Capture the Moon

Chapter 1-1

Capture the Moon

By JL Merrow

There once was a young woman named Adrien, who lived with her father in a simple, low-roofed cottage at the edge of a forest. To the rear of the cottage stretched mighty hills covered with sweet-smelling pine and mountain ash; in front of it, the steep gables of a tiny village.

Adrien’s father, whose name was Robert, was a weaver, and had married late in life. Until his fortieth year he had dwelt alone in his homely cottage, content to work his loom and see to his modest needs himself. Indeed, having reached such an age unwed, he had not thought ever to marry; but there lived in the village at that time a beautiful, wilful girl of seventeen. She was named Roberta and was the daughter of the miller, a proud, prosperous man.

One brisk winter’s morning, the miller sent his young daughter to fetch some cloth from the weaver. Now, Roberta was her father’s only child, and he had indulged her and let her be taught how to read. The books she had read had caused many fanciful notions to form in her innocent, girlish brain, and one of these was that names had power. She no sooner learned the weaver’s name was Robert than she determined that the Fates must have meant for them to be together, and she set about wooing the lonely old man with all the feminine wiles at her disposal, which were not inconsiderable. For her face was fair and her breasts were full, and she moved with a dancing grace; moreover, she was sweet-tempered, if a little used to having her own way, and possessed a sweet smile that could light the darkest room like the sun on a June morning.

“Master Weaver,” she said as she twirled her flaxen hair about her slender finger and smiled her sunny smile, “how ever do you weave this cloth so fine? For I swear, even the spiders at their webs do not weave such delicate fabric as you.”

“Ah!” replied Robert, little suspecting her intent, but succumbing to her charms all the same. “When I was a younger man, I swore I’d learn to weave cloth so light and fine that if you dropped your kerchief, ‘twould take half a day to fall. I fear I’ve failed in that intent, but still, ‘tis a fine, delicate weave, that I’ll admit.”

“Oh, Master Weaver,” she said, and her long lashes fluttered closed as she spoke, and she pressed the end of the cloth to her cheek. “Such softness! Why, my father will think you’ve had help from the little folk. I swear, it whispers over my skin like fairies’ wings.” And she let the cloth fall, and as it slithered across her firm young bosom, Robert found he knew not where to look, and he coughed and strode to the window, in sudden need of air.

And Roberta smiled to herself, for she knew in that moment she could win this humble, hardworking man for her own. She found reasons to visit the lonely weaver more days than not, discovering within him a love of the same books that had charmed her childhood—which was, indeed, not so very long past. They talked, and they laughed, and she helped him with his work, and ‘twas not long before even the miller himself began to think the match a done thing. When his neighbours laughed and expressed disbelief at his daughter’s elderly beau, the miller would shrug and say, “Well, there’s many a maid has chosen worse.” Which, after all, was only too true.

Robert was accustomed to little society and so he did not fear ridicule from his neighbours for taking so young a wife. But he did fear he might die too soon and leave her unprotected, and so he resisted the winsome, determined girl for as long as he could.

Which was, as might be expected, not long at all.

So they were married in the spring, as blossoms sprouted on the apple trees in her father’s orchard like the flowers the bride wore in her hair. The following January, as snow whitened the tops of the trees in cheerful mockery of the white hairs that graced the old weaver’s head, Roberta presented him with a child.

It had been a long, hard labour, and the weaver had feared to leave his young wife’s side to fetch the midwife. So when the babe was born it was Robert who delivered her. Exhausted from worry and lack of sleep, Robert held the tiny scrap with wonder. He had never held one so young before, and it seemed so odd-looking, its little face so red and wrinkled. Hurriedly, he wrapped the babe in a clean cloth of his own weaving and handed it to his wife.

She smiled as she cradled the precious infant to her breast. “What is it, my love? Do we have a daughter or a son?”

Robert stared at his wife. “Why, my dear, I quite forgot to look!”

“You old silly!” She laughed and pulled open the swaddling clothes for a moment. “We have a daughter, love. A beautiful baby girl, perfect in every way.”

“What shall we call her then?” Robert asked gruffly.

She laughed once more and said, “Well, love, as you paid no mind to whether she was boy or girl, let us call her by a name that could be either! I name our daughter Adrien.”

And forever after the weaver loved to tell the tale of Adrien’s naming, but he told it always with a tear in his eye. For that was the last time he was to hear his lovely young bride laugh. She succumbed to the child-bed fever not many days later, leaving him to raise their daughter alone. Fate, it seemed, had answered his prayers that Roberta not be left widowed—but as so often happens, not in the way he would have chosen.

As the miller and his wife were not tardy in following their only daughter to the grave, Robert and Adrien became all in all to one another. He cared for her and taught her and passed to her the books that had so delighted her mother. And when she was older, Adrien kept house for her father. But the weaver grew ever older and one day, when Adrien had not long reached the full bloom of womanhood, he fell ill.

“Daughter,” Robert croaked from his sick bed, “I fear I must leave you soon. I pray you, do not be afraid for your future. You may not be a beauty like your mother was—you favour your poor father too much for that. But you’ve two strong arms, a ready, cheerful smile, and a calm and sensible manner. I’ve no doubt the young men of the village will be lining up at your door once I am gone.”

“You old silly!” Adrien chided him fondly, wondering at the tear that sprang to his eye when she, all unknowing, addressed him as her mother had so long ago. “I don’t need a man to take care of me! For as you’ve said: I’m strong, I’m cheerful, and I’m sensible. Besides which, Father, you are not going to leave me.” But she crossed her fingers behind her back as she spoke and hoped God would forgive her the lie, for she knew he was not long for this world.

And indeed, it was not many days before Adrien found herself alone in the cottage, her father’s loom standing silent and forlorn in the corner. The old man himself lay buried beside his wife, and it was no longer Adrien’s lot to watch over him, for that task now fell to the ancient yew that ruled the churchyard, its bright red berries falling like tears upon the graves below.