WRITING IN THE MOONLIGHT

Driving over the moors at night could often be a challenge. Rain, hail, sleet, snow, ice, wind, a Combination of any and all; each could present a problem… but not tonight.

Tonight, the air was still, the road was dry, the sky was clear of even the merest hint of a cloud.  The stars overhead twinkled in the eternal and infinite firmament, paying court to the moon, Queen of the darkness, reigning in silvery splendour above the Earth.  It was, in fact, precisely the kind of night that Seb loved most about his job as a Ranger.

Driving across the moor on one of his twice monthly night shifts, Seb could be confronted by illegal campers, stranded motorists, lost, exhausted or injured hikers, motorbike scramblers and quadbike intruders, hurt or sick animals, poachers, even sheep rustlers… but not tonight.

Tonight Seb’s shift had been a pleasant drive with the added bonus of being paid.  The beam of the Landrover’s headlights had illumed nothing more than a single fox intent on finding her supper, and a handful of sheep, intent simply on being sheep.

On the cusp of midnight, midway through his twelve-hour stint, the tranquillity of both Seb’s mood and surroundings was suddenly broken by every ranger’s biggest fear… FIRE!  About a mile ahead a tongue of orange flame shone out in the darkness like a signal beacon of old, demanding attention.  Pressing down on the accelerator, Seb surged forward; in less than a minute he had drawn level with a sheep track that led straight to the apparent source of the fire.  With no vehicle blocking the way, he was able to park right at the foot of the track and, grabbing his powerful searchlight, he dashed up the slight incline between himself and his quarry.

Much to his surprise a sudden mist rolled over the ground toward him, obscuring the earth beneath his feet to a depth of two feet or more.  On reaching the spot from where the flames had surely emanated, he saw nothing, until that was a figure, a figure that had been crouched down and thus hidden by the mist, suddenly rose to her feet in one fluid movement.

The woman, not much more than a teenager, had long, light brown hair and a pale complexion.  Her hazel eyes, framed by gossamer lashes, conveyed a sense of experience and wisdom which belied her youthful appearance. Despite the fact the night was less than warm, she wore a thin sleeveless shift that fell short of her grass-stained knees by a good four inches; her legs, like her arms, were bare.  Most surprising of all, her feet were unshod.

“Good evening,sir,” she said simply.

“Good evening to you miss,” Seb replied.  “I’d like to know just what you’re doing here and why the hell you’ve lit a fire.  Don’t you know the risks you’re taking, both to yourself and the moor?”

“I’m sorry if I have alarmed you kind sir, but I can assure you I am completely safe from the moor and the moor is likewise entirely safe from my little fire. As you can see, I have extinguished it already.”

Oddly and immediately satisfied by the irrefutable logic of her rebuttal of any danger, Seb pressed her once again for an answer to the ’what’ and the ‘why’.

“I repeat, what are you doing and, safe or not, why are you lighting fires in the middle of the night?” he demanded.  “I’d also like to know where you’ve come from.”

“I come from this very spot; it is where I have lived all my life,” she explained. “As for why and what, that is easy enough: I am writing in the moonlight.”

“Writing what?”, Seb queried, again finding no argument to her response.  “And why in the moonlight particularly?”

“It is my task to write down the constantly unfolding narrative of life itself; I am the recorder of my people’s history, past and present.  I write by moonlight because the runes I use can only be read by moonlight,” she explained, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.  “See for yourself,” she said, gesturing downwards.

As Seb directed his gaze to the ground the strange mist suddenly vanished; what was then revealed shocked him to his core.  A male, lying on his side, naked, lifeless, although that in itself was not the truly shocking part. The skin on the dead man’s chest, stomach, buttocks and back had been flayed from his body and then stretched over a large wooden frame that lay beside him.  This barbaric canvas was covered completely in beautifully formed lettering, ancient and indecipherable.  A bone pipe, with a stopper at one end, had been inserted into an incision in the victim’s arm, allowing blood to drain into a now empty bronze bowl.  Lying across the rim of the bowl was a feather from some great bird, trimmed at its tip to make a blood-stained nib.  This was the gut-wrenching reality of ‘writing in the moonlight’.

“Why, why the fire?”, Seb mumbled; in his fear and confusion his mind had taken him back to the last moment of sanity in this unfurling madness.

“As you can see,” she said, pointing first at the empty bowl and then at the skin upon the frame, “I am in need of ink and paper.”

“Ink and paper? Ink and paper!” exploded Seb.  “Recorder of your people my eye! You’re a savage, pure and simple!” 

“Either way,” she replied calmly, “the fire drew you to me….”

“And I’m supposed to be the local branch of ‘Rhymans’ am I?" Seb interrupted.  “Well that’s not going to happen; what’s more I’m going back to my car right now to call the police. You might have gotten away with it before… but not tonight.”

Turning quickly away he was immediately confronted by a man of similar ilk to the woman.  Blocking Seb’s escape, he gently raised his hand and spoke some words of an archaic tongue that should have been extinct two thousand years ago; the ranger fell limp to the floor.

“You grow careless, sister,” the newcomer admonished quietly.

When he regained consciousness Seb was lying on his side upon the bare earth, a posture he immediately and terrifyingly recognised.  With the bone pipe for draining his blood already doing its allotted job, the girl knelt beside him, knife in hand, ready to harvest his skin.  He tried to pull away, but although he was not physically restrained, he found himself completely paralyzed; only his eyes were capable of movement.  He directed an imploring look towards his captor; the gaze she returned was gentle, sympathetic even, but ultimately unyielding.

On many night’s before, Seb had often awoken from terrifying nightmares, sweating and trembling, to find himself safe and sound in his own bed… but not tonight.