Moon Chosen

by P. C. Cast

  “Mama would like that.”

  Before Sora entered the clearing she squeezed Mari’s hand briefly, saying, “I know we’re not friends, but I am truly sorry about your mother.”

  Unable to speak, Mari nodded, blinking quickly. As Sora stepped into the clearing, she breathed deeply and called to Mari over her shoulder. “These flowers are incredible! They smell like honey. They look familiar, but I can’t name them. What are they and how did you get them to grow here?”

  “They’re forget-me-nots, like what I painted on our hearth. I didn’t get them to grow. They’ve never bloomed here before,” Mari said. Sora had stopped and had turned to face her. Mari bent and brushed her fingers lightly through the delicate blue flowers that Rigel had buried his face in and was sniffing enthusiastically. “They don’t usually bloom until midsummer, and never here.”

  “She sent them for you,” Sora said.

  “How do you know Mama did that?” Mari wiped at a tear that had escaped her eye.

  “Not Leda.” Sora nodded her head in the direction of the idol. “The Great Earth Mother sent them for you.”

  “Does she talk to you?” Mari asked as she studied the statue’s serene face.

  “Not with words, but I can feel the Goddess’s presence. Can you hear her?”

  Mari shook her head sadly. “No.”

  “But you feel her presence?” When Mari didn’t respond Sora smiled at her and said, “Well, the Goddess obviously cares about you. Sending Leda’s flower to comfort you is no small thing.” Sora approached the Earth Mother idol. Mari watched as she knelt, raised her hands, and began murmuring something that she couldn’t quite hear.

  Feeling like she was eavesdropping on a private conversation, Mari shifted her attention to the ground, expecting to see the rawness of her mother’s newly dug grave. But instead of broken earth the spot near the arms of the Goddess was exactly like the rest of the clearing—covered with grass and fragrant blue flowers.

  Mari’s gaze returned to the Earth Mother’s face. She stared at the image of the Goddess, willing herself to be open to anything the Great Earth Mother might send her. Then she whispered, “If you did send these flowers, thank you. I’ll never forget Mama. It would be like forgetting to breathe. But thank you.”

  “Oh, that is so much better!” Sora had risen from her knees and was standing in a white wash of moonlight, arms raised, head tilted back. The silver-gray color that had begun to taint her skin was gone, and when she turned to face Mari, she was smiling. “I’m ready for my first lesson in drawing down the moon.”

  “Do you know what direction is north?”

  Sora cocked her head, thinking. Then she pointed at the idol. “That’s north.”

  “Correct. We begin in the north. Do you know why?” Mari asked.

  “It’s the place of beginnings?”

  “Well, yes. But the reason it’s the place of beginnings is that we think of the earth as a living being, and her head rests in the north—thus we begin there.”

  Sora nodded. “That makes sense.”

  “What did you do with the fern?”

  “It’s right here.” Sora picked it up from where she’d set it amongst the fragrant flowers.

  “Put it in the center of the clearing.” While Sora did as she was told, Mari positioned herself in front of the Goddess, opened the tinderbox, and lit both clumps of sage. “This one is for you.” She held it out to Sora, who hurried to her and took it eagerly.

  “Now what?”

  “Back away from me several paces so that we both have room to move.”

  “How’s this?”

  “Good. Okay, this is how Mama described it to me when I was just a girl. Moon needs to know who her Women are, and like Earth, Moon appreciates beauty. So, we’re going to introduce ourselves to Moon by dancing the pattern of our names over Earth in the moonlight.”

  Sora’s look of nervousness changed to a pleased smile. “Really? I introduce myself as a Moon Woman by dancing?”

  “Really,” Mari said. “So, your feet are going to dance out the spelling of your name, and while you’re dancing hold out the smoking sage stick. It should swirl around you, mimicking your pattern. Do you know why I brought sage instead of another dried herb?”

  Sora swirled the lit stick around her and coughed softly. “Because it makes a lot of smoke?”

  “No, I think that’s just a nice coincidence. When you eat it, sage has vast healing properties, especially for women. Oils from its leaves can cure many ills. And when it is dried and burned, its smoke cleanses. It’s good for new beginnings. Like tonight. Mama had me dance with a smoking bunch of it a lot like this the first time I introduced myself to Moon.”

  “I think I understand. Is there anything in particular I should do while I dance—I mean, besides following the pattern of my name?”

  “Mama, what do I do while I dance my name?”

  “Just be filled with joy, sweet girl. Show Moon how happy her future Woman is to be dancing an introduction. Dance all around the clearing—cover it with smoke and laughter and your unique beauty.”

  Leda’s words drifted with the smoke around her. Mari smiled through the tears that trailed down her cheeks. “The only thing you need to do is to be happy. Show Moon how happy you are to be Her Woman. And use the entire clearing to dance. Fill it with smoke and dancing and happiness.”

  “I can do that. When do I start?”

  “Start with me.” Mari lifted her clump of sage, and then visualizing herself tracing the pattern of an M, she began to dance.

  It was difficult for Mari to let go. More than ten winters had passed since she’d first introduced herself to Moon. Then she had been a giggling girl, her small bare feet twirling the pattern of her name in the lush earth, dancing with her mama to fill the clearing with happiness, fragrant smoke, and love. At first her movements were stiff, awkward even. But as the clearing filled with eddies of drifting sage smoke, and as Sora’s breathless laughter accompanied her movements, Mari began to find comfort in the familiar path of her name. This she knew. She also knew the clearing. It was a safe place—a part of her home. It was her place with Mama, where she’d been born and grown up, and finally where she’d buried Leda. Her feet traced the pattern of her name through the fragrant blue flowers, and Mari felt the stirring of something that wasn’t joy—not yet—but it was at least a letting loose of enough sadness, even if temporarily, that she spread wide both of her arms. Remembering the happiness she and Leda had filled the clearing with, Mari danced.

  Suddenly a shriek was heard in the distance—feral and hate-filled—shattering the peacefulness of the grove.

  “Oh, Goddess, no! Don’t let them get me.” Sora ran to Mari’s side and clutched her hand.

  Mari’s gaze went to Rigel. The canine was still lying by the Earth Goddess idol. Except for his pricked ears and his sharp, distance-seeking eyes, he appeared to be relaxed and unaffected by the shrieks.

  Mari felt the tension in her shoulders relax. “They’re not threatening us. They don’t know we’re here, and even if they did it would be almost impossible for them to make it through the brambles,” Mari said, adding, “Who are they?”

  “Our Clansmen. They’re why I’ve been hiding in that tree.”

  Another shriek echoed over the first one, coming from a different direction.

  “Do you know where they are?” Mari asked.

  “That first one, no. The second one, I have a good guess. Sounds to me as if he’s coming from the direction of my burrow. Or, what used to be my burrow until a bunch of them destroyed it,” Sora said grimly. “It’s not just during the night that they’re mad. They frighten me. I had to run from them during the day.”

  Yet another shriek sounded, closer than the other two.

  “Is that coming from the direction of the tree I was hiding in?” Even in the moonlight Mari could see Sora’s face had paled. She met Mari’s gaze. “Do you understand how bad it is?”

  “I have no d
oubt that it’s bad. I heard the shrieks last night, too, but it sounded like only one man,” Mari said.

  “Well, it’s not. It’s all of them. All of them that are still alive anyway. Mari, I know you don’t care about the Clan, and I’m not going to pretend to be as honorable and loving as your mother was, but if someone doesn’t start Washing the Night Fever from them soon, there will be no Clan left.”

  Mari studied Sora. Her expression was frightened and earnest.

  “All right. Then let’s get on with your lesson while there’s still a Clan left for you,” Mari said.

  “You could Wash them. I mean, just until I finish my lessons,” Sora said.

  “No. They’re too unpredictable. Too uncontrollable. If something happens to me, Rigel would be inconsolable. I’m not sure exactly what he would do, but I don’t think he’d live long if I didn’t come back to him.”

  “And he means more to you than your Clan.”

  Sora’s statement wasn’t a question, but Mari answered it anyway. “Yes, he means more to me than your Clan. The Clan isn’t mine, Sora. It’s never been mine. Only Mama was mine.” Mari turned away from Sora and began walking toward the fern, which waited, sad and wilted, in the middle of the clearing. “Come on,” she said without glancing back at the girl. “Lesson number one is about healing.”

  “Healing? But shouldn’t you just teach me about drawing down the moon to Wash the Clan? I can learn the rest later,” Sora said, trailing along behind Mari.

  “We do this my way, meaning Leda’s way, or not at all,” Mari said, putting her still smoking sage clump beside the fern and motioning for Sora to do the same as she joined her. “Sit by the fern.” Mari pointed at the wilted green clump.

  With a sigh, Sora sat. She lifted one of its limp fronds and let it drop. Glancing up at Mari she said, “It’s in bad shape.”

  “Yeah, you’re going to use the power of the moon to heal it.”

  “Why?” Sora said.

  “Because a Moon Woman does much more than simply Wash her people of Night Fever. She is a midwife. She is a Healer. She is an herbalist—a counselor—a savior and sometimes even the one who hastens the comfort of death to the unsavable.”

  “Now that sounds like Leda,” Sora said.

  “It’s going to sound like you, too. Or at least I’m going to teach you what Leda taught me. After that you can decide what kind of Moon Woman you want to be,” Mari said. “Now, ground yourself and get ready to concentrate.”

  The night suddenly exploded with distant, hate-filled cries of men. Mari thought it sounded as if they were rabid wolves, howling their anger at the moon.

  “I can’t concentrate with that going on. It’s horrible!” Sora said.

  “You have to. How do you think they’re going to be when they come to you? And I don’t even mean just the first time. I mean every time. I Washed Xander on a second night—it hadn’t even been the normal three days between Washings—and he was turning into a monster in front of me. Sora, you have to be able to ground yourself and concentrate in the midst of chaos and danger and fear or they will hurt you, maybe even kill you. That I promise.”

  “How did you do it? How did you get past your fear?” Sora asked, her eyes wide and liquid with unshed tears.

  “In my mind I sketched the scene I wished was happening.”

  “But I’m not an artist! That makes no sense to me,” Sora said.

  “It makes sense to me, and maybe you can find some sense in it, too, if you just listen. When I draw I make real what’s in my imagination. I didn’t understand it until recently, but I think that’s what every Moon Woman does. She imagines the power of moonlight channeling through her and into others, and her imagining is so great, so real to her, that the power follows her will. So, what you have to do is figure out how to make what you imagine seem real.”

  Sora chewed her bottom lip. “I have no idea how to do that.”

  “Well, let’s try and see what happens. At least you’ll have a starting point,” Mari said.

  Sora began to nod in agreement when another round of shrieks echoed through the night.

  “They’re getting worse,” Sora said.

  “They sound close together. That can’t be good. I thought men were always solitary at night—at least unless they’ve been Washed,” Mari said.

  “It was a whole group of them that attacked my burrow. It was during the day. I think they may be traveling together.” Sora’s voice was ripe with fear.

  “Hey, they won’t find us here. We’re safe. You’re safe,” Mari said.

  Sora lifted her chin and nodded. “I’m ready now. I’m going to try to do this.”

  “Okay, first ground yourself. I think the easiest way to do that is to slow your breathing. Here, breathe with me on a count of six. Inhale first: one, two, three, four, five, six,” she said breathily. “Hold it for one count, then exhale for six.” Mari counted, watching Sora. The girl was following her instructions, but with a lackluster attitude—as if she was just going through the motions to appease her. Mama, what do I do? She searched her mind as she continued to count for Sora. How do I get her to truly ground herself?

  Like a small, precious mourning dove, Leda’s words lifted from Mari’s memory. Sweet girl, trust yourself and the Great Earth Mother. You are wiser than you know, and the Goddess is endlessly compassionate. Mari’s gaze wandered to the idol, wishing the Goddess would show some compassion and tell her what to do.

  Then Mari’s eyes widened in surprise. No, the Goddess didn’t speak to her—didn’t let Mari feel her presence. But Sora felt her presence—she’d already said so. And Mari had her answer.

  “Sora, turn around so that you’re facing the Earth Mother,” Mari said.

  Sora blinked up at her. “Are we done breathing?”

  “No, not quite, but I have an idea. Sit facing the idol.” Sora shifted around. “Okay, this time as you breathe with me, concentrate on the Earth Mother. Feel her presence filling this clearing. She’s in the soft night wind. Her breath has the sweetness of the flowers around us. She’s cloaked in Earth and veiled in night. She’s everywhere.”

  Mari saw the difference in Sora instantly. Her shoulders relaxed. Her forehead lost the furrowed lines that were there only breaths before. She seemed to melt into the grass as she breathed deeply, easily, keeping her gaze on the Earth Mother.

  “Now, let your breath return to normal, but keep your focus on the Goddess. Give me your hand.”

  Sora said nothing, but she lifted her hand. Mari took it in her own.

  “Place your other hand on the fern.”

  Sora did as Mari instructed.

  More shrieks rang through the night, and Sora’s hand tightened on Mari’s.

  “Focus,” Mari said quickly, finding her mother’s words and sharing them with Sora. “Borrow serenity from the Earth Mother. You may be surrounded by chaos or sickness or injuries, but find the true you within. Release that which belongs to the world—fears, worry, sadness, so that the silver moonlight can wash through you. It is a waterfall at night. And this night the fern is the basin that must hold the waterfall. Think about the fern. Imagine it being filled with life, whole and thriving again.”

  Sora’s grip on Mari’s hand relaxed, and she said softly, “I’m ready.”

  “Good. You’re doing well. When I start the invocation I want you to repeat after me and think about the moonlight washing through me—through you—and into the fern.”

  “Okay. I can do this,” Sora said.

  When Mari began the ritual invocation, it was as if Leda was there with her, smiling proudly and whispering lovingly in her ear.

  “Moon Woman I proclaim myself to be

  Greatly gifted I bare myself to thee.”

  Sora began repeating the lines in a small soft voice, but as Mari continued the invocation, and Sora continued the repetition, her voice grew in confidence until Mari could hear the beginnings of confidence within it.

  “Earth Mother aid me wi
th your magick sight

  Lend me strength on this moon-touched night.

  Come, silver light—fill me to overflow

  So that those in my care, your healing will know.

  By right of blood and birth channel through me

  That which the Earth Mother proclaims my destiny!”

  Mari raised her hand and closed her eyes, sketching in her mind a scene where the moonlight cascaded like water through her and into Sora. The cool, silver power rained down on her, swirling in her body—not with the cold, biting pain it used to bring, but with strength not yet familiar, yet sure enough that Mari could count on it, draw on it, channel it, and then release it into Sora.

  “Oh! It’s so cold!” Sora gasped and tried to pull her hand from Mari’s.

  “That’s because it’s not yours to keep. You don’t need it. You’re already Washed. Think of the fern. Focus, Sora!”

  “I’m trying, but it hurts!”

  “You can make the pain stop, but you have to release the power. Think of the fern. Imagine that the moonlight is water, and that you can channel it through your body and rain it over the plant,” Mari said.

  “It’s—it’s t-too hard!” Sora spoke around chattering teeth.

  Mari gripped Sora’s hand tighter and added a sharp edge to her words. “If I can do it—you can do it. Try harder!”

  Mari saw Sora frown. Her shoulders hunched with the effort. Beads of sweat dotted her smooth forehead. The hand she’d placed on the fern was trembling, but just when Mari was considering stopping the exercise the limp fronds of the fern began to straighten and swell.

  “Oh,” Sora gasped. “It’s happening! I’m drawing down the moon!”

  And as quickly as that Sora’s concentration broke. With a terrible convulsion she pulled her hand away from Mari’s, fell to all fours, and vomited rabbit stew beside the half-healed fern.

  “It’s okay. This part will be over soon.” Mari held Sora’s thick hair back so she didn’t soil it.

  Sora was shaking. Between retches she said, “It felt awful. But then it was better. Then awful again.”