Waking the Moon

woman rutting in the dirt but two grasping dwarfish figures, struggling as they fought, the dead bull behind them. And then again they were not two people at all but mere shapes; and then not even that but formless things grappling beneath another, greater darkness. One white, the other black. Not the black that soothes and brings sleep but a chthonic darkness, a vast supplanting emptiness that was both maw and womb, whirling maelstorm and the storm’s calm fixed eye.

And as I watched a cry rent the air, a howl so anguished that I dropped to my knees. To hear such despair and horror given voice! I would be deafened, rather than hear such a sound again. As it died I cowered and prayed that whatever had cried out was lifeless now, or fled.

Behind me something moved. I cringed and flung one arm out to protect myself. But when I looked up I saw that it was only Baby Joe and Hasel, and behind them Balthazar and Francis, all staring at where Angelica and Oliver lay motionless in the grass.

“Ohh…”

I whirled and saw Oliver stumble to his feet, yanking at his trousers until they hitched up around his waist. He moved clumsily, the loose cuffs of his pants billowing around his calves. His fly was still open; his shirt was blotched with dirt and blood. A poisonous-looking crimson line tracked up the side of his leg. With his shambling gait and shaven head he looked like an old drunk. He kept putting his hands into his pockets and drawing them out again, like a nervous boy or pantomime beggar, and I could hear him mumbling—

“—bulbul, bulbulone! I will shally. Though shalt willy. You wouldnt should as youd remesmer. I hypnot. ‘Tis golden sickle’s hour. Holy moon priestess, we’d love our grappes of mistellose! Moths the matter? Pschttt! Tabarins comes. To fell out fairest…”

Suddenly he saw me staring at him. He raised his hand; for a moment I couldn’t see what he was doing, waving or mimicking a swimmer crawling to shore or showing me something, something bright and glittering between his fingers…

Then my gaze was drawn downward, to where Angelica lay at his feet. She was smiling, her eyes closed. Behind her the dead bull had shrunk from primitive icon to a grotesque and pathetic corpse, its legs stiffly crooked like broken planks, its eyes shuttered with dust. Angelica blinked, then slowly drew herself up, like a cat stretching. She opened her eyes and extended a languid arm to her consort.

“Oliver,” she said.

Oliver looked down at her. If before his face had been twisted with rage, now it was contorted into something almost impossible for me to fathom. Loathing, yes. But also love, and perhaps even admiration, but most of all, fear. One hand dropped to fumble with the buttons of his trousers. The other tightened into a fist. Whatever shining thing he had grasped was gone. Then he was staring not at Angelica but at me, though not at me really but at something else. Very slowly the familiar crooked canine grin spread across his face. His head fell back, and he raised his hand. For a dizzying instant I thought he was going to strike Angelica. I caught a flash of something lucifer-bright as his hand swept down: a slender shining blade. It fell, not upon Angelica but upon his own groin.

“Oliver, no!” I shouted.

If the bull’s dying bellow had been thunderous, then Oliver’s scream was lightning: a blast of pure agony. I sprang forward and struck his hand, sending the knife skidding across the dirt. I heard Angelica screaming, Baby Joe and Hasel shouting. Oliver howled as I pushed him to the ground and tried to hold him still. Damp warmth spread across my jeans as I yelled for help. His legs thrashed, his eyes were open and staring blindly at the sky as he still gave forth that unending anguished howl.

“Enough.”

A low voice commanded me. I looked up and saw Balthazar and Francis. Francis grabbed me roughly, but Balthazar shouted and he let me go. Then Balthazar knelt beside me, tearing off his shirt and trying to staunch Oliver’s bleeding. With one hand he pushed me away. “Leave him to us now.”

Oliver’s howl cut off and he began to scream. I stared mutely at Professor Warnick. Exhaustion fogged his blue eyes, and a terrible, terrible weariness. “Go now,” he said.

As I stumbled to my feet someone grabbed me.

“Hija, come on—” It was Baby Joe, and Hasel at his side.

“No!—let me go, damn it, help him, we have to save him!—”

“Stop it, hija!”

“No—you don’t understand, they’ll kill him—let me go—”

I shouted and pulled free from Baby Joe. “I’m not leaving him!” I yelled, then looked around frantically. “Where is she, where’s—

“Angelica!”

As though echoing me Francis stood. “She’s gone!” His gaze fixed on the distant woods, and he started sprinting toward the trees when Balthazar shouted.

“Leave her, Francis!”

Francis glanced back, took another step as Balthazar commanded him.

“I said, leave her.”

Francis nodded and returned to Balthazar’s side. Professor Warnick looked up at Baby Joe and Hasel and me. “Get back to the house. Go, all of you!”

“Come on!” cried Hasel. He and Baby Joe began running up the long rise to the Orphic Lodge, dragging me between them. After a few steps I turned to look back.

In the darkened hollow they waited: the dead bull; the fallen boy; the silent guardian; the fool. Of Angelica I saw nothing. Balthazar Warnick crouched above Oliver, his hands moving quickly across the boy’s groin. Oliver’s face was so white that I feared he was dead. But then he moved his head slightly from side to side. He opened his eyes very wide and stared straight up into the sky, as though he saw something there, something glorious and terrible. Even from here I could see how angry Francis was: almost literally hopping with rage.

“But she’s got it!” His words sounded thin and clear, as though plucked from wires. “We can’t let her go, she’s—”

Warnick turned to him, his eyes burning. “It’s too late, Francis. Go to the lodge and call an ambulance. Get my car ready in case it doesn’t come right away.”

“But—”

Warnick’s voice shook as he shouted, “It’s been done, Francis. It’s too late now —”

He staggered to his feet. Oliver made a noise like gurgling laughter, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. Baby Joe and Hasel halted. Without speaking we all turned to where Balthazar Warnick pointed at the eastern sky.

There, above the unbroken line of leafless birch and sturdy conifers, above the tumbled stones and dying ferns, a pale light glimmered. As we watched, the frailest, most delicate arc of a crescent moon rose above the trees. A new moon where no moon should be; a new moon when the heavens should hold only its darkest quarter. Balthazar’s voice rang out, taut with wonder and dread.

“—She’s not sleeping anymore.”

CHAPTER 9 The Harrowing

BY THE TIME I reached our room, the entire lodge was in an uproar. Lights were flicking on everywhere, yawning students peered out their doors while the housekeeper Kirsten waited grimly by the front door like the old mansion’s Cerberus, glaring at anyone who ventured down the steps. Annie stood in the corridor, white-faced, her hair sticking up like a porcupine’s.

“Sweeney! What happened? Where’s Angelica?”