The Hunter’s Moon

As Told By Allan Talbot

Blue Horse Inn, Barnwood

Graham shifted back and forth on a lopsided stool in the musty-smelling Blue Horse Inn. What a stupid name for an Inn, he thought.

A dry, under-seasoned shepherd's pie stuck to his gums. The bitter ale didn’t help. He swore he could hear rats under the loose floorboards. Wide silver nails held the boards in place. This smith can’t even make a proper nail, he thought, choking down another bite of the pie. He felt people staring at him. He brought his best sword, but he didn’t know how to use it, not yet. I should have brought a hammer. At least I know how to swing that. An obviously drunk, potbellied man tottered to the bar. “Where did you say you were from,” he slurred.

“Basswood,” Graham said scratching his thumb that had yet to regain its full range of motion.

“You looking for trouble,” he said. Ale splashed out of his loosely gripped mug.

“Marsh sit down,” a gentle voice said as well-manicured hands pulled him away. “I’m sorry about Marsh. I’d tell you he means well, but he doesn’t.”

Graham pivoted on the stool. A short, black-haired woman wore form-fitting clothing that clung to her curves. Her jade eyes looked like gemstones in a cave. Thin pink lips curled into a sly smile as she waited for Graham’s response. He tried to clean his teeth with his tongue before he replied. Gods women don’t look like this in Basswood.

She turned away. “Thank you,” Graham said. He clenched his fist hard enough for every joint to ache.

“Don’t mention it,” she said, looking over her shoulder. A perfect dimple punctuated her smile.

“Would you like a drink?” Graham said, wincing as she walked further away.

She spun elegantly. Her long hair trickled in front of her face, and she tucked it behind an ear. She narrowed her eyes. Her examination lasted only a second, but Graham thought it went on forever. “Yes, thank you.” She sat on the stool next to Graham. She smelled like lilacs.

“Addy, can I have a spiced wine?” the woman called as she rolled up her shirt sleeves.

“Coming right up, Clara,” the barmaid called as she poured a mug of ale.

“Clara, that’s a pretty name,” Graham said unconsciously.

“Thanks, my mother picked it out,” Clara said. “What does your mother call you?”

“Honey, but my friends call me Graham.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Graham,” Clara said. Her smile made fairies dance in his stomach.

“Here you are, dear,” the woman tending the bar said as she set a goblet with a fragrant amber liquid in front of Clara. That looks good.

Graham slid two coins across the wooden bar. “I’ll have a spiced wine as well.”

The barmaid nodded. Her grey curls bounced as she limped to the other end of the bar.

An uncomfortable silence grew as Graham waited for his drink.

“Allan, are you going to tell us a story tonight, or are we going to have to go home and spend time with our families,” a rough voice called loud enough to be heard over the rolling of dice and the rhythmic slurping of mead.

Graham couldn’t hear the reply. A moment later, the barmaid returned with his wine. “Thank you,” Graham said as he slid another coin across the bar. He raised the mug to Clara. “To new friends in new places.”

“Aye,” she said, knocking her mug against his. The warmth of the spiced wine surprised Graham as did the strength.

He coughed and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “That’s some strong stuff.”

Clara laughed. “Addy makes the best spiced wine in Emre, but it’s not for the faint of heart.”

“No, no, it's not,” Graham said, taking a less aggressive drink.

Shifting stools and benches scraped against the floor as the patrons rearranged the seating. “What’s going on?” Graham asked Clara.

“It looks like Allan is going to tell a story tonight. You’re lucky, he doesn’t perform much anymore,” Clara said, spinning on her stool to face the crowd. Graham mimicked her movements.

The warm wine relaxed him. “Is he good?”

“Good enough for us.”

A white-haired man with a gray beard used a cane to walk into the center of the room. His blue robe trailed behind him. Its pockets overflowed with loose papers.

“I bet he’s not as good as Vatis. Has he traveled through Barnwood?”

Clara furrowed her brow. Her long eyelashes fluttered open as she relaxed her face. “No, I can’t say I’ve heard of Votis.”

“Vatis,” Graham corrected. “The best damn bard I’ve ever heard.”

“Vatis, eh. We are plenty pleased with our Allan, but we haven’t had another bard pass through here in years; not many folks pass through Barnwood anymore. Other than wagons of soldiers and prisoners on their way to Jegon. Did I hear correctly? You're from Basswood. What brings you across the river?” Clara said.

“Where’s Allan’s stool,” someone called from the crowd.

“Well, it’s hard to explain. Have you.”

“There, that newcomer is sitting on it,” a rough-looking, mostly toothless man said, pointing at Graham.

“Get up, hurry,” Clara whispered. “Allan is very particular about his stool.”

Graham jumped onto the floor. The toothless man ripped the stool away and held it above his head. “I got it,” he said. He wiggled through the crowd with the stool held high. Skinny, wrinkled arms shook from the weight of the stool. His frayed shirt lifted to expose a dirt-covered, pock-scarred back. The crowd cheered as he set the stool down. He smiled. A single tooth poked through his cracked lips as he bathed in the momentary applause.

“Thank you, my friend,” the bard Allan said, sliding onto the stool. His voice was deep and comforting. “Here you are.” Graham struggled to see what Allan gave away. It wasn’t a coin. It looked like a gray stone, but it couldn’t be a plain stone with the excitement the stool carrier showed when it was given.

“What did he give that man?” Graham asked.

“He always gives a random trinket to whoever brings his stool, some have been quite valuable. And Frode, well, he has been down on his luck for quite some time. Hopefully, he doesn’t spend whatever it's worth on Gar again.”

Graham watched Frode smirk sinisterly as he stroked the circular stone. He stood on his toes, trying to get a better look.

“So, what’s hard to explain about your trip to our town?” Clara said.

Graham raised onto his toes, but he lost Frode amongst the gathering crowd. He turned toward Clara. She crossed her legs and sipped her wine. “Well, you see, I’ve been a smith all my life, even as a child I trained to be a smith. It’s good work, but no one in my family has left Basswood since my great-grandfather and he only left to smith in the war. I want to see more of the world than Basswood. I want to see the frozen isle of Jegon. I want to see the great towers in Barna. I want to have an adventure. Is that so bad? That’s why I came to Barnwood, the first stop of many.”

Clara looked at Graham differently. I said too much, damn spiced wine loosening my tongue. “That’s as good a reason as any. Where are you headed next?”

Graham hadn’t thought about where he would go next. He didn’t come to Barnwood for the food. He came simply because it was the closest town. If he wanted to go south, he should have stayed on the other side of the river. Barna it is. “I suppose I’ll head to the capital; I might be able to get there in time for the bard’s tourney.”

Allan’s deep voice cascaded over the crowd. “My friends, get your drinks, find your seats, and make merry. I will begin momentarily.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the bard’s tourney,” Clara said, gesturing for two more spiced wines.

“Evening, Clara,” a young man said as he passed carrying a round of drinks to his table.

“Evening, Jorgen, don’t spill on my floor.”

“I never spill,” Jorgen said, looking back. As he looked, he lost his balance, but he quickly found his footing before any ale splashed onto the floor. “See.”

Clara laughed. A couple waved as they entered the tavern. Clara returned the gesture and alerted the barmaid.

“Do you own this place?” Graham asked as Clara handed him a fresh goblet of wine.

She frowned. “Can women not own property in Basswood?”

“They can. Rita owns the Basswood Market. I didn’t mean to offend.”

Clara elbowed him on the shoulder. “I’m teasing. Yes, I own the Blue Horse. I inherited it when my father died a few years back. Addy and I do our best, it’s hard work but sure beats smithing.”

Graham sipped his spiced wine. He licked the sweet remnants from his lips. “Anything beats smithing. By the way, does your smith have one hand?”

Clara nearly choked on her wine. “What? No. Not unless he chopped one off this afternoon. No, it looks like he has them both. See for yourself. His playing dice over there, the broad-shouldered one in the red shirt.” The muscles on the smith’s neck flexed as he scooped up dice. He shook the cup over his head, with one hand holding the cup and the other covering the opening. “See two hands. Where did you hear a rumor like that?”

Damnit, Zawo. “A friend of mine must have been trying to make me feel better when I broke my thumb.” Purple-green bruises dyed the skin around his knuckle. Despite Zawo’s excellent wrapping, his thumb still decided to heal slightly crooked.

“What happened?” Clara asked as she noticed Graham rubbing his thumb.

“I was,” he began as Allan clapped his hands. “I’ll tell you later,” he whispered.

“Friends, family, and Jorgen,” Allan began. The wolves in the audience howled with laughter. The men at Jorgen’s table pushed and pulled the young man, who clutched his stomach like he’d been stabbed. “Tonight, well, tonight is a rather special night. I don’t know how many of you can see the moon through the blurry haze of Addy’s wine.” Again, the wolves howled. “Tonight, the Hunter’s Moon arrived.” He pointed to the orange moon, visible through an open window on the back wall. It peaked out between dark, slowly moving clouds in sync with Allan’s movements. That’s some trick. Either that or he waited to speak until the clouds were close to passing. “And there is only one story to tell when The Hunter’s Moon arrives, the story of Baza and Amal and how a mother saved her son.”

A blanket of silence covered the audience. Graham noticed the sizzling of oiled chicken skin and the popping of logs on the fire. The rest of the Blue Horse Tavern was silent. Graham relaxed with his back against the bar. The bard cleared his throat and began.

“Our story begins a long, long time ago. Baza and his mother, Amal, lived on the edge of what’s now known as The Lost Forest. Winter’s icy claws dug themselves out of summer’s grave like draugr. Amal, Baza, and his father lived in peace, isolated from civilization. They provided for themselves by hunting and farming until Baza’s father died. They say he was killed by a beast that stood as tall as a giant with coarse black hair, sharp protruding fangs, and long, deadly claws. Today, we know these creatures as werewolves, though many believe they do not and have never existed.”

Allan scanned the audience and continued.

“Amal struggled to provide after her husband passed. She didn’t know how to hunt, let alone protect them from the dangers of the forest. They barely made it through the previous winter and an unusually harsh summer led to an even small stash of grain and potatoes. She knew they wouldn’t make it through, as did Baza. In secret, he practiced archery with his father’s bow. His mother would ask, ‘Baza, my sweet, where are you going? You know the forest is dangerous.’ And Baza would answer, ‘Not far, Ma if you call, I will come.’

This repeated every morning, as the acorns and leaves fell from the trees, as the dew turned to frost, and every time Amal called, Baza came running home. The boy improved day after day until he finally struck a moving target, a young rabbit. He pierced it through the neck, a perfect shot. He was so excited that he came running home before his mother called. He pulled the arrow from the rabbit’s neck and hid his father’s bow in the usual spot, under a low-hanging pine behind their hut, but in his excitement, he forgot about the quiver on his back. ‘Ma, Ma look, I got one, I got a cony,’ Baza squealed as he opened the door.

Amal finally understood where the boy had been going. ‘That’s wonderful, my sweet. How did you catch it?’ she asked seriously. Baza shifted his feet, avoiding eye contact with his mother. ‘I trapped it,’ he lied. Amal’s heart grew heavy. ‘What kind of trap requires those arrows?” she asked, picking up her son’s chin. Baza began to cry. ‘I’m sorry, Ma, I only wanted to help.’ Amal kneeled in front of her son. ‘Baza, my sweet, you must be honest with me. For now, you are forbidden to go past our gate. No, no, let me finish. Tonight you will help me prepare a stew for that cony. You have much to learn before you can be a hunter.’

Baza protested vehemently. His mother took the quiver off his back. He felt naked without it. He loved to wander the forest, practicing with his bow and searching for answers about his father, but he loved his mother too much to disobey again. For the next three days, he moped around their home, helping his mother prepare for the winter. Amal noticed her son’s rapidly decaying spirits. On the fourth morning, Amal said to her son, ‘Baza, my sweet. Be careful. You know the forest is dangerous.” She handed him the quiver along with his father’s leather studded bracers. ‘They might be big, but your father would want you to have them. Baza leaped with excitement. He strapped the bracers on his forearms. They were loose, but he wore them anyway. ‘If you call, I will come,’ he said as he ran out the door.”

Allan paused. A loose sheet of paper fell out of his pocket. No one tried to pick it up. Graham watched Clara sip her wine. It left a faint stain on top of her soft, delicate lips. He nudged her with his elbow and pointed to her lip. Her cheeks flushed as she wiped the stain away with a handkerchief. Gods, she’s beautiful.

“He missed, and the deer disappeared into the dark forest.” Allan interrupted Graham’s daydream as he continued his story. “Baza wanted to chase after it, but he heard his mother calling. So, he came home empty-handed. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, I nearly caught a deer, but I missed,’ Baza explained. ‘It’s alright, my sweet. You can try again tomorrow.’

That night, the first frost of the season crystalized on the remains of their crops. A faint, nearly full moon peeked out through a cloudy sky. Amal watched Baza’s foggy breath as he slept. She prayed to every god she knew for help. She prayed for her crops to be salvageable. She prayed for Baza to find some big game. She prayed for her son’s safety, and she prayed for strength.

Baza awoke later than usual that morning. Amal had already begun harvesting. Baza burst out of their shack. ‘I’m sorry, Ma, I overslept.’ He expected his mother’s usual response, but she said, ‘Wait Baza,’ she retrieved a large fur coat from their house. ‘This was your father’s. It kept him warm in the coldest winters. I want you to have it.’ Baza was big for a boy of no more than twelve summers, but he was not nearly as big as his father. The coat hung just above his knees, and the sleeves overlapped his fingers.

‘You’ll grow into it.’ Amal smiled as she helped tighten the straps. ‘Be careful. You know the forest is dangerous,’ she said, wrapping Baza in a warm embrace.”

This Allan is not half bad, but he’s no Vatis, Graham thought as he emptied his chalice. The wine warmed his belly as he relaxed against the bar. A young, dark-haired woman burrowed into the embrace of her companion as she listened to the story. The fire hissed as a young boy added logs to the flames. He moved them into position with a slightly curved iron rod. This smith can’t even make a proper fire iron, Graham thought before he returned his attention to Allan’s story.

“Baza wandered deeper into the forest than he ever had. He froze. His joints stiffened. The hair on his forearms raised. In a clearing, a black beast hunched over its prey. Baza saw its long black claws dig into the hind legs of a white-tailed deer. Baza’s deer. The boy wanted to run. He tried to run, but his body didn’t cooperate.

He watched the beast shred the deer with its wolf-like maw. He readied an arrow. He didn’t know why. There was no chance that a single arrow would kill the beast, and he was not yet fast enough to reload before the monster would feast on him like the deer. He forced his body to move, carefully retreating but never taking his eyes off the black-haired creature.

Snap.

Baza cracked a fallen branch as he stepped backward. The beast stood on its hind legs and searched for the source of the sound. Its red demon eyes met Baza’s. It bared sharp, blood-stained teeth and charged. Foam sizzled on its lower jaw. It moved faster than anything Baza had ever seen, but fortunately, his bow was ready. He loosed an arrow. It found its mark in the beast’s leathery chest. A horrible howl echoed through the forest as the beast fell.

Baza didn’t wait to see if he killed it. He ran. He sprinted through the forest, leaping over roots and stones. The loose coat fell as he ducked under a branch. He didn’t look back. He continued his sprint. A jagged pine branch sliced his upper arm, but he didn’t stop. He crashed into the door and flung it open. He barred it shut and enhanced his barricade with a crate of potatoes and a heavy cast-iron pot.

‘Baza, what are you doing, my sweet? What happened?’ Amal pleaded as Baza barricaded the door. Baza collapsed onto his bed. His body convulsed. ‘Baza, Baza, what happened? Oh, gods you’re hurt.’ Amal said, kneeling beside the bed. Baza’s teeth chattered. Thick fog escaped from his mouth. ‘Ah, ah, I, I, a beast, the, there’s a, a beast in the forest,’ Baza said, curling into a ball. ‘I shot it, but I don’t think I killed it.’

Tears streamed down his cheeks, leaving faint white lines as they dried. ‘You are safe here, my sweet. No beast will attack our home.’ Amal said as she stroked Baza’s hair. She looked out the window and watched a blood-orange moon appear behind the dark clouds. The Hunter’s Moon.”

Graham felt his mouth hanging open and quickly closed it as Allan refreshed himself with a drink of water. Another loose sheet of paper joined the pile on the floor near a chipped nail that stuck out dangerously high. The slimy joints of a chicken popped as a thick, bearded man tore off the wings. He ripped the meat from the bone like a starving dog and washed it down with a long drink. Ale dripped out of the corners of his mouth as he slammed the mug onto the table. A bare leg bone fell onto the floor, and a hound scurried under the seat to retrieve it. The dog’s tail wagged happily as it curled in front of the fire, with the bone between its front paws eating much more elegantly than the bearded man.

Allan began again, “Strange things happen in the forest on the Hunter’s Moon. Crickets don’t chirp. Bats hide in their caves, and the trees groan painfully. Amal watched her son shake with fear. She curled next to him, held him close, and whispered, ‘Baza, my sweet, nothing will harm us here. I will protect you.’ They lay like that for some time. Amal holding her son tightly. Baza slowly calmed. The Hunter’s Moon reached its peak, bathing the forest in a faint orange glow.

Something scratched the door.

‘What’s that?’ Baza cried. ‘It is but the wind, my sweet.’ Baza couldn’t hear a breeze whistle through the trees. He thought, ‘How could it scratch our door?’ Another sharper scratch dug at the door. ‘It’s the beast, Ma, it’s here,’ Baza said.

‘It is but the wind, my sweet. Close your eyes, try to sleep.’ Amal said, stroking his hair. Baza fought his heavy eyelids, but he was exhausted. Amal began to sing, ‘Goodnight to you, goodnight my sweet. Now close your eyes and go to sleep. Goodnight, sleep tight, sweet dreams tonight, goodnight, I love you.’

Baza finally gave in to sleep. As he drifted away, he thought he heard his mother say, ‘Goodnight, my sweet. Remember, the forest is dangerous, but if you call, I will come.’

Graham finished his third spiced wine. His head felt light, and his belly was warm. A short, round man started a conversation with Clara. She laughed, a playful, bouncing laugh at something he said. Graham’s warm gut twisted in knots. He leaned over to join the conversation when, without warning, Allan screamed in a pitch higher than any man should be able to register. Graham snapped back against the bar like he had been slapped.

“The cry woke Baza. ‘Ma,’ he called as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘Ma, where are you? Ma?’ The crate of potatoes and the cast-iron pot were in their proper places, and the door was ajar. ‘Ma,’ he called once more. He dressed. Baza slung the quiver and bow over his shoulders and tiptoed outside. Frost covered the brown grass. A set of three claw marks spanned the door. Baza found another scratch on the side of the house, along with a tuft of black hair stuck to a wilting rosebush.

‘Ma,’ Baza called desperately. ‘Ma, where are you?’ Chills like frosted ants scrambled down his back. He heard a soft ringing. The icy ants burrowed deeper into his body. Over the chimes, he heard a voice, a familiar voice, a comforting voice.

‘Baza, my sweet, the forest is no longer dangerous. The beasts have gone. You are safe.’ Baza searched for his mother. ‘Where are you, Ma?’ The voice didn’t answer. Baza called again, ‘Ma, where are you?’ The chimes began to ring again. ‘I’m here, my sweet. I will always be with you. If you call, I will come.’”

Allan stood. He stretched his arms above his head before bowing stiffly. “It is here that our tale ends. Some say Baza lives on, under his mother’s protection, in the Lost Forest. Others say this is simply a children's bedtime story; you may draw your own conclusions. Thank you. You have been a wonderful audience. Goodnight, and be wary; strange things happen on the Hunter’s Moon.”

The audience stood and clapped. A few less-than-sober patrons whistled loudly. That’s how it ends? What did Amal do? How can Baza survive without her? What happened to the beast? Questions burst into his mind like lava from a volcano.

“That’s how it ends?” he asked, turning toward Clara, but she was gone. He scanned the crowd. Emptiness sucked the air from his lungs. Where is she?  He thought.

“Allan is known for his cliffhangers,” Clara said, tapping him on the shoulder.

“I thought I scared you away,” Graham said. He couldn’t help but smile.

“I don’t scare easy.”

“I’ll have another spiced wine, please.”

“Are you sure you can handle it? You looked like a two-legged stool a moment ago.”

Graham laughed. “I can handle it. Besides, I need to tell you why Vatis-of-the-Road is ten times the bard Allan is.” Barnwood wasn’t nearly as horrid as his father told him. In fact, it was almost identical to Basswood, except for Clara.

“Excuse me,” Allan said, approaching from Graham’s left. “Did you say Vatis?”