Book I, Ch. 6— Moon, Shadow, Crescent Knife

Moonthread, by Anthony Lee Phillips

“Which ones do you think I should tell tonight?” Gran Akha asked, excitedly.

Nala didn’t want to talk with her mouth full (or stop eating) so she shrugged, “I-o-know,” and took another bite.

“Maybe a scary one?” said Gran. “Spring is a surprisingly good time of year for demon stories, you know…”

“Mmm,” nodded Nala.

“Or maybe one of the small sagas? I could get grim and tell the Sage at the End of Days?”

Nala thought of the tapestries.

“Ugru?” Nala said, then took another bite.

“Ooh, which Ugru one should I tell? I’m thinking I’ll do 3 things in all.”

Nala nodded, still chewing.

“Maybe ‘Cape of Stars’?” Gran suggested.

“Uh huh.”

“Or ‘Fortune’s Daughter’?”

“Sure.”

Gran laughed. “How are you still eating?”

Finally, at market’s end, they came to the stand of the Master Weaver.

Nala got giddy, and gulped the last of her food down. The weaver’s cart was her favorite place in all of Market Town.

Beautiful sashes and scarves were laid out on the front table. Cloaks hung up, on simple wooden dummies. Even the dummies looked elegant, with smoothly carved featureless faces, posed with one shoulder up to show how the fabric drapes over a body.

But Nala’s stare went straight to the grand tapestry, hanging behind the Master Weaver.

The tapestry sprawled wide, depicting a tryptich of popular myths. Side by side, Nala saw three of her favorite stories about her very favorite goddess.

It was Ugru, of course.

In the first story, Ugru came down from the moon, to take a quick swim in the sea.

In the second story, she took the shape of a shadow, and merged with three things: a tiger, a viper, and a tree.

The last story was called “Mother Death.” Despite the title, Ugru was a minor character in that one.

The hero happened to be a little girl, green skinned like Nala, who made many unlikely friends, and then died.

Then Ugru came up out of the shadows, and met her ghost, and gave the little girl another life. It ended with Ugru calling the girl her daughter, and living on happily, as deathless as the night.

Ugru was Nala’s favorite.

All the weirdest, wildest stories were about Ugru.

“Evening, Akha,” grinned the weaver.

“Evening!” Gran replied.

“I hear you’re doing the Telling tonight!” said the weaver. Nala tried to remember her name, but couldn’t.

Gran laughed, and itched the nape of her neck, where the grey hairs were greyest.

“I am!” Gran said. Then her eyes went wide. “Oh! I’m late! I think I’m late actually! We’ve got to go; come on, Nala! Come!”

She took Nala’s hand again, and they rushed away from the weaver, and toward the Teller’s Altar.

* * * * / * * * *

Each season had a festival in Orcshire Valley. Summer had the Short Night. In autumn, the Reaper’s Moon was all pies and mulled mead. The season of death saw the Bigfire Feast, the grandest of all on the longest night of the year.

But The Grainwitch Festival happened in the spring, and was always the best attended. Even so, Nala had never imagined the town could fit so many bodies.

A crowd was already gathered around the Teller’s Altar. But this did not feel like a festival crowd.

It was tense. Grim. People spoke in hushed voices, and clumped together. Back at the Eastern Gate, there had been music and dancing and juggling and food. Nala could hear it, in the near distance.

Not here.

The crowd was packed full of pocked, hungry faces. The Telling was free. Lots of parents, but more children. Lots of grief, and some anger.

The Yeller’s Altar stuck up like a spike from the trampled dirt square. The moon hung behind it.

It was a stage for one, and it was so tall it had to have a ladder. At the top, there wasn’t much space to stand on— no room for a chair, not even space for a crutch. It was a stage designed to ward off overstayers.

Someone rung a bell.

Its ringing cut through the murmured gossip. Another strike fell. By the third strike, the crowd was utterly quiet.

Even the party in the distance went silent for the ringing of the Teller’s bell.

An ancient Orcish hag stood next to the bell.

“Is that…?” Nala began.

“Hush,” Gran said, staring.

Nala was sure that this was Ica. She could just make out the witch who held the trembling bell. Her skin was thin as paper.

Mmmm rumbled Nala’s belly.

Ica’s single eye glazed over the audience, not seeming to see anyone.

Her raspy voice rumbled far farther than it should have been able to reach.

Ica’s voice was papery, too, except that all could hear it, and all that heard her could tell… they could feel that…

Ica had power.

“A Telling Moon. A sage’s tomb.
The seal will break, the dreams imply.
Ugru below, our shadow, You.
May demons
Never
Rise.”

Ica’s eyes (or rather, her eye and its shadow) landed on Nala. The woman who looked at nothing saw right through her.

No, she thought. Not through. Saw into. This woman saw into Nala’s very soul.

The whole crowd looked at what she was leering at, which meant their eyes found their way to Nala.

Nala wanted to shrink into herself, embarrassed.

Then Ica’s lip curled into a smile, and she laughed.

It was a coarse laugh, a mean laugh. It was horrible to hear, and impossible to ignore.

Then she turned her back and climbed down the ladder, off the Teller’s spike. She laughed all the way down, and stalked to where she sat.

The crowd shuffled uncomfortably.

Gran Akha stood up awkwardly, and began to walk toward the spike, through the sea of anxious faces.

Blue skinned orcs, and green orcs too. There was a woman in town who was from one of the red tribes, but she was getting old now, and all orcs go grey after a certain age.

Gran Akha got up to the top of the ladder, and looked out at the crowd.

“Not the introduction I expected!” Gran Akha said.

There was a smattering of laughter, but that somehow cranked up the tension even more.

She licked her lips and went on.

“Three, uh… Three tales I have for you! Three tales tonight! They call this place the Cradle of Magic! But I am lucky enough to call it home. So… Welcome, ye weary, yes, welcome to Orcshire, Three Tales from my childhood. Two myths and a legend. I hope you find the truth that hides in each small moment that I’ve captured here. Mmm. Mmm. Breathe with me now— Mmm.”

There was still silence, but it was different. The silence was softer now.

“Mmm…”

The cloud of grief gentled itself into a mist.

The spell was beginning.

Gran Akha took 9 slow, long breaths…

Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm… Hhhh…

Second three.

Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm… Hhhh…

Third three.

Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm…
…and by the ninth exhale,
Hhhh…
…reality had melted away,
and Nala found herself
immersed…

…inside…

…a Story.

* * * * / * * * *

GIFT SHOP
1. Hats & Hoodies
2. ORC LORE— Poetry about the Gods
3. 8bit Music for Moonthread

* * * * / * * * *

(…One more chapter…)