The Moon

Chapter 1-1

CHAPTER ONE

THREE YEARS LATER

Another natal day. Peter agreed to trade places with Sarah, letting her go hog hunting, but didn’t tell her father. Maybe this will change his mind about her not being tough enough or man enough to learn to fight. Hogs are some of the most dangerous game to hunt. They will charge at any moment. Not only are they fast and heavy, but their tusks are sharp enough to cut to bone. A hunter must be skilled enough to kill one with the first arrow or their knife if they miss. The hunter’s life is at risk either way. Sarah buckles her boots, hooks her fox cloak, and grabs her bow. She adjusts her bow over her shoulder with her grouping of arrows in hand. The sky is dark. The stars continue to sparkle across the sky, with a subtle hint of lavender lining the horizon.

Sarah heads out into the woods. She makes sure to keep her footsteps as quiet as possible in the crunching snow. Her every breath puffs out, drifting away in the air. She walks slow, heel-toe, heel-toe, and scouts from side to side for tracks or a nest. Not too much longer, she finds a nest and sits in a place amongst dead trees with enough fallen limbs and bushes that she can hide and still see. She sits, waiting for one to come into her line of sight. Hours pass. Nothing shows itself. Must be an old nest. She moves from spot to spot, following tracks and looking for a fresh nest.

Finding a fresher looking nest, she stops in another well-camouflaged place and sits. The longer she sits, the closer she gets to drifting off to sleep until her eye lids finally give in. A snap breaks the silence. As soon as her eyes open, she composes herself so as not to scare whatever it is away. The sun sits high in the sky. Has she been asleep for close to three hours? It only felt like minutes. Some rustling perks her ears. Looking back through her hiding spot, she watches a large buck step out into the small clearing a few hundred yards away. She sighs, rolling her eyes. It’s too late in the day to go home empty-handed. The twelve-point will have to do. Nocking her arrow, she rests it over her left thumb. Drawing back, she snuggles her right thumb to her cheek bone. She aims, taking in a breath. Exhaling, she releases. The bow string gives off a light hum. The arrow cuts through the air, hitting right behind the shoulder. She drops her arms, keeping the bow above the ground. The deer jolts and runs. She waits a few minutes. No need to rush. It was a kill shot. Now all that is left to do is find him and go home.

Sarah gets to her feet, adjusting her bow and arrows as before, and walks to where the buck stood. Small droplets of bloodstain a trail in the snow and brush. Finding him won’t be hard. She follows the trail for a long time before seeing him. He lies still. She grins at her arrow, thankfully, in the air. Even luckier, it had not gone through him. Those broadheads are hard to make and expensive to buy. She kneels beside the beautiful creature, petting its snout. She pulls at the arrow. The quiet woods fill with smacks and crackles. Blood oozes over bronze fur as she takes the arrow from the muscle. Once it’s free, she cleans the broad head tip, using snow to wash away the blood. The trees’ shadows have stretched quite a bit since she shot him. She calculates that it took almost two hours to find him. Since it took longer than a normal hunt, she needs to hurry and get home. Will her father be pleased to see what she’s done today? Even though it wasn’t what she wanted? Sighing, she ties his legs together. Putting his antlers over the grip of her bow, she drags him home. He’s heavy, but no big trouble.

The sky has turned from a light blue to a deepening violet. A pink and yellow haze lines the horizon. Sarah is just over halfway home when she stops. That’s not right. The sky remains dark, but the woods are awash in a glow almost as bright as the sun itself. Turning to her right, she spots the origin. How she almost missed it, she will never know. Dropping the deer, she walks towards it. Blinking a few times, her eyes adjust, and she falls in awe, paying no never mind to her knees sinking in the snow.

Being right on it, she is stunned. Why, it’s nothing more than a rose. Bright yellow, orange, and red. Its rays compel her to touch it. Should she? Why not? There’s nothing menacing about a rose. She slides her fingers up its stem, over sharp thorns and delicate leaves, to the petals, so soft on her fingertips. The flower jolts. Its petals draw up, becoming brittle, and the stem folds in on itself as if the life was just sucked out from the roots. Before she can blink, the flower disintegrates, blowing away in the breeze. Sarah now sits in a lavender-pink haze of darkness as the sun sinks even lower past the horizon. She rises to her feet, walking over to the deer. Picking up the bow, she drags him the rest of the way home.

Sarah arrives at home in near darkness. She breaths in the wafting aroma of supper from the open kitchen window. Pie. Umula has made rhubarb pie tonight. Laying down the deer, she takes a hatchet and decapitates it. She sets aside the head and antlers for later. Blood flows from the neck as she hooks the deer to the skinning hanger upside down and hoists the carcass. Getting it to a working height, she wraps the rope on the nearby hook. With the light of two lanterns, she skins. Luke walks up to her holding a molding bale of hay over his shoulder. He stops for a second, looking the deer over.

Sarah cuts her eyes at him as he walks past her. “Hello, Father. Look what I got today.” She nods towards the carcass.

Her father stops, turning around, and grins. Sarah cuts all the way around the ankles, then slits from those cuts down towards the stomach, making a V shape. From there, she cuts a straight line through the stomach skin to the dripping neck. She cuts the same circles around the ankles hanging towards the ground.

Her father watches her cut and tear the skin from the deer, listening to the skin crackle and snap as she pulls. “Wonderful, my girl! He’s a nice big one. Has a good rack on him too.” He puts a hand on the head, sitting on a stump a few feet away. “He will last us for the week. And don’t forget to clean out the skull for mounting.” He pats the antlers, adjusting the collapsing bale on his shoulder. “You’ve become quite the little huntress I’d hoped you would. But better than that, you’ll make a great wife one day.” He smiles from ear to ear. “Not but two months until your first Mounding.” With that, Luke walks to the burn pit to dispose of the hay.

Her father’s stinging words, coupled with the fact that she didn’t kill what she meant to, pours a wash of sadness over her. To tackle and kill a hog, with only your hands and a knife, is one of the ways Luke would consider Peter a man. For her to do it, her father would have no choice but to look at her as more than a ‘good wife’. She wishes she had. He did say she is a good huntress, for what little it’s worth. Although, he did put ‘little’ in the phrase. That’s almost worse than good wife. She continues to skin the deer. Every movement becomes more aggressive. In the small amount of time it takes her to get all the skin off, she calms herself down. She cuts the meat, letting her mind wander back to that rose. Such an odd flower. What could have made it glow like it did? Such a strange glow it was, too.

Midday. It’s time to tell Peter about her discovery. It has been a struggle keeping it to herself the short time since last night, trying to convince herself she didn’t imagine it. Stopping at the pasture fence, she watches him brush the mares. Did he hit a huge growth spurt in the past three years, or has he always been this tall? Seeing him next to Hadley and Chess’ large frames, he stands a good foot taller than them both. Closing the gate behind her, she runs through the snow and tall weeds, holding her pale blue cotton dress in both hands. Her fox cloak billows behind her, slowing her pace.

Yelling across the pasture, she tries to stay on her feet, not used to holding up her skirts to run. “Peter! I have the strangest thing to tell you!” She breathes heavy, stumbling a bit.

Peter stops brushing, holding the small wooden rectangle in the air. “What is it, Sarah?” He puts a hand on Chess’ back, laughing at her huffing and pulling at her skirts.

Sarah stumbles a few more times. “It’s not funny!” She looks at him, a laugh bursting from behind her lips.

Getting to him, she stops, looking him over. The horses aren’t the only ones he’s much taller than.

Peter looks at her over Chess’ back, eyes the lowest visible part of her, and his grin spreads into a smile. “What’s this strange thing you need to tell me?” He goes back to brushing Chess.

Sarah cranes her neck to see over Chess’ back. “I prefer pants when I can help it, but mother won’t let me anymore.” She flops a hand in the air. “But that’s a strange thing for another time.” She laughs through deep breaths and watches Peter grin back at her. “But seriously, I found something in the woods last night.” She huffs out her words, looking around.

Neither Father nor Umula is within spying distance. Good. She takes Peter’s hand. Pulling him along, she tries to run to the barn.

They climb the ladder in the middle of the barn and sit in the loft. Sarah stacks hay, hiding the two of them.

Peter peeks around the stacks, looking for Luke or Gloria. With no sign of them, he moves back behind the stacks, sitting down against the wall with his legs outstretched.

Turning to face Sarah, he scoots until his left shoulder rests against the barn wall, leaning onto his elbow with a shrug. “Well, what is so important?” He scoots some more, bending his right leg, and tucks his left foot under it to get more comfortable.

Sarah sits cross-legged next to the hay, smiling at him, and stares into his blue eyes. “It was a rose.” She puts her hands on his left knee.

Peter stares at her hands until she pulls them back to her lap and clears his throat. “Only a rose? Well, that’s nothing special.” He shrugs his lips, picking at his cuticles.

Sarah bites her lower lip, putting out her hands. “You don’t understand yet.” She smiles, shaking her head. “This one glowed! It actually glowed!” She plays with a piece of straw and studies his face as he stares at the barn floor.

Peter tilts his head towards her and arches an eyebrow. “What do you mean it glowed?”

Sarah squeals. Yes! She has his full attention. She moves closer to him, sitting on her knees. “I mean, it was as bright as the sun.” She moves her hands through the air, squinting, and crinkles her nose. “I had to squint a bit just to focus on it.” Without warning, she pops up.

Leaning in close, she gets right in his face. On instinct, Peter leans back. He doesn’t make eye contact. Clearing his throat, he glances at her. Clearing his throat again, he shifts himself into a more comfortable position, leaning more onto the hay behind him.

Sarah leans back, remaining upright on her knees. “The only problem is, I touched it, and it died.” She sits back on her legs with her hands in her lap, furrowing her eyebrows, and looks at the floor. “All I did was—”

Peter lets his feet slide forward. He leans toward her with his hands on his knees. “Wait.” He holds up a hand. “You just touched it? And it died?” Dropping his hand, he lets it slap his leg.

Sarah nods, looking at Peter’s freckles, then makes eye contact. “Yea, and it wilted instantly.” She throws a piece of straw off the loft. “Turned to ash, actually.” She watches the straw float down onto the hay-covered dirt floor.

Peter looks at the loft floor, studying the grain. “I don’t believe you.” He shakes his head. “You’re eighteen now. Don’t you think it’s time you stop believing in T’lucco tales and focus on other things. Perhaps, maybe, something like The Mounding? It’s only a couple months away. Less than that now.” Peter shrugs, looking at Sarah in spurts.