years, and in that time, no other storm had impressed upon her such a sense of isolation.
She heard a voice shout in her ear, “What are you doing out here?”
Shannon turned, startled by the presence of another fur-clad figure on the balcony. Most of the face was covered, but the green eyes were enough for her to recognize Sa Kempler Ciara, her friend and immediate subordinate. Shannon pointed to the horizon, where the moon should have been visible above the trees. Although lost to sight, it still cast a shallow illumination on the world. She shouted back, “The Goddess hides her face.”
Ciara scanned the sky for the pale face of the Goddess and nodded. “It’s a haunted night. Come back inside. These winds will sweep you off the ledge.”
Shannon didn’t answer. It sounds like demons wailing, she thought. The mountains don’t want us here.
Normally on such a night, when the winter stirred her and sleep seemed impossible, she would take refuge in the Candle Chamber of Lunan Sa—the small room adjoining the Temple of the Moon. It was a place for prayer and silent contemplation. It was also where the temple housed the Moonstone. Small and milky blue, shaped like a teardrop, the stone was foundational to the order’s faith in the White Goddess.
For generations, the belief had passed down that a high priestess could use the stone to commune with the Goddess—to be a medium between Her and the faithful. As the Re Sa Kempler, being such a medium was Shannon’s primary function, but Shannon was a failure: try as she might, the stone simply sat lifeless in her hand, and she’d never heard the voice of the Goddess. Worse than a failure, she was a fraud, for she was unwilling to let her failure be known. She had no right to be the Re of Lunan Sa. A part of her doubted the old belief—how could some rock, no matter how pretty, hold the key to communicating with the Goddess? And why would the Goddess need such a thing? The idea reeked of dogma, and Shannon wondered how many Kemplere in the past had lied about communing with the stone.
Shannon shook her head, trying to pull herself free from the mire of self-doubt and religious skepticism; after all, questioning her faith was just another type of failure. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder: Which comes first, lack of faith or doctrines of the absurd? I wish I could be more like Ciara, solid as a rock. Maybe it’s just this storm that’s got me on edge.
Regardless of her inability with the stone, the Chamber would have been a peaceful place to escape a stormy night. The problem was that it was occupied. One of the Rubla Sheme—the knights devoted to the order of the Moon—had come to Lunan Sa during the first day of the storm. Resembling more demon than human, he’d emerged from the swirling snow and hammered on the keep gate. Without thinking to ask permission, and not yet knowing the stranger was a knight, the startled temple guard had let him into their refuge. Bran Walsh, the short and burly captain of the day guard, had yelled at the fool manning the gate, but it was already too late, the stranger was within their walls.
Shannon had been in the commons room of the keep and had heard the commotion from the courtyard. She’d run down the short hallway leading from the commons to the courtyard and stepped outside into the blizzard. The man was still on horseback and wrapped in furs that hung low to cover his thighs. The blowing snow had encrusted both him and his mount, and at first sight they seemed to be one massive animal snorting clouds of mist into the air. A shield was strapped to his saddle, and the hilt of a long sword thrust up from his right shoulder. The greaves strapped to his shins looked made of ice. Through a sheen of frost, the crescent moon emblazoned on his shield marked him for one of the Rubla Sheme.
He dismounted slowly, as though struggling to move his frozen limbs. His horse was taken to the stable, and, accompanied by Captain Walsh, he followed Shannon into the commons.
As he pulled off his furs and hauberk, he introduced himself as the knight, Conor Delaney. He was tall and fit, with long, blond hair and cold blue eyes. His chin was rough with days of growth. He claimed that he’d come to Lunan Sa on a pilgrimage and had been caught in the sudden storm. It was common for the Rubla Sheme to make pilgrimages to the remote temples, but they rarely did so in the dead of winter. His explanation did not ring true, and instead of being comforted by his presence, Shannon felt troubled.
He’d eaten and then asked to be taken to the Candle Chamber. Shannon spoke to the acolytes tending the chamber and admonished them to watch him carefully. After several hours of contemplation, they reported that he asked to be taken to a room where he could sleep. The next morning, he’d gone straight back to the Candle Chamber and since then had only left it to eat and rest. The acolytes claimed that when he was in the Chamber, the knight remained motionless before the stone, frozen in a posture of deep meditation. Shannon didn’t like it, but the knight was well within his rights to access the Chamber.
She especially didn’t like it that night when the wind was howling and keeping her from her bed.
She shook her head, somewhat envious of the knight’s devotion but wondering if it was not touched by fanaticism. The temple was located high in the mountains—a dangerous journey in the winter. He must have been close to exhaustion when he reached it. Begrudgingly, she admitted to herself that an aspect of her disapproval was jealousy, she worried that he might be able to connect with the stone in a way that she could not.
No doubt the Goddess looked on her pettiness with disapproval.
Ciara leaned close to her ear. “I understand that freezing to death is a lot like drowning.”
Shannon let out a short laugh. “All right, I’ve had enough.”
They turned their backs to the blizzard and pulled open the heavy door leading back to the warmth of the temple. Ciara had stepped across the threshold when one of Shannon’s pale hands clutched at her shoulder.
“Wait.”
Ciara turned, confused at the anxiety in her companion’s voice. “What is…?”
Shannon pulled her back onto the balcony and the cutting wind. The Re Sa Kempler removed her hood and leaned over the balustrade, straining to see past the driving wind. Suddenly her body stiffened, and she pointed earthward. “I thought I saw something. There, look.”
Ciara rushed to her side and, searching into the swirling madness of snow, spotted what she thought to be an animal hunched beside the entrance to the keep.
Her hazel eyes blazing, Shannon shouted against the wind, “Is that a man?” then she spun about and rushed into the building. Ciara looked again and shook her head in confusion; contrary to what she first thought she saw, there did appear to be a man outside their gate.
Moments later, the high priestess had gathered four guardians of the temple and stood to the side as one of them lifted the beam that barred the gate to the keep. A small group of excited kemplere came out of the temple and gathered to watch the soldiers pull the gate open.
It was indeed a man, curled and frozen by the southern wall. They rushed out, fearful of wolves, lifted his stiff body and carried him into the temple compound. Once they pushed the gate closed and dropped the beam in place, Shannon had them take the stranger to the commons room of the keep. The fire there cracked within a large hearth, and warm air enwreathed them as they laid him onto a table.
Two strangers in from the storm, Shannon thought. What does the Goddess have in store for us?
Shannon had little hope that the man lived, but once inside, they detected life in the snow-encrusted body. The Re Sa Kempler pulled back her hood, letting her auburn hair fall free. Then she shrugged off her furs. She commanded that hot wine be brought and assisted the half frozen man to take it sparingly down his throat. More spilled on the floor than passed his lips, but bit by bit, he began to revive. He started shivering with a violence that frightened the kemplere, and for a moment, they believed he was either possessed or that they had brought a snow demon into their keep. The sudden fear in the eyes of her acolytes make Shannon uneasy. She set the wine aside and had the priestesses wrap him in blankets.
When the snow crusting his face and hair had melted, and his shivers subsided, Shannon was surprised to see how young he was, no more than eighteen years. He had smooth skin with mouse-brown hair and grey eyes; and even though he was hunched forward, she realized he was much taller than she had first thought. He glanced around, nervous and confused, and when one of the guards made a sudden movement, he pulled back. Shannon considered sending the guards away but then thought better of it. They had, after all, just let a second stranger into their midst. She tried to question him, but before he could offer a coherent response, his eyes rolled white, and one of the temple guards had to catch him before he slipped to the floor. Shannon had them carry him to one of the spare bed chambers, instructing the acolytes to watch over him and keep her appraised of his recovery
The next morning, Shannon was told two things. One was that the Rubla Shem had spent the night in the Candle Chamber and, exhausted, returned to his room to recuperate. The other was that the young man remained in a deep sleep from which the kemplere did not attempt to wake him. Shannon could only speculate regarding his arrival at their keep. As unlikely as it sounded, the only reasonable explanation was that the boy had lost his way in the blizzard and by coincidence ended up at their gate. But why was he out in those wilds? And why was he alone?
Because the temple’s location was so remote, it was impossible that he had travelled there by foot, so he must have left his horse out in the storm. Early in the morning, Shannon called Captain Walsh and instructed him to take one other soldier and travel as far as the mountain pass leading out from their valley. The storm still raged, but he obeyed without protest. The two returned hours later, looking ragged and near to death themselves. They had to fight through wind and heavy snow, but they’d found the remains of an animal several kilometres from the keep. Based on the tattered saddle and riding gear, it seemed obvious that the stranger had travelled by horse. They could not say for certain what fate befell the horse—the blizzard obliterated any tracks—but the most likely explanation was that the mountain wolves had come to feast. It was extraordinary that the boy had survived.
II
The evening sun came through the blinds in slanted shafts that split the interior of the café into strips of light and darkness. The afternoon had been dry and windy. With the dying of the day, however, the wind had passed, and now particles of dust hovered in the air. It was still hot, and but for the muted conversation of an old couple in a rear booth of the café, quiet. The pair sat in cracked vinyl seats, hunched toward one another, gnarled hands entwined. In the strange twilight, they resembled stunted trolls more than humans.
The long countertop across from the front window was deserted. A waitress stood behind it, leaning back against the wall and absent-mindedly wiping a chipped mug. As the cloth twisted with her motion, it flicked through the layers of shadow and illumination streaming in through the window. Her eyes sparkled; beneath a bar of shadow, her lips glistened. She looked striped with black and white paint—a primitive mask. The warmth, the stillness, and the unusual play of light created by her own rhythmic movement, all combined to draw her into a dream-like state.
The woman was young, perhaps twenty, as yet unscathed by the drudgery of her occupation, and even at rest, there was something about her carriage that proclaimed a frank independence. Atop her head, curly blonde hair was tied back and pinned into a beautiful chaos. She wore jeans and a green, collared shirt. A grey apron with small Rorschach blots was tied around her waist.
Behind her, a rectangular window opened into the kitchen. It was too high for her to see through, but from there, she heard the sound of running water and the occasional snatches of song. The tap was turned off and a voice called out, “Michelle?”
It took her a moment to climb out of her trance, then she turned. “Yeah?”
“I’m almost done here; you wanna tell those old cronies to go home?”
She sprang up on her tiptoes, whispering, “Keep your voice down. They’ll hear you.”
“So what? It’s the same thing every freakin’ night. We have to stay here while they reminisce about the devil knows what. I’d like to leave on time for once.”
“You’d like to leave early, you mean. We’re supposed to be open for another hour, and you know it.” She looked over her shoulder at the couple and flashed a comforting smile. They hadn’t heard a word. “Anyway, where’ve you got to go that’s so exciting?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“Don’t be selfish, Terry. You can give them another half hour.”
There came no reply from the disembodied voice, but the water was turned on again. After a moment, the dreadful singing returned, “Michelle, my belle, these are words that….” At the distant booth, an aged head glanced over and frowned.
Michelle had dropped down to her heels, then struck by a thought, she rose back up on her tiptoes called through the window, “Terry, don’t rush off when you’re done. Okay?”
“Need a walk home again?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
As Michelle spoke, a shadow crossed the picture window at the front of the café. The bell on the jamb tinkled hollowly, and a man came in. At the sound of the bell, she heard Terry swear under his breath, knowing then that he had no chance of leaving early.
In silhouette, the man was a tall and slender image of darkness. When he stepped into the light of the café, however, he looked like just another drifter passing through town. Michelle tensed, dreading the inevitable confrontation. Increasingly in the past few years, their town had seen a marked rise in the number of homeless passing through their streets. Her heart went out to them, but the owner of the café had threatened to fire her if she gave them any more free meals. She also feared the rise in crime that invariably accompanied their presence—the peaceful town she had grown up in didn’t seem that peaceful anymore.
The man wore jeans with a blue t-shirt and a black toque that had a faded red stain just above his right temple. It was too hot for the toque, and Michelle wondered how long it would be before he took it off. His gaze ran the length of the room, settling for a time on the old couple at the back, then he strode forward and took a seat at the counter. After a moment, he turned his gaze to Michelle and discovered her staring.
Looking down, he said, “Coffee.” The voice had a melodious nature all out of character with his appearance.
She forced a smile, stumbling over her words, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…. It’s just that I’ve never seen you here before.”
He nodded and once again said, “Coffee.”
She fumbled for a mug, “Of course.”
He removed the toque, revealing blond hair that was clipped short, almost spiked. He laid the toque on the counter and smoothed it out. A faint scar began on his forehead and arched back into his hair line. Michelle experienced a flash of recognition, thinking she knew him, then she realized that he reminded her of one of the replicants from Blade Runner. The movie had just hit the theatres, and the association sent goosebumps along her skin.
The drink was half poured when she stopped and set the pot down, raising her hand to her mouth. “I forgot to ask. Did you want regular or unleaded?” He didn’t answer. She watched a tight expression sweep across his face. He let out a breath and shook his head.
“Better make it the strong stuff,” she whispered and finished pouring the cup.
She approached him tentatively, setting the mug in front of him. “Here you go,” she stammered. “Can I get you anything from the kitchen?”
He lifted his head, his eyes slowly coming into focus; a quick frown darkened his features. “Did you say something?” His eyes were a clear blue, but there was something in them that unsettled her. An aura of gravitas seemed to weigh down the air around him.
Michelle stepped back a pace. “Would you like something to eat?” He shook his head. His gaze stayed on her, and Michelle found herself suddenly feeling weak. What the hell has gotten into me? Without any intention of doing so, she sat down on a stool resting on the opposite side of the counter. The man’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Embarrassed, she blurted out, “So, where are you from?”
He gave her a strange look, and it took a moment for him to reply. “I’m not from here.”
“I already guessed that. You have an accent.” Jesus, Michelle, just leave this guy alone.
“I do? Huh. Of course I do.” He shook his head, “I’m from Europe. Actually. But I’ve been moving around.”
He reached out and took hold of his coffee. His hands looked strong, and his forearms were corded with muscle. When he lifted the mug, his shoulders bunched against the fabric of his T-shirt. Michelle quickly reassessed her first impression—he had looked thin when he came in, but she realized he had the trim build of an athlete. How old is this guy? He looks thirty, but they must have been rough years.
As the two spoke, the older couple seated at the back of the café got up and made their way to the exit. They whispered to each other and hurried past the back of the stranger. Michelle eyed them apprehensively, not really wanting to be left alone with the stranger, but she comforted herself with the thought that Terry was in the kitchen. She stood from her stool and spoke loud enough for them to hear, “Have a good evening you two. I’ll see you here tomorrow.” She cringed, thinking, I bet Terry loved that. The couple hurried past without speaking. The bell at the door sounded as they left. She watched them shuffle along the sidewalk. I hope they get home okay, she thought.
She slapped her hands together. “Well, I guess I’d better get some work done. Just give a shout if you need me.” Walking backward, she approached the kitchen entrance, then spun about and ducked out of sight. Jesus, what is wrong with me? I’m acting like a little kid.
But she knew what was wrong: Only a month ago, three murders—on three consecutive nights—had stunned their small community. The killings had taken place in a city an hour down the highway, that was true, but it was still close enough to send a chill through the summer nights. And the killer had not been caught. The media speculated that the man wasn’t a local, more likely, he was one of the many drifters that passed through the region.
The kitchen was empty.
“Terry?” she whispered. She checked the staff room at the back, but no one was there. He’d gone and left her by herself. She mumbled, “That asshole,” then froze, realizing that she was alone with her final customer. Something about the man was definitely not right: he wasn’t a local, and his behaviour was cryptically vague. Then again, how does a killer act? And she couldn’t decide if his haunted expression evoked her sympathy or fear. The only thing about him that was reassuring was his voice. She noticed that one of her hands had a death-grip on the kitchen countertop. She let go and forced herself to relax.
She stood still for several minutes, indecisive and uneasy with the silence, waiting for her heart to calm. Then walking to the front, she stripped off her apron, mentally running over an excuse for closing early and chasing the stranger out into the night.
When she stepped into the dining area, however, the man was already gone and had left a five dollar bill on the counter. Five dollars for a coffee, she mused. Do serial killers leave big tips?
The bell above the door hadn’t sounded at all.
She went back to the staffroom to get her backpack, and then she shut off the lights in the kitchen. Her copy of Beowulf, which she’d been reading during the dead hours of her shift, was resting on the countertop near where the stranger had sat. As she reached for it, Grendel’s eyes blazed at her from the front cover. She stuffed it in the pack along with her purse and the sunglasses she’d worn on her walk to the café. She shook her head in self-admonition: Seriously, is the story of a monster stalking the night really the best read for this summer?
The deadbolt on the front door was difficult to work from the outside, so normally she used the rear exit of the building. That night, however, the thought of stepping out into the ill-lit back alley struck her cold, and she decided to go out the front. It was a struggle to even get the key into the lock. When she finally did, she had to shake the door to get the mechanism to turn. Midway through the process, a shiver racked her, and she spun around to face the empty street. He’s not out here waiting for you, Michelle. Stop freaking yourself out. Swearing under her breath, trying to calm the mad thump of her heart, Michelle jerked viciously at the door and snapped the bolt shut. Then, shoving the keys into her pocket and slinging her pack over her shoulder, she turned purposely from the entrance and strode down the street.
The road was deserted, which was unusual for that time of year, but it wasn’t unexpected that summer. Since the outbreak of violence, people preferred to spend their evenings indoors. The village where she lived had taken on the semblance of a ghost town—at least after darkness washed over them from the east.
As she walked, the crunch of her shoes on bits of gravel struck her as alarmingly loud. She tried whistling but quickly realized it was more important to be aware of her surrounding than it was to comfort herself with sound. She grew silent and strained her hearing into the darkness.
The night had cooled somewhat, and only the occasional gust of wind disturbed the trees. Glancing up from the street and dark buildings, she could see the hulking shadow of distant thunderclouds obliterating the stars. She shuddered, for an instant imagining that they were mountains and the town rested at the bottom of an eldritch abyss.Oh my god, she thought, I have to stop reading that Lovecraft shit. First Beowulf and now this. What am I doing to myself?
The sound of tires on pavement brought her attention back to the street. She jerked involuntarily from the noise, and a small cry escaped her lips. A vehicle was passing. It had slowed as it approached and now drove by at a snail’s pace. She strode purposely forward, staring straight ahead. Her heart was going wild, and the impulse to run was almost overwhelming. Just when it became too much, as she was about to spin on the vehicle and stare down the driver, a voice rumbled, “Everything okay, Michelle?”
She recognized the speaker. Smiling and letting out her breath, she turned to the driver, “Everything’s fine, Jackson. I’m just a little spooked.”
The officer nodded and brought the police car to a halt. “Understandable. Why don’t you get in? I’ll give you a ride home.”
Mustering her courage, Michelle waved him on. “Nah. It’s just next block.”
“There’s no reason not to; I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my favorite waitress.”
She walked to the side of the car, resting her hands on the door. “Worried about your free coffee in the afternoon?”
Jackson gave an odd grin and motioned his head to the passenger seat, “Come on, get in.”
Michelle stepped back, “No, I’ll be fine. Go find a doughnut shop.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The car pulled away, and she watched its lights fade down the street, passing the turnoff that led to her apartment. In only a few moments, it was lost to her sight.
“Michelle,” she muttered, “you’re an idiot.”
The silence returned, more intense than before. She resumed walking at a quicker pace—her footsteps and breath loud in the stillness. She’d gotten a half block closer to her apartment, when she saw a flash of lightning on the horizon, and the lights of the street flickered. For a moment she stared, incredulous, then she looked about frantically, searching for a place to go if the lights failed completely. There was no refuge. The buildings around her turned blind eyes to the street. Then came the faint rumble of thunder.
Another distant flash of lightning, the lights flickered again, then went out completely.
Michelle shook her head in disbelief. You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me.
But for the full moon, it would have been wholly dark, and she cursed Terry for deserting her. Under the moonlight, the colours of the street were washed away, and Michelle found herself in a world of grey with long shadows. She cursed herself for letting Jackson drive off. It was nights like this that Grendel stalked Heorot. She cursed again, then gave up trying to control the swelling terror and broke into a run. A part of her laughed at the ridiculousness of her situation, sprinting through the night, almost tripping over stones and hidden cracks in the sidewalk. The other part grit its teeth and bore down, striving for every ounce of strength it could muster. An unknown killer stalked the streets and three people had been murdered in the last month. She would not be added to that number.
She sped past the corner of her block and down the small lane where the houses lay still. The door of the apartment building loomed, and Michelle was suddenly pressed against it, gasping for breath, more from fear than exertion. She fumbled for the key with shaking hands, almost dropping it, then jammed it into the lock. The door swung open. When she slammed it shut, the sound was thunderous in the dusty silence of the lobby. While the echoes died, her legs grew weak and gave out beneath her. She slid to the hardwood floor, back propped against the brick wall. Her head tilted back and, finally, she laughed.
When she got into her second story apartment, her bedroom window was open to the night, and the air cooled the sheen of sweat on her neck and arms. She shook her head; the apartment super still hadn’t fixed that latch. The power seemed to be off on the entire block. She studied the building across the street, wondering if hidden eyes stared back at her from the darkness.