The Moon's Song

The Moon’s Song



The wind whipped through her pale, blonde hair, making it dance around her face; a halo in the darkness of the summer night. Her dress blended with the sky; black as a raven’s feather, the flowing silk blurring the lines between the girl and the heavens. She lifted her face to the moonlight, its beams shining across her face; accentuating her sharp cheekbones and her deep green eyes.

The moon, full and round, was large that evening. Large enough to cast an iridescent and illuminating light over the dew covered grass beneath the balcony.  It shone over the lake, its mirror image reflected back, shimmering a slight yellow on the murky, black surface.  The water rippled; the wind creating small waves and white-horses on the bank where the ducks nested.

She sang to herself; a quiet, melodic tune just loud enough to hear over the distance screeching of the manor’s barn owls. “For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.” I knew the song well. Everyone did. And so as I stepped out of the dusky shadows, I merged with her singing: “We twa hae run about the braes, and pu’d the gowans fine, but we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot, sin’ auld lang syne.”

She turned towards me, allowing me the first glance of her entire face. Beautiful. Her lips parted slightly, shaped like the bow that I used for hunting and as red as the apples that grew on the manor’s trees, she let out a quiet gasp, startled as she was by my appearance. She blushed a slight crimson. Carefully she stepped down from the small ledge on which she had been elegantly walking; fluid and gracefully as if dancing instead. “I…I…” she stuttered, ashamed of being caught trespassing where she should not have been.

However she need not have worried for I already forgave her. It is near impossible to be angry at an angel like her, and so although the manor was our private property, I did not accuse her. Accusing one of the Lord’s messengers would be blasphemes, and besides, I did not want her to leave. I wanted to be with her for all eternity.

I would not let her leave.



Why did he not call someone to throw me out? I was on his land, on his balcony. I did not mean to trespass, but the balcony called to me through the magnificent gardens, calling my name and enticing me. I had to go there, to look out over the land, high up like the stars that hung in place above.

The intimidating manor house whispered my name, softly over the wind in the fields: “Lena, Lena,” immediately washing any fears away. This magical place wanted me as much as I eagerly needed it. And so quickly I ran over the fields. My dress trailed in the mud. I cared not, although it had taken a long time to make, too poor as I was to afford bought clothing.

The lake passed by in a flash. I would observe it from the balcony. The trees and flowers blurred together, so fast was I running. I slid through the open door, daunting as it was, around three times my height. I ran up the stairs, taking two at a time, not caring how unladylike it was. I reached the top, gasping for breath, but still I pushed on, hurrying through a master bedroom out onto the terrace in the dark night. And when I reached it, I was not disappointed.

The moon hung low over the land, the stars scattered across the black blanket that was the dark sky. The lake glistened in the pale moonlight, indistinguishable shapes, which I guessed to be reeds, growing stealthily out of the murky water, resembling human arms breaking through the wavy surface. The trees differentiated the flat landscape; the sweet branches of the willows hanging down, making the trees seem like old, hunched over men, crying about misfortunes. In contrast the apple trees stood straight and proud, ripe fruit littering the ground beneath.

It was a joyful scene, filling me with a warm, happiness, inspiring me to spin and twirl along the ledge on which I stood. I sang to myself, my mother’s favourite song, the one which had many years ago been my lullaby. “For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.”

And yet a voice joined in, low and rough. I turned sharply towards it, frightened by the sudden appearance, ashamed of being where I was not meant to. Nervously I stuttered and apology, which he easily brushed off. Why did he not call someone to throw me out?

And then I saw it: a menacing look in his eyes, his mouth curled into a sharp smirk, as he stepped towards me, fangs bared.