A FOOL'S MOON

A FOOL’S MOON

By Mike Dunagan


I strain to squeeze deeper into the opening, some long dead animal’s den tunneled under a fallen tree. Once abandoned, now offering me some hope of protection, of salvation from the monster who hunts me, intent on killing me.

I can smell the stench of decay all around. The putrid odor of animals that served as meals for past inhabitants. The earthy smell of rotting wood, as the tree that’s now my refuge slowly returns to its roots. The heady aroma of decomposing leaves and damp earth reminds me vaguely of visiting my grandmother as a young girl, playing hide and seek in her root cellar. But I can’t smell him; perhaps I have escaped, lost him in my mad scamper though the woods.

It’s late in the forest, and the night is alive with slithering, slinking, slippery things. Amplified in my ears by the hypersensitivity that comes from fear and adrenaline, I hear it all. A creek nearby, and the wet, slimy decent of some unknown visitor into its dark waters. The flapping wings of an air-born scavenger, waiting to pick the flesh from some other hunter’s kill. The rustling of branches in the late November wind, reaching to snare the next patsy who stumbles past. But I don’t hear him; perhaps I have escaped.

The night is brilliant in the wash of the full moon. A fool’s moon, for it lured me from home and safety, from fire and warmth. It called to me with its beauty, seduced me with its glow. A short walk in the woods, what harm could there be? The warnings are but old maid’s tales told to scare young children, to keep them in bed at night, inside after dark. Vampires. Ghosts. Lunatic hunters. Psychotic killers. Escaped madmen. Legends and myth. Nothing to keep a young woman, a young fool, from a stroll in the beauty of the night.

I first saw it…no, him, I’m certain it’s a him…as he ran in the woods, flashing through puddles of moonlight like an actor racing across a stage. Lean, fast and evil. His teeth seemed to glow in a wolfish grin as the light reflected off each stiletto of white. I had no choice but to run. The cunning beast had flanked me, cutting off any hope of getting back to my house. Deeper into the forest was my only choice. My only chance. I ran through the woods, no thought but escape. My mind and body ignoring all other senses and sensations. The bite of briars, the slap of tree limbs, the ache of muscles screaming for oxygen – all disappeared in my race for continued existence. There was no conscious thought. No plan, no strategy. Only intuition. And fear. I was scrambling into this safe haven before recognizing it was there – my instinct for survival reacting much faster than my mind.

So, I now huddle deep in this hole, frightened by the cry of each bird and the distant wail of creatures unseen. In every rustling leaf, I hear his presence. In each snap of a twig, his footfall. My stomach clenches from the whisper of the wind, running from tree-to-tree, calling my name; inviting me into the open, into the jaws of certain death. The night has become his friend, his ally. A partner in his hunt.

He is here. The stink of his sweat and the stench of his musty coat is overpowering even from a distance. He moves at a slow walk. Cautious, suspicious. He too is a creature of instinct, a predator who lives on his ability to hunt, find and destroy. He pauses, raises his head slightly as if sniffing the air. The night goes silent. I hold my breath. The world stops spinning.

Then he moves on. I see his shadow slide past the opening of my burrow; hear him move deeper into the woods, leaving me behind. Leaving me alive. Leaving me angry.

The fool’s moon silhouettes him perfectly as I crawl out of my hiding place. The hunter has missed his prey. The sight of him makes the blood pound through my temples with fury; brings madness to my mind. Fear is replaced by passion. By hunger. His back is to me, his gun useless, now pointing towards his own death, not mine.

I can feel my muscles bunch, ready to spring. My claws dig into the soft ground for traction, the fur stands on my neck. A soft growl rumbles in my throat as my jowls pull back from my teeth. Wolf instincts again guide me. The were-moon drives me. And the hunted is now the hunter.