Lunarmorphic Transformation, Weddings, and Other Such Conditions.

—- ull out a book no bigger than a cigarette box, bound in deep navy leather with silver engraving. The front reads:

LUNARMORPHIC TRANSFORMATION, WEDDINGS, AND OTHER SUCH CONDITIONS

BY 

TSUKISHIRO TSUKISHIRO

月 城   月 白

AS APPROVED BY THE FULL MOON SYNDICATE

And on the inside, printed on the near-transparent paper:

[Humans have observed the phases of the moon for thousands of generations.

◌◑◯◐◌

Lunarmorphs, however, do not merely observe these phases but experience them first-hand.]

  Indeed, the feeling of the paper– so impossibly thin, bleached white to the point of glowing– is all at once familiar and foreign. The words nestle into your mind easily. They already have a place inside of you.

  And yet, you do not remember slipping the book into your pocket.

[The moon waxes and wanes in an eternal cycle. For a few nights it vanishes, but then it begins again.

This too is the way of the Lunarmorph.]

  Your traveling partner that you have known for some years–

(You’ve been together for a long time. You’re sure of it.)

–shifts through his pockets for a match.

His ring hits his belt buckle–

Clink!

And with a gasp: “You dropped them overboard.”

“Whassat?”

“You dropped your matches when looking over the ship railing. Out of your breast pocket.”

“Hmm…” He scratches at his chin and taps his chest where the match box should be. “I don’t remember it. Gimme yours. Now that’s funny. How’d you figure I’d lost it?”

“You’ve lost it plenty of times.”

You hand him your matches and he tucks them into his pocket before giving himself a light– a common exchange amongst friends. The tobacco scent is familiar and so is the sway of the boat. As you flip through the pages, it’s all like a gentle dream.

“But it just doesn't make sense,” your friend mumbles. “To lose ‘em over the railing. We’ve only boarded a little while ago.”

Rocking, rocking, with the faceless passengers surrounding you. The cries of the seagulls all sound like good tidings.

—

[Humans can only live in a straight line. It is so sad, sad, sad.

But Lunarmorphs live differently.

They can live and die and laugh and cry all at once.

It might be confusing at first, but you have already realized it a long time ago.]

In the depths of night you hear whispering through the sloshing of waves and creaking of wood. You hang your head down over the side of your bunk and let something nervously spill out.

“Do you remem–”

The cabin is so small that the sound echoes back to you unbearably, so you slip the words under your breath this time, in fear of disturbing something.

“Hey. Do you remember when we first met?”

There’s a pause, and your partner speaks too clearly for somebody supposedly half-asleep.

“That’s a funny thing to ask.”

“Well, do you?”

Another pause.

“Sure I do.”

“Then tell it to me.”

“You’re workin’ yourself up. Go to bed. And quit readin’ that pseudoscience garbage already.”

The book is under your pillow now, strangely comforting beneath the feathers and cloth. When you adjust your head, you can almost hear the soft rustle of the pages rubbing together.

“I had a friend who read that kinda stuff.”

Rustle, rustle, rustle.

“And so?”

“And so, he disappeared. Up n’ vanished, like he wasn’t even there in the first place.”

The boat creaks like the lid of a coffin as the conversation dies then and there. It’s silent– You’ve never quite gotten used to this part. 

—

How did you get here? In a hall of green velvet? 

Looking down, the footsteps are fresh. You place your slipper over the shape and yes– that’s about your size. But considering the number of passengers onboard the ship, the culprit could be any number of persons.

[There are no coincidences in this world. What humans call coincidence is simply a limit of perception.]

You can’t recall how long you’ve been here, or even the reason why. An endless number of doors line the walls. Not a single one sparks your recognition.

“Excuse me,” you call out pathetically. “Is anybody there?”

To your luck you catch the sound of shuffling and throw yourself in the approximate direction. There’s a door with a round window that’s gone completely white and in taking the knob, you find it won’t budge. Shoving your weight against it, twisting the handle– it’s held fast, and you’re knocked flat as you’re answered with three hard slams. Whoever is on the other end didn’t much care for your hello.

“Um, excuse me.” You steady yourself as best you can.

“What is it?” A low voice with a good helping of disdain.

“I need to get back to my room.”

“Then go back the way you came.”

“I can’t remember the way I came…”

“You can’t remember the way you came? What is that supposed to mean?”

“God, I was hoping you would tell me.”

“Well, what on earth did you come here for?”

“I was– Well–”

There’s a panic as you find yourself unraveling, realizing that the parts of yourself are not stuck together in the right way. The gaps seem to be getting wider as time goes on. Or at least, as long as you think about it.

“I was– I was on my way to get married, I think.”

“Oh. Congratulations.” The voice sounds like it’s farther away. It must be bored by now, and ready to abandon you. You try the doorknob again, but it won’t budge in the slightest.

“Oh please, tell me how to get out of here. Just open the door already. Don’t just leave me.”

“I’d tell you how to get out, but you’d just forget it. I bet you’ve forgotten who your beloved is already.”

[A Lunarmorph never worries about what’s to come or what they can’t see. If they cannot see it now, they will see it in the future. And if not in the future, then in the past.]

You’ve resorted to kicking the door which results in little more than a stubbed toe. The fiendish voice on the other end laughs at you from their safety in the unknown. 

“God,” you sob. “I don’t know, she’s– her name– Open the door already, okay? She’s– If I really had to say–”

[Lunarmorphs have faith in their path. Because what awaits them– past, present, and future– is nothing but the sweetest of true loves.]

The door cracks open, and you find your face embarrassingly sticky with tears. The words can barely make it past your lips.

“-- If I had to say, she’s got a face like the moon…”

The voice in the dark can only laugh.

—

Asking questions has become useless. So instead, you’ve stood and watched.

In the corner of the dining hall you close your eyes halfway and let the sights and sounds flow through you. The colors mix together and the music seems much sweeter like this, the violins reach greater heights and the laughter feeling more full, everything everywhere seems like it’s happening at once. It’s a step in the right direction or maybe it’s just the champagne. There’s a celebration– Someone important has arrived. Or they’re arriving soon. Or they’ve been here for a while and you just haven’t noticed, it’s hard to know with the intoxicating bubbles running across your tongue. 

[It is said that rabbits die of loneliness, and Lunarmorphs can feel the same way. However, they are never truly alone, because they need only to look to the sky.]

You allow yourself to wobble away. You half mourn the accursed hallway with the cruel voice, but even more than that you miss the whispers of the water and sky. You lean against the walls and make your way around the winding corners like a drunken Thesus in the Labyrinth.

[The moon is where the heart of every Lunarmorph lies. That’s why we ache to see it so.]

You stumble up the steps to the outside. The perfectly circular window of the door frames the sky in a way that makes your heart beat faster. You catch sight of something dancing through the breeze– Light colored ribbons of starlight. Comets tied in loop-de-loops. 

The words of the book speak stronger than ever:

[On the moon, there is a woman looking for love.]

You open the door. You always will.

A waterfall of moonbeams engulf a woman standing on the deck, still even as the ship rocks, the light dripping off her form in an otherwise pitch-black night.

She stands under the round moon in a luminescent pool like an actress waiting for an applause.

               She turns–

Her ear, white like a polished seashell with black strands tucked behind it–

                                     Halfway now–

He nose, cutting a perfect slope against the expanse of black–

Turning, twisting even more–

Her shoulders are in place but she tilts her head to look at you, with dark eyes unblinking–

– Standing at attention, the transformation is complete.

[The woman has a face like the moon. She is looking for a husband and by the time you meet her, you will have already met her a thousand different times in a thousand different ways.

As long as the pages keep turning, this fact will hold true:

A Lunarmorph is the only creature that can experience the sweetness of First Love forever unto eternity.]

Wordlessly, she extends her hand. And it feels only right that you should take it. Through either chivalry or drunkenness, you plant a kiss on her delicate fingers.

Leaning down she meets you face-to-face and presses her hands to your cheeks as if trying to keep the contents of your head together. “I always hate the waiting part.” She whispers.

“I’m sorry. I got lost a few times.”

“Can’t you figure it out already?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m starting to worry I’m going a little crazy. Have we met before?”

She wraps her arms around you and you clumsily do the same. You’re embarrassed not because you’re embracing a stranger but because you feel like you should know what to do, so you adjust your arms and neck until it suddenly clicks together and all you can say to her hiccups are “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Weak, half-hearted admonishments that you brush off again and again.

“The waiting always kills me, I hate it more than anything.”

With your heart about to burst, you say: “I’m sorry, I’ll try to remember it next time.”

And then you’re yanked back by the shirt collar.

Bow tie undone and eyes in a panic, your friend– nameless, pastless, and of limited human understanding– separates you and the woman with the strength of an animal. He flings you to the side and darts forward.

Her mouth drops open in a gasp and she flings herself back, dark eyes flashing and robes catching in the moonlight. The intruder traces her steps clumsily. He swings; she dances; she’s standing on the railing when he lunges at her one more time. The ship, as if on command, rocks to the side and sends the man tumbling, his belt meeting the metal with an awful ringing sound. Reaching out into the falling robes and over the black sea. Only ribbons and mist remain.

Flickers of light, living and dying, over and over across the inky waves…

You will yourself upwards and stumble to the scene. He’s chanting now, with eyes anywhere but the moon.

“A spirit, it’s a spirit, some kinda lady phantom… A spirit… ‘Bout snatched you away, it did. Disappeared itself, ‘bout disappeared you.”

You pry him from the railing, although his hands remain stiff and clawed. There’s a shimmering spot where she stood.

“The same as before, as it happened before. They disappeared him too.”

He’s gripping your elbow hard enough to bruise, in an attempt to anchor you, to tie you to the hour. But it is too late. Your eyes are drawn from the spot on his chest where the pocket sits empty and then to the water below, where ripples are melting away.

Light flickers off the humble peaks and you think: it’s not unlike the moon when born anew.

—

This is the part of the story where we can no longer pretend.

As you recall:

[There are no mysteries in this world.

There are secrets, nooks and crannies, scientific misconceptions and an abundance of hearsay, but you will soon find that they have always been there and with proper explanation.

Things not explained by the past are understood in the future.

Lunarmorphs know this. And now so do you.]

In the hallway of green velvet, you press your ear to the wall:

On the other side, people are enjoying their breakfast in the dining hall. Forks hitting porcelain, glass clinking glass, and polite conversation lilting this way and that. Time is flowing uniformly through these good, unknowing people. Here, things are different. You savor the song of mundanity.

[It can be sad to realize these things. After all, the world that you know has been unmade.

But you can always meet your loved ones again on the next full moon]

The vision of the moon leaves you wanting. You push yourself off the velvet and pick up your suitcase, neatly packed for your one thousandth honeymoon. The suits are carefully folded and the toiletries are packed away; there’s no need to check. You can already taste the bitterness of the tea you will drink the morning two days after. It’s as clear as the cigarette smoke from two days before.

[My words, by now, are useless to you. And I’m happy that they are. We must say our goodbyes, although as you know by now, they will last hardly a blink.]

The morning crowd on the ship’s deck is lively as always. You scan the crowd and catch a glimpse of starlight in the middle of day and you already know where to go and what will happen next. The energy is making you drunk, you’re bouncing on your heels, playing with the spine of the book in anticipation.

At last.

You flip through the book one more time:

[Goodbyes and hellos are one in the same, if only you escape the limits of your perception.]

Impossibly thin pages slip through your fingertips, leaving an opalescent dust in the past, present, and future. It is neither the first nor the last time you will have to leave this treasure behind. But after taking in the weight, you make your way to your beloved and bump theatrically into a stranger who stands besides a man who smells like smoke.

“Pardon me,” you say before rushing off.

She’s waiting for you, wearing a duster with a scarf of the same lovely, transparent shine of that night. She puts forth your hand and you take it, as you have every time before. The ship horn blares and she leads you away.--

“Don’t you want to take a look?”

– And even knowing all that you do, you can’t help but glance over your shoulder. The stranger stands mindlessly, his partner patting over his vest and pockets once again. The stranger dips their hand into the pocket to p–