Crescent Moon

by David Partelow

  “Alethia will know of your deeds,” spat Lennix as he was helped again to his feet. “You will never be welcomed in my home as long as I live. Never!”

  Thorn-Ren stopped. “I don’t care,” he said, never turning. “I will do what is right and take the path you’ve not the stomach for. I will bring Calla home again. This I swear on my life and name.”

  Pyron fetched his weapon, shaking his head at the little weed. “Your name will mean nothing in the streets of Bunda-Bas as well, Thorn-Ren. You know the rules of our people. You are now a plant without a home,” he said.

  Thorn-Ren shook his head. “I don’t care about that either. I would rather be without a home than choose blindness against what is truly right,” he said.

  Pyron nodded. “Then go, and may good fortune follow you, for no one else will, Thorn-Ren,” he said.

  At this, the little weed stopped before turning to look on both sides divided by petty differences. “That is no longer my name, Pyron. Thorn-Ren is the name given to me by Bunda-Bas to signify strength and incite fear. It no longer has a place in my heart. Instead, I choose to embrace the name passed to me by my mother who knew my heart before I did. Tell your stories and pass your judgments, but get it right when you do. The name’s Thistle. Theophilus Thistle. And the fate that I make is my own.”

  The little weed then walked away from both Bunda-Bas and Alethia then, knowing in his heart and soul what he must do. He did not know where to start or how he would find Calla again. All he knew was that he would against all odds. And it was there in that moment, against the dawning day and fading night that the adventures of Theophilus Thistle truly began.

  Defining Moments

  Rowan

  An evening full of sneaking about and adventure did little to calm the nerves of Rowan of Randoon. The young pantheryn discovered how elusive sleep could be in the face of heavy thoughts and impossible choices. With what remained of the night, she had tossed and turned, hoping that further clarity would at last fill her. Yet no such mercy surfaced in the night.

  As much as she dreaded it, the morning had at last found the pantheryn. Rowan dragged herself out of bed with great reluctance, her mind still filled with the events of the night. Instantly, the burden of expectation and duty pressed heavily upon her chest, hard enough to trouble her breathing. She sat then upon the edge of her bed, fighting tears, a prospect more difficult than fighting six boys at once the day before.

  Resigning herself at long last, Rowan pulled herself from the bed and walked across her room. There waiting was her uniform set out by servants. The very sight of it pained her heart as she took it in her hands unwillingly. Her parents would be proud and Randoon would be overjoyed that Rowan was finally growing up.

  In all her young life, Rowan had never taken so long to get dressed and ready. She used great care in all her actions, making sure everything was perfect as was expected. The attention to detail of such a role and the image it conveyed was paramount. This was a notion that her mother and father had instilled in her at a very young age. She knew for them and for all of Randoon she was doing the right thing, but the right thing was breaking her heart completely.

  Finally finished, Rowan made her way to the mirror with heavy steps. Looking at herself, she could barely recognize the person she looked upon. Her hair was combed perfectly and her fur practically glistened. The snow white of the diplomat’s uniform was a sharp contrast to her black fur. The red stripes down the side of the trousers and across the shoulders added a subtle flair, yet spoke nothing to Rowan. At the sight of herself Rowan fell to her knees and burst into tears.

  Collecting herself, Rowan looked again in the mirror, knowing that it was time to say goodbye to a part of herself. She steeled her soul for what she must do, though she knew it would not be easy. To go against everything she was groomed for, all the expectations that were waiting for her was simply madness in the walls of Randoon. Her soul had become too spirited and her parents knew the time to address that had come.

  “I know what I must do,” she whispered to the mirror, wiping away the remnants of her tears. “I just don’t know if I can.”

  Taking one more deep breath, Rowan brought herself to her shaky feet. She straightened her clothes again, giving herself one last look in the mirror. Soon she was lost in her own thoughts as her future swirled in the blink of an eye. She looked deeper still, knowing she was challenged to say goodbye to childish things and the call of adventure.

  Rowan turned from mirror to finally do what must be done.

  As the morning light was brought on by the Firestar, Ehzan assembled before the gates of Randoon. The master swordsman waited rigidly with arms crossed for the others. It did not take long for the honor guards to assemble with supplies ready to travel. Ehzan nodded to them as they all waited for the last and final member of their traveling group.

  But Rowan did not arrive.

  Ehzan gauged the time by looking upon the Firestar. He was not only a superior teacher, but Ehzan was also ever and always a prompt pantheryn. Items that placed him behind schedule often displeased him. He would give his former student a few more minutes before seeking her out.

  “Um, Ehzan, sir?”

  Ehzan turned to see Richtor standing on anxious legs. The young boy shifted uncomfortably and looked more scratched up than the day before. Richtor was nervous under Ehzan’s watchful eye and would not look up at the master swordsman. It was clear Richtor was there against his own wishes.

  Ehzan shook his head as he placed his fists on his hips. “Richtor, I have no time for guessing games, speak your mind already,” he said.

  Richtor sighed heavily before offering up a folded parchment. “By a debt of honor gained in defeat I was charged to give you this letter,” said the boy.

  Ehzan snatched the letter out of Richtor’s hands. With his task complete, Richtor turned quickly and fled back inside the gates of Randoon. Ehzan angrily watched the boy run for a moment before shifting his focus. Unfolding the letter, the pantheryn began to read.

  Ehzan,

  If that rascal Richtor kept his vow, you now know my choice. I had no desire to place you in a difficult position, so I have gone upon my own path. I know not where I head, but I do know in my bones that adventure awaits and that is my calling. Thank you again, for everything, my teacher and friend. Wish the world luck for now they will surely need it. For I am coming, and I will prove to one and all that in heart and spirit, I am indeed mighty and free.

  Always,

  Rowan

  Ehzan clenched the paper in his fist as he looked about. His sharp eyes spanned across the Great Road before Randoon and beyond. Skimming over the fields and forests before him, his eyes carried into a great distance where he at last saw a young, wandering pantheryn. He could not make out much, save for they were geared for travel and held the distinctive black fur and purple hair of Rowan. Rowan was now waving to him before she turned and continued her walk.

  One of the honor guards approached Ehzan then. “Sir, we are awaiting your orders. Shall we prepare to depart?” he asked.

  Ehzan looked at the guard for a moment before looking back into the distance. Crumpling the letter in his hand, the master swordsman shook his head. “There has been a change of plans. The trip has been delayed for the time being. Return to the barracks and await further orders,” he said.

  The guard went to protest but that better of it before saluting Ehzan. “Understood, sir,” he responded quickly before motioning to the other guards and returning inside Randoon.

  Ehzan watched them go as he placed Rowan’s note in his pocket. He then looked back toward the distance in the wake of his young student. A deep and rare smile rose upon his face. Nodding, he waved softly to where Rowan had been standing only moments before.

  “Goodbye, Rowan. I will buy you what time that I can. The rest is up to you now. No matter where you go or what you do, never forget that in mind and spirit, you are indeed truly mighty,” he said.

  Wi
th Rowan safely off in search of adventure, Ehzan returned to the training grounds of Randoon.

  Awakening

  The Prophet

  Slowly, the Prophet opened his pained eyes and was welcomed by soft silence and dwindling darkness. Standing gingerly, the Prophet felt every inch of the climb, using the table to steady his shaky bones. He felt entirely drained and his hands spoke still of the pain offered from the magical blue flames.

  Taking a few steadying breaths, the Prophet looked about. The pyre was all but extinguished, yet the taint and threat of evil was no more. The Prophet could feel nothing of Moreg’s presence. He nodded as a faint smile cracked his wrinkled features. They had succeeded. Moreg’s hand had been stayed for now and the drawing of fate had been achieved.

  Now the true perils could begin.

  Fighting the marauding dryness in his throat, the Prophet at last found his voice. “Rigmor? Rigmor, are you there?”

  Only silence and calmness met the Prophet as a gentle breeze whispered into the windows. The Prophet listened for long moments before fetching his sword and staff. The time to push forward was fast approaching and with it the next steps of his harrowing journey. In that moment, the Prophet felt more in touch with the creatures of the light than ever before. Yet also, he felt more so alone.

  “I am here, Prophet,” replied Rigmor from the pyre. Her voice was weak and faint, much like the smoldering embers of the pyre. “It is done.”

  The Prophet nodded to the pyre. “Thank you. Without your help, the battle would have been lost before it had begun,” he said.

  “All our cares now fall on you, Prophet. You must atone for your sins. Until you do so, there can be no Dreamer. And without the Dreamer, all we can do is delay the inevitable darkness that shall consume our world,” she replied.

  The Prophet felt the pain of those words, a harsh reminder of his failures and the burden that was now his and his alone. “I will do what is required, even if it is the very last of me,” he offered. “Farewell for now, Rigmor.”

  Before he could leave, Rigmor spoke again. “We have found a champion,” she said.

  The Prophet paused abruptly at these words, turning to look again upon the pyre. “You have selected a Dreamer?” he asked.

  “A champion at least,” replied Rigmor. “I have yet to see the clear view of his fate, but he is destined for greatness. The book has spoken. Destiny has been cast. We must trust in the fates and the drawing Crescent Moon.”

  “Show me,” said the Prophet.

  “I cannot,” replied Rigmor. “But I can allow you to know.”

  “Very well,” said the Prophet before he set his things down again and placed his aching hands back into the pyre.

  Standing firmly in the silence, the magic of the pyre rushed through the Prophet once again. The ancient traveler was filled with visions familiar and alien to him. He almost faltered in the coursing magic and the revelations that it offered him. In quick moments, the Prophet glimpsed scant breaths of the future and what was coming in the storm.

  Quickly, the Prophet ripped his hands from the pyre as he caught his retreating breath. He shook his head furiously at the pyre and the essence of Rigmor. “No,” he rasped. “Out of the question. You cannot place such burdens on one so young. It is not right, Rigmor! There must be another way!”

  Rigmor replied swiftly. “You have tried to play a god before and we now stand on the edges of disaster because of it. Whatever his fate, if we are to survive and endure, we need him. Lunaria needs him, and so does Earth.”

  The Prophet turned, placing his hands upon the Round Table as his head lowered in shame. “It is not fair,” he breathed.

  “Very few things truly are,” said Rigmor. “He holds the key to our survival. He must believe, and you must believe in him.”

  The Prophet looked up somberly and stared off at nothing, yet his eyes saw beyond the view with pure clarity. “Forgive me, young soul, for the fault is mine. You do not deserve such burdens, but the hands of fate have chosen you…they call to you even as we speak. And for that, I am with you, now and always…Mathias.”

  Jarred by the shock, Mathias tossed the book before him and jumped out of bed. He stared for long moments at the book laying there, now seeing it fully as more than just a holder of words. Something had held to him as soon as he had started reading, like some magic was guiding him and the pages. Steadying his breaths, Mathias took cautious steps closer to his bed, as he slowly reached for the book.

  Mathias let his careful fingers slowly touch the aged cover. Nothing felt out of the ordinary now. Whatever magic he felt was no longer present. Boldened by this, the young man took the book in his hands and opened it slowly. He retraced his steps, returning to the last page that he had read.

  But the words were no longer there.

  Mathias thumbed through the entire book then. Yet this time he found nothing, save for the words he first read. Closing the book, Mathias put Crescent Moon back on his bed before sitting down next to it. There were many thoughts racing through him, so many questions he now held, but who could he ask? It was getting late and the only one who may have any answers would be Mr. Dackett the librarian. Mathias was already dismayed at the prospect of such a talk.

  With no other choice, Mathias readied himself for bed. But the young man knew sleep would be slow in its arrival, for scores of questions hounded him in the dark. Mathias could not take his eyes off the book resting on his nightstand, yet as much as he pondered, as much as he looked again, the stories that he had just read did not return to him.

  Out of options and burdened by thought, Mathias did at last sleep, not at all surprised that his dreams were of a magical place called Lunaria. He could see the enchanted creatures he had met on the pages of the book, from the sweet Ana of the Lily to the rambunctious Rowan and the magical Kelisay. Yet he saw all these things through a dark haze, as if either something did not want him to see or he needed a way to see it further. And so Mathias dreamed onward, taking what visions he could.

  When he awoke at last, Mathias found he was sad to be distant from the magic of the previous night. Lifting the book again, he discovered that it was still as blank as it was the night before. He wanted to tell his parents about it, but something kept him from doing so. How was he supposed to explain such a thing to his mom and dad? Instead, Mathias got up and dressed and during breakfast asked his father for another trip to the library.

  It took some pestering and a promise that he would be just as swift as the previous day, but Mathias was finally successful. Reaching the library, Matthew opted to wait in the car as his son took the book inside. A thousand questions raced through the boy’s mind as he made his way to the counter. There, like always, was Mr. Dackett, waiting gruffly with his arms crossed.

  Mr. Dackett offered him a sarcastic smile. “Did I not say that you’d be back disappointed?” asked the librarian.

  Reaching the counter, Mathias placed the book down as he looked at Mr. Dackett bravely. “I want more and anything else you can tell me about this book and the Crescent Moon,” said the young man.

  Mr. Dackett’s eyes widened a moment before he collected himself. “What are you going on about? There is no story in these pages, at least not for eyes such as yours! Do not pester me with tall tales and yarns, for I know already the power of your imagination,” said the librarian.

  Mathias looked at him sternly. “I know what I saw, Mr. Dackett. That book revealed itself to me, as crazy as that sounds. And what do you mean by my eyes?” He asked.

  Mr. Dackett waved an impatient hand. “Nothing, other than you are making up stories on your own without the aid of this troublesome book,” countered the librarian.

  Mathias clenched his fists. “You think that I’m lying?”

  Mr. Dackett leaned closer. “I know that you are. And no amount of lies will sway me. It’s time we stopped such games and put this book where it belongs: out of the reach of overactive imaginations,” he replied before standing a
nd turning to put the book away.

  Mathias called out to him. “Then how do I know about Ana? Or Rowan of Randoon? Or how about the Prophet? He talked to me, Mr. Dackett. Explain that.”

  Mr. Dackett froze at his words before trying to cover up his reaction. Turning again, he offered a smile that held no happiness to it. “I still don’t know what you are talking about. And I don’t know how many times this needs repeating, but it is still the truth,” he said.

  Mathias placed both of his hands on the counter as he looked the librarian squarely. “I know there is more to that book than just a cover and paper. And from your words and reactions, I know you do too! There is magic here whether you choose to see it or not and I want to know more!” the young man exclaimed.

  At the rise of his voice, many of the patrons of the library called for silence. For long moments, Mathias and Mr. Dackett stared at one another. The librarian truly looked put out by the whole affair while Mathias refused to budge. The stern silence between them grew as the book in question refused to give any more answers.

  Finally, Mr. Dackett placed the book out of view as he leaned forward to casually address Mathias. “I think you have had enough adventure for one day. Maybe it’s time you went home and thought about the trouble you’ve tried to cause with your stories,” he said.

  To his surprise, Mathias was unfazed by this and held his ground. The young man shook his head, knowing that what he had seen was true and not some dream or story he had made up. Even the stern and discerning Mr. Dackett could see no dishonesty on his face. But before their exchange could continue, Mathias looked toward the door, remembering that his father was waiting.