Society of the Lunar Brethren

Myra felt the chill of the autumn afternoon pass through her. It was sharp and crisp, sending a sudden spark of life through her aged limbs that snatched her out of the solace of sleep. She had taken a mid-afternoon nap on the veranda of her cabin, and being wrapped up in all her throws and self-embroidered cushions, she couldn’t think of a better place to be. Nothing could beat the tranquillity of being in the middle of nowhere with no one but Mother Nature to keep her company. She wrapped herself up tighter as a gust of wind soared through the trees. The leaves shimmered in shades of olive and emerald and rustled gently, whispering to each other the secrets of the wind. September had come and the dying remains of summer shone fervently through branches of birch, painting Myra’s face in stripes of gold.

But as the hours passed, the gold slowly deepened to an orange and eventually a red. The sun was setting and the day was dying. Heading inside, Myra was immediately greeted by a flush of warmth that sprang from the roaring fireplace. Enveloped by the musky wooden scent and traces of vanilla, she felt at peace. She was home.

Shuffling towards the fireplace Myra stretched her back until she heard a satisfying click before falling into the warm, trusty arms of her sofa. She looked down at her wrinkly hands. Though she was quite healthy for a woman of sixty-two, her age was slowly catching up with her. She had become more sensitive to the cold and her face slightly resembled that of a lightly scrunched up paper that someone had attempted to smooth out again.

Myra’s eyes travelled over to a newspaper cut-out that had been framed above the fireplace. The paper had yellowed since it was put up around forty years ago. She smiled amusedly thinking how it had aged along with her. The headline read ‘EXPOSED ILLEGAL CULT FALLS INTO FLAMES’ above a grainy picture of buildings set ablaze.

‘Some people create works of art, some have kids, but that’s my legacy.’ she thought staring at the bold, black letters. “I guess I have Uncle Al to thank for that.” she said dryly as her mind travelled back forty years.

***

The day she was fated to cross paths with the cult fell in November. A twenty-one year old Myra was driving with the heating on full blast as her satnav guided her through a maze of trees. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken that short cut!” she grumbled as she glanced at the dark towers of forest either side of her. She felt very out of place, almost as if she was rudely invading nature’s privacy with her rusty car, grinding its way along her earthy paths. She sighed. The sun had passed its midpoint in the sky and it would be getting dark in a few hours; she needed to find civilisation and soon.

An hour passed, but still, the same trees under a darker sky loomed over her. She felt trapped in Nature’s fortress; her clutches were inescapable. But just as Myra was about to give up hope, she noticed smoke swirling its way up past the foliage in the distance. A wave of relief washed over her as she realised that civilisation was near. Her satnav made no recognition of the area and there were no welcoming signs either. “Must be a hamlet or something… I’ll park up for the night.” She muttered.

But as the area came into view, she felt a strange feeling of uncertainty come over her.

“What the heck…”

The place didn’t look real; it was like she’d driven onto a movie set. There was a stretch of smooth, dusted track lasting for 150 yards with ten, small, white bungalows either side of it. Everything was the same, each brick, each plank, even the square patches of grass in front of every house were the same; not a blade out of place. It looked exactly like someone had cut out a square from a model village and placed it in the middle of the forest. As she hesitantly pulled up towards it, she noticed a small wooden sign hammered into the ground. It read in faded letters; “Alexander Town”. There were no signs of life, apart from the washing in front of each house. She stopped at the entrance and waited. It felt wrong to sully the neatly brushed track with her rough tyres. She stopped at the border. ‘I’m sure they’ll be okay with that’ she thought, turning the engine off, pulling her seat back and closing her eyes.

A few minutes later, there was a stir of movement within the houses. Curtains parted slightly and faces peaked out of windows; Myra’s arrival had caused the same rippling effect as a kingfisher diving into water. Slowly, hooded figures crept onto their doorsteps, motionlessly staring at their uninvited visitor. Realising she was asleep, the people moved closer with steps of caution. Their crimson robes billowed like flags of war in the evening wind. Their figures clustered together and they approached the vehicle like a garrison. Myra was surrounded by a wall of red, but being far off in the land of dreams, she didn’t feel the pressure of several strangers’ eyes boring into her sleeping form. They quietly murmured among themselves and then walked in a line to the end of the track and, turning left, disappeared.

A few hours later Myra woke with a start, breathing fast. She heard a drumming sound. Was it her heart? No, it was louder than that. She sat up and craned her neck to see further ahead; the road was just as clear as it had been when she arrived. She felt a prickly sensation rise on the back of her neck as she quickly looked out of the back windows, but again, saw nothing but darkness.

Suddenly she heard a metallic clang and then saw several crimson robes emerge from the left side of houses. Myra sank down into her seat and lay still, her heart punching the inner side of her ribs. Her mind was racing ‘What if they sacrifice me?!’ she thought desperately. But to her surprise, they all went into their houses and shut the doors. After that there was no movement at all. Myra waited for half an hour, but it seemed like they’d gone – to bed at least.

In the morning a stout figure emerged from one of the houses on the far end. ‘Male, mid-fifties, no robe, no visible weapon, alone - Is he…waving at me?’ she thought, surprised. But despite his show of friendliness, she fumbled for her pocket knife and gripped it in her clammy hand as he approached.

As he came up to the car, she could see his yellow toothed smile as he gestured to the window. Myra wound it down a little and tried to plaster a smile on her face.

“Hello there!” he said joyfully in a sharp southern accent.

“Hello…” Myra replied in as steady as a voice she could manage.

“How’d you come so far out into the woods?” he asked gently.

“I got lost.” She said, before nervously rambling. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to invade your privacy - I took a short cut and ended up in the forest and –“

She was cut off by the sound of him laughing warmly.

“No need to be so anxious!” he laughed. “We’re gentle folk here. Not used to new faces thas all.”

Myra nodded. “Well, I am sorry to cut through, I don’t want to dirty your road, but I can’t see another way round.” She said, looking ahead at the beige stretch of track.

The old man nodded thoughtfully, his balding head gleaming in the sun. “Well, I’m truly sorry to be an inconvenience to you, Miss....” he looked at her, pausing.

“Beck.” She lied.

“- Miss Beck, but our track has taken years to perfect, and we’d like to keep it that way, but we could make another opening for you. We’d just need to chop a couple a trees down!”

“But wouldn’t that be a lot of effort?” she replied guiltily.

“Nothin' a couple a day’s work can’t achieve! My name’s Alex, by the way, everyone calls me Uncle Al though. Want to come in for a drink? You must be parched being cooped up in there for the whole night...” he added cheerily.

She nodded gratefully and stepped out of the car. He didn’t seem as creepy as he’d first appeared, but she still remained on guard in case of a red robed mob attack or something.

The outside of his house had no signs of a lock and the inside was almost empty. It was barely furnished, excluding two chairs and a vault among heaps of papers and diagrams. Uncle Al ushered her to sit down whilst he got some water.

“Water’s all we got I’m afraid; we lead a simple life here. Completely self-sufficient too!” he explained.

She nodded and gratefully took the cup, only having a sip after he’d done the same. They talked trivially for a while but the conversation gradually came to a lull, and she couldn’t hold the topic back any longer.

“Something happened last night.” She said carefully inspecting his face for any telling expression. “I heard a drumming at first, and then I saw people in red robes come from nowhere.”

Uncle Al paused for a long time. He leaned back in his chair, his beetle eyes sizing Myra up like she was a slab of meat at the butchers. Eventually he sighed and leaned forward. “I have a feeling that you’re like us…” he began slowly. “Wanting to get away from the big city, like there’s something greater waiting for you..”

Myra thought and then nodded.

“Well we all moved here to find a happier, peaceful place.” He gestured around him, pausing. “But this ain’t the final destination …that is!” he declared, his eyes gleaming as he pointed to the diagram of the moon pinned to the wall.

Myra looked at the paper blankly, confused.

“Yes, the moon!” he cried, grinning.

Myra laughed in disbelief, but swallowed down her ridicule when she saw the seriousness lining his face.

“You can’t be serious!” she replied.

“For centuries there's been a legend telling us of the man in the moon! He was the first of us.”

“That’s a child’s tale!” she cried, in disbelief.

“No, that’s what they want us to think! He had the idea to leave Earth and settle on the moon for a better, peaceful life. No crime, disease or famine; everlasting happiness. There he remains, waiting for us to come and be led by him.” Uncle Al finished, out of breath from talking so passionately.

Myra looked at his zealous demeanour; he was so excited he could have fallen out of his chair. She was both intrigued by the concept and eager to prove it wrong.

“Okay, so how would you get there?”

“That’s classified. Only to be discussed by brethren, I’m afraid. But let’s say a special form of transport.”

Myra scoffed. “Supplies?”

Uncle Al patted the padlocked vault and smiled. “In there’s a notepad of co-ordinates for the life-long food storages we’ve been building. Plenty of canned pineapples in them!”

“I like canned pineapples…Fine, so how would you survive without oxygen?”

Uncle Al looked at her pitifully. “How brainwashed you are! That’s what they tell us to keep us here! The world leaders hate humanity, they want us to suffer to profit from our problems!”

Myra narrowed her eyes.

Uncle Al continued. “They cause the problem, sell the solution and profit as a result. There’s only one time they let slip. In the photo of the moon landing; the flag was moving! Couldn’t do that without oxygen!” he sang, spit flying from his mouth.

“Everyone knows that’s fake.” Myra retorted.

Uncle Al gave her a weird look. “Oh, you’re one of those…” he scoffed. “Think the moon landing was faked?” he said jeeringly.

“Well you believe there’s a man in the moon!” she cried incredulously. “And what’s the need for money if you’re ‘self-sufficient’?” she pointed to the vault.

A flicker of annoyance. Uncle Al shook his head, brushing off the question. “Oh you know, emergencies - forget about that. Just give me an hour to change your mind about this; I promise I can do it! Just hear out the facts!” Uncle Al suggested, rolling out several maps and diagrams.

“Fine.” She said laughing. “But you won’t.”

For the figures outside who were waiting for Myra and Uncle Al to reappear, the hour passed slowly. Eventually, the two emerged and Uncle Al thrust his hand into the air. “The Man in the Moon approves!” he cried with joy. Everyone clapped and watched as their new comrade was brought into the middle and invited to the moonlight ceremony to bestow her robe. The initiation into the ‘Society of the Lunar Brethren’ would be held a month later.

A week passed as Myra adjusted to the life of a lunar follower. Firstly she was shown how to live in a simple and self-sufficient way. No technology or games. The man in the moon would not approve. They would live on Earth how they would live on the moon and there wouldn’t be any need for technology or games up there, so she kept her phone hidden. Then she received a small bungalow of her own. She wasn’t allowed to have a lock or any furniture except a chair and a pillow. Beds were prohibited; the man in the moon would not approve, so she slept on the floor. One evening she looked from her doorstep at the other white houses, identical to her own. They were all clones she thought, although she'd never say that out loud; the man in the moon would not approve.

One morning, Uncle Al took her down the side of the track and led her to a circular handled metal cover in the ground. Opening it, with one of his numerous keys, they climbed down the ladder and entered a dark room. Then, as if by magic, with the wave of Uncle Al’s pudgy hand, the whole room lit up. The walls and floor were lined with white panels that stretched on for at least a mile. “You asked me how we'd get to the moon.” his voice echoing off the walls, pointing to a metal, pill shaped contraption, surrounded by scaffolding. “Well, this is how.”

Myra stared in amazement. “This must have cost millions! How did you…”

Uncle Al chuckled and tapped the side of his nose. “Obviously some equipment is obtained by… unconventional means.” he whispered.

“You mean illegally?” Myra replied.

Uncle Al frowned. “We don’t like using that word here, the man in the moon would not approve!” he chirped, wagging a stout finger at her, as they returned to the ladder.

Eventually, a month had passed, and Myra had done so many chores that the man in the moon would approve of. ‘It’s a shame we won’t meet.’ she thought, rolling up a piece of paper and tucking it away before pulling on her crimson robe for the weekly moonlight ceremony. Like Uncle Al, she too had her own secret diagram and had filled it in from the day that she arrived. She’d found out the daily rituals, recreation times and most importantly Uncle Al’s whereabouts at all times of the day. Brushing these thoughts aside and plastering a smile on her face, she went outside into the frosty air and joined the circle of followers. They swirled and danced all night under the twinkling velvety sky, assuring the man in the moon of their allegiance to him. 

On the night of Myra’s initiation, she made a quick call before readying herself for the pre-initiation purification ritual. All belongings were left in the houses and luckily for her, all houses were left unlocked.

Arriving late to the purification ceremony, she received many askance looks from her comrades lined up on either side of her. “The man in the moon would not approve!” Uncle Al said wagging his head from the front. She mumbled an apology and then stepped forward to be purified by the moonlit water. After that, everyone lined up to attend the initiation, but as they did so, they heard the faint noise of sirens and helicopters blaring menacingly in the distance. Uncle Al paused, horror creeping up his face as the blood drained out. “Oh no! NO!” he wheezed as he ran for his house, jangling his keys frantically. Myra sprinted to her car. As she ran, she heard the southern twang of Uncle Al’s fury. “WHERE IS IT?” he howled repeatedly, aggressively shaking some of the followers. Myra trembled as she fumbled for the ignition. The sound of her engine drew everyone outside. Uncle Al thundered at her, running as fast as his stout body could carry him. “YOU EVIL WITCH!” he screeched. Myra stomped on the gas marring the neat track as she raced down it, almost hitting several followers in doing so. She could hear Uncle Al’s screaming in the distance, slowly drowning out to the sound of sirens.

Under a starry sky the forest was streaked in blues, reds and then engulfed in orange. The man in the moon watched as his empire fell to flames. Uncle Al took Alexander Town and (almost) all its secrets down with him. It was over; the Society of the Lunar Brethren had fallen.

***

Sixty-two year old Myra smiled to herself. She heaved herself up from her comfy sofa and headed for the larder. Fetching from her stash a can of tinned pineapples, she thrust it in the air, savouring her sweet trophy.

She chuckled as she peeled open the can. “The man in the moon would not approve.”