The Hunter’s Moon

The Hunter’s Moon

By Danielle E. Dunmire

The moon sees everything. 

At its zenith, the woods below are bathed in its white luminescence. The bonfire raging in a small clearing isn’t necessary for light, just the heat. The circle of people gathered around it clutch black robes tight about themselves to guard against the chill, their breath clouding as they speak. It’s too early for snow, but soon… The moon knows what’s coming.

They only meet like this: under a full moon, matching robes, same intention. Once a month, for years and years, they’ve congregated. Each night begins with hope and ends in hopes dashed. So many – too many – nights of broken circles and fumbled rituals have left them numb. 

They are a collection of men and women, young and old. Besides their robes, they are as different as can be. 

Well, that and what they seek…

And the ones here tonight are not the originals, oh no. As the old ones expired, new and younger ones took their places in the circle. For years and years. This, of course, the moon has seen. An evergreen cycle of robes.

Now they take their places around the crackling fire, each person evenly distanced from their neighbor. No hands will be joined tonight; the cold would soon leave their fingers numb and purple. From under dark hoods, only red noses and plumes of breath emerge. 

A soft chant starts. At first, quite lovely. But as it grows, it changes, becomes chaotic. There’s something primitive about the sound now, something that calls to the hidden desires of man buried deep in its bones and history. Something… brutal. 

The animals nearby who never took a liking to the song scurry away; mice and deer create a wider radius from the fire and strange humans. There are a few who are curious though. A tawny owl has been observing the ritual for some time. Him and the moon. He lands on a branch on the periphery of the clearing and gives a muted hoot, not wanting to disturb the night’s events. 

Tonight though… tonight feels different. The group starts to spin counterclockwise around the growing flames, the cacophony of sound never breaking. Some twirl or jump or skip, but the circle continues to spin. They interject laughter, screams, and shouts. Dead leaves and twigs are stomped flat by the many boots, creating a ring of footprints. 

They are wild now, just like the nature of the song. The owl flaps his wings to release his own excitement. The fire reaches higher, glows brighter, sparks more.

One of the dancing people breaks away and staggers, almost drunkenly, closer to the flames. It is an old woman, her short grey hair and sky-blue eyes light up as her hood falls slightly back. She is still tall and lean, formidable. Her breath comes heavy from the raucous exertion, but she’s determined as she looks intently into the flames. Her face reads of anger, sadness, and longing; to the moon, her face reads of hope… a hope so intense it can destroy.  

Tears brim at the edge of her lashes, cascading down only when she begins to speak. “Give him back. We need him back.”

There are murmurs among the rest. No one’s ever broken the circle like this. Have some tripped? Yes. Have others been faint of heart and left? Sure. But never, in the endless years of the fire and circle and calling to whatever power would listen, has someone spoke to it. Directly to it.

The spinning continues, the song and whispers too.

The old woman looks up now, and the moon can traceher many wrinkles. The crow’s feet framing her eyes tell a tale of joy and smiles, but the frown lines at her lips speak of severity and discipline. What a life you’ve lived, Grandmother, it thinks. What a life you’re searching for.

She closes her eyes, for a moment sways to a rhythm only her ears hear. Maybe she hums, but that is between her and the moon. Even the owl leans closer, trying to hear. The tear tracks down her cheeks sparkle in the moon’s white light. And for a moment she finally looks content. Like the endless grind of meaningless day-to-day tasks, her stagnant marriage, her looming mortality… like it’s all a dirty smudge washed away by tears. 

“Please,” she finally whispers. “Please, please, please...”

And this becomes her chant. The others continue as before, as all the others before them - a shell of tradition encapsulating the seed of something new. At its heart a raging fire, illuminated by a cold, full moon. Witnessed by a peculiar owl and quenched with tears. 

As if the fire hears, it roars, bursting out in a cough of sparks. It will not share this night with the moon. Both have been here since the world formed, and have taken part in this rite, but this night if for humans to worship fire, not the moon.

The old woman looks back to the fire, her face again awash in a yellow halo. 

And she’s cold now. Not from the night or the impending snow (the fire sees to that). No, her very presence is cold. “It’s not too late,” she cackles stepping back into the flow of her companions. “It will never be too late.” She melts into the spinning circle, like mud joins a river. 

And she’s right. Their group was facing hopelessness, had slipped into the pattern of habit, not actually trying to fulfill their mission. Just going through the motions. 

Now there is renewed energy. The ritualistic words roll of their tongues with a new flavor, the dancing is more vibrant, even the fire somehow feel more alive. The woodsmoke tingles their noses differently. 

The owl launches into the sky, fleeing what it doesn’t understand and afraid to learn. 

Somewhere in the world, there is shift. The moon feels it, like the breaking of new ground.

A child’s cry, innocent and reborn.

If the moon could feel, it would be worried about these new developments. But it can only listen carefully, observant as always. Perhaps what these humans had sought for so long was again within reach. Something carefully hidden away in darkness called back into the light. How very odd, thought the moon. I do not know what happens next. 

And the moon sees everything. 

The snow begins to fall.