"Write a Curse Upon the Moon"
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dochermes"Write a Curse Upon the Moon"
7/1969
I.
The three Grimua huddled closely together behind the wooden slat fence, rubbing their robes up against each other. On a hot muggy July afternoon, they were bundled into heavy woolen garments which fell to their ankles, which had sleeves which covered their hands and which were topped with cowls which concealed their faces.
"I'm sweating like a faucet," whined the tallest of the Grimua. He wiped inside his cowl with the sleeve. "Damn it. The High One MUST be high to make us wear these blankets on a day like this, what the hell is he smoking anyway?"
Next to him, a deeper voice rumbled, "You hide your faith beneath banter and colloquialisms, Gareth. But I know your belief in our Old Ways is strong."
"Ah, let the boy complain if he will," whispered the third cultist. "Shhh. There she is. Maeve her own self."
In the courtyard on the other side of the fence, next to an old Episopalian church which was being renovated, an elderly woman came briskly down well-worn steps. She held a slim ebony walking stick but did not rely on it as yet. Dressed all in white with lace collar on her modest dress and a broad-brimmed hat on her head, she nearly shone in the sunlight.
As she stood next to her car, Maeve the Seer froze into position. Her head turned slowly from side to side, gazing about and listening. At least seventy years old, with brilliant silver hair done up beneath her hat, Maeve had a narrow hawklike face where the beaked nose and pointed chin seemed headed for each other. A pair of cornflower-blue eyes stared out bright as gems, probing and searching.
The Seer tapped the driver's door of her vintage Bentley with her cane. A second later, all three of the robed men rushed shrieking around the edge of the wooden fence. They were swinging hand-held sickles with curved blades three inches long. Their screams were meant to paralyze the intended victim with fear and surprise.
A wide form heaved up from behind the driver's wheel of the Bentley, not tall but broad and silent. He seemed encased entirely in armor made of black leather plates, even his face was hidden beneath a round helmet which revealed nothing. As the Grimua got within reach, the armored man moved to meet them with startling agility. One open hand swung like an axe blade to strike down a Grimua with a noise like a branch snapping. The others were slashing wildly with their sickles but not doing any perceptible harm.
The armored man lashed out again in a backhand of the same blow, catching another Grimua across the face. That cultist fell to his knees and then over on his side. A second later, the man in leather plate seized the final cultist by the top of the head and by one shoulder, and effortlessly twisted the man's head around clockwise with a hideous accompanying noise.
At the armored feet, the final surviving Grimua groaned and tried to turn over. The dark figure swiveled his helmeted head down to see this. One wide foot lifted to poise over the cultist's head.
"Cormac, wait," said the old woman. She moved closer, keeping on hand on the fender of her car as if she might need support.
"I obey," the armored man answered in a hollow voice. The foot remained raised as if no effort was required to hold it in mid-air like that.
"Your continued life is most uncertain, my friend," Maeve said. "What business do Druids have in this new world?"
"We.. we are not Druids. We are Grimua, older by ages, heirs to a deeper wisdom from the First Days. The damned Druids derived many of their customs from us." He placed both forearms flat on the ground and managed to struggle up to one knee. The armored man called Cormac allowed this, stepping back.
"My brethren, dead," the Grimua gasped. "Gareth, Dinal. Slain so easily."
The elderly Seer tapped her ebony cane on the courtyard flagstone. "You have much to explain, if you want to see tomorrow."
"We seek to keep the Moon potent. To prevent the loss of its mystic power which feeds us. The High One knew you might try to prevent us from our cause."
"Really," Maeve responded. "You will tell me everything you know. Perhaps, if I feel merciful, I might allow you to go about your remaining days with this memory wiped from your thoughts as a damp sponge wipes away dust."
Getting slowly upright, the Grimua was staring in open-mouthed horror at the armored figure. "We worked and trained to be fast, to be strong. Yet your servant struck down my brothers with such ease. What manner of man can he be?"
"Cormac?" Maeve the Seer chuckled in a low throaty way. "My friend and companion these past twenty years? Cormac dear one, reveal to this fool exactly what sort of man you are."
Lifting both gauntleted hands, the dark figure raised its helmet high to reveal nothing at all beneath. The leather armor was empty.
II.
The Targhul replaced its helmet to its shoulders and then waited further developments. It stood still as no living being could, with none of the tiny swaying adjustments men and beasts must make. Cormac remained still as a carven image, which in a sense it was.
"Place him in the passenger seat," the Seer ordered, then walked over to open the rear door of her car and climb in the back herself. The hint of her age was a faint moan which escaped her lips as she settled down and took the weight off her back. A second later, the right front door swung open. Cormac had dragged the unresisting Grimua to the car and now thrust him inside.
"Wait," said Maeve. "Cormac, before we leave, place the other two behind that fence where they will be out of sight."
"I obey," came a ghastly voice created without a mouth or lungs. The Targhul bent, seized a corpse with each hand and flung them over the high wooden fence with no attempt at gentleness. Returning to the car, Cormac took an oversized white trenchcoat and a broad-brimmed fedora to tug onto himself before squeezing in behind the steering wheel.
"Drive out along Fenwick Road, my friend," said Maeve. "Nice and secluded, no one there to hear any screaming."
In the front seat, the Grimua literally stuttered before managing, "This is a Targhul. Forbdden Magic from the Darthan Age. Your learning is great indeed."
"Know that I am Maeve Kehoe, and I am last of the Seers of the House of Kehoe," announced the old woman. "Long have we served the Halarim of Jordyn, Cirkoth and Eryasha. You interest me, child. What name do you use?"
"Kirowan. Well, that's my Grimua name. On my driver's license, it's Jack Lucey. Part of our ritual is a new name and a baptism in freezing depths."
"I see. Do not entertain any thoughts of still harming me, Kirowan. Cormac's hand is not limited by flesh and blood. He could snatch a gem from the mouth of a serpent without being bitten. So, you and your friends thought you would stab a poor old beldame? Is that your courage?"
"No, no, it was a command from our master. We have sworn in our own blood and under the Red Star to obey him in every way. Nothing personal was meant."
The elderly woman made a slight scoff. "Your own fate will not be personal, either. We both know what strange times this will be for our Luna. Your master feels mystic forces will be cast out of line, I take it?"
"That's what he said. He fears losing his own abilities, his visions and insights. So he's working a death curse on the mariners, a spell to still their hearts and empty their veins from even the greatest distance."
"I see." Maeve reached up to untie the streamer which held her sunhat on. It was warm in the Bentley as the afternoon sun produced a greenhouse effect. "Obviously, such deviltry will not be suffered to continue. One may not write a curse upon the Moon with impunity. You have only to give me the address and you may see out the years alloted to you."
"I dare not... Please. Have mercy."
"Cormac, a tap," the Seer said.
Instantly, quicker than Human eyes could follow, the leather-plated right arm swung across from the elbow to drive that fist into Kirowan's chest. Air exploded from the man's lungs at the impact. For the next few minutes, gagging and trying to recover occupied the cultist's full attention.
"My Targhul could treat you like a daisy whose petals are plucked by a child's innocent hand. Where is the address you were about to reveal?"
"I'll talk, don't make him hit me again. That hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The estate is north of here, two hour's drive and then a hike of ten miles. We are deep in the woods, living in tents and lean-tos, away from electricity. None of us have left the conclave for weeks."
"Until you three were sent to slay me?"
"Well... yes. The High One had a vision. He saw you and your servant standing on a trail, blocking the path we trod." Kirowan's voice was a mere mumble in his shame. "We were not to doubt his words."
"I see. Cormac, north we go then. You may survive this, young man. I can not forget nor forgive your attacks upon me! But you have turned toward the right course. Not only will I see your High One cast down, brave voyagers will not suffer for his selfishness."
III.
They had left the Bentley parked off the dirt road a few miles back. This was an old forest, the oaks were thick and the underbrush dense. The green canopy overhead filtered the sunlight through its hue. Despite her stoicism, Maeve had to stop walking after a short while. She was pausing, leaning on her cane and trying to get her breath as they went up a gradual incline. "Cormac..." she said at last, "Pride must give way to prudence."
The Targhul clenched the fingers of its left gauntlet on Kirowan's wrist with a grip as if a solid object had been cast around it. The cultist did not even try to struggle, he feared rightly that a slight effort by that armored hand would snap his bones into bits. Pulling Kirowan with him, the leather-plated figure went down on one knee. He offered his free arm at waist level, elbow outward as if escorting a lady and Maeve carefully place herself on his forearm. She put her hand on his collar for support.
Without any seeming effort, the Targhul rose and began striding through the forest at a much quicker pace. Dragged along, Kirowan stumbled to keep up. They made much better time with the unliving construct moving at his own rate. Along the way, the Seer had made her golem stop at a gas station where the attendant filled the tank for them and brought her three newspapers she requested. Maeve had rolled the newspapers up tightly and stuck them into the inner pocket of the Targhul's trenchcoat without explanation. She was used to keeping her own counsel.
"Easy, easy," Kirowan gasped as he saw a familiar rock formation. "We are nearly there. Listen."
Through the sullen warm air, voices rose and fell. The melody sounded familiar, but that was because later Celtic folk songs had borrowed from it. This original dated far back to an historical blind spot that archaeologists tended to dismiss. Cormac slowed, walking with that same steady tread but more cautiously.
They passed some two-man pup tents, where long-cold fire pits showed no one was occupying them at the moment. More frequently, Maeve spotted lean-tos constructed of branches propped up against a hill and covered with brush to make impromptu shelters. Once or twice, a discarded canteen or walking stick gave evidence that the Grimua were in the area. That haunting song trilled in their ears, louder and clearer.
The old woman whispered to her unwilling guest to make no sounds, that Cormac could reach his throat before he finished any warning yell. Although Kirowan did not reply, his silence was sufficient. After Maeve tapped Cormac on the shoulder, the Targhul knelt again and she dismounted with care, using her ebony cane for security. Slowly she moved to the crest of the low hill and peered down.
In the clearing fifty feet below, a round space had been tramped down by many feet. Standing chest-high upon four stone pillars was a granite slab that had been chipped into the shape of a table. Even in the growing dusk, dark stains could be seen which had been left by some liquid spilled on its surface to run down its sides.
Walking counter-clockwise around the table, pausing at every other step to raise their hands overhead, twelve Grimua in their heavy robes sang the age-old song passed down in secrecy. The effect was hypnotic.
Seated on a pile of loose rocks capped with a flat stone which was itself cushioned by folded furs was the thirteenth man. His robe differed from his followers in that gold threads ran in esoteric patterns over its surface. The cowl was thrown back. He was a man in his prime, wide-shouldered and deep-chested. The High One's face was impressive enough with its lantern jaw and deepset eyes, only the receding line of thinning hair gave away that he was reaching middle age.
Across his lap, the cult leader rested a shepherd's crook carved of ash, with a green gem inlaid at its upper bend. Rising to his feet, the High One struck the crook sharply on the rocks to signal his followers.
"Our beloved Moon rises," he announced with a deep somber voice. "Source of our visions, cold white fire of the night that drives our magic. This is the hour we must defend our Vaklkor against unbelievers who would defile her."
As he went on, up atop the hill, Maeve whispered to her servant. The Targhul bent and closed its leather gauntlets around a rounded stone big as a man's torso. He lifted it and, without seeming to take aim, hurled it high. The stone whistled in an arc over the startled cultists and crashed down to crack the ceremonial table so it fell into halves.
"Well done, my friend," she laughed.
In the screams and running around which followed, the High One swung his gaze wildly about and saw Maeve the Seer gingerly descending the hill toward them. Behind her came Cormac and Kirowan.
"Settle down, settle down," he commanded and his followers eventually did resume their circle around the now ruined table. "Well do I know and curse you, Seer."
"As if your curse means anything to me," the old woman replied. She came to halt out of reach of the Grimua, leaning on her cane. "It is naught."
Even though Kirowan was trying to hide behind the Targhul, he was spotted. The High One pointed an accusing finger and intoned, "Long and bitter will be your suffering before you cross to the next world, traitor."
"Oh, stop," said Maeve. "You're wasting your time. Even if your hex does reach the travelers, it would change nothing. You are too late."
"What is it you say?"
"I mean, you and your sad little band have been camping out in these woods too long. You lost track of the days. Cormac, show them."
The unliving construct strode into the midst of the cultists, who drew back in understandable fear. One gauntlet drew out the newspapers from inside his trenchcoat and handed them out in sections. The front page of the thickest newspaper was given to the High One. For the next few minutes, nothing could have stopped the buzz of excited conversation as the hooden people gathered to read and exclaim.
It was the High One who cried out in anguish. "Undone! We are undone. Off by one day...."
Touching her Targhul on the shoulder, the old woman said, "His staff."
The High One did not protest as Cormac seized his sherpherd crook and snapped it in half, then pried the green gem out of its setting. Against the unnatural strength of the leather-armored being, no resistance was possible for human arms.
"I tell you to disperse," Maeve called out. "Back to your worldly lives. This coven is disbanded."
As the dazed Grimua watched for orders, the High One sagged back down to the rude throne where he had been sitting. "Do as the Seer says. It was all for nothing. One day's error..."
When the Targhul moved toward them, everyone's nerve broke. Most had been fasting and praying and ready for a momentous ceremony. Now they ran off in all directions. Several shrugged out of their robes and discarded the garments as they fled.
Coming over to lean up against the shattered stone table, Maeve the Seer shook her head. "Fool you have always been, Liam. Those men mean no disrepect, they seek knowledge. Yet you intended to murder them from many thousands of miles away."
The dark figure in leather was picking up and reassembling the scattered papers. Created originally as a valet, the Targhul had an innate impulse for tidying. Maeve held out her hand and her servant gave her the newspapers.
"It is better this way," she told the dejected High One. "Cormac would have had to slay you all. He is not made of iron or granite like my other boys, but he is still unstoppable against mortals."
"I had never thought this day would come," the mystic leader grumbled with his head done.
"It's the nature of men to explore and to voyage far. Still, I'm surprised at this day myself," Maeve replied, glancing over the headlines in the last bit of daylight. The NEW YORK TIMES banner read, "Men Walk On Moon," and the WASHINGTON POST said, "The Eagle Has Landed- Two Men Walk On the Moon."
6/30/2020
7/1969
I.
The three Grimua huddled closely together behind the wooden slat fence, rubbing their robes up against each other. On a hot muggy July afternoon, they were bundled into heavy woolen garments which fell to their ankles, which had sleeves which covered their hands and which were topped with cowls which concealed their faces.
"I'm sweating like a faucet," whined the tallest of the Grimua. He wiped inside his cowl with the sleeve. "Damn it. The High One MUST be high to make us wear these blankets on a day like this, what the hell is he smoking anyway?"
Next to him, a deeper voice rumbled, "You hide your faith beneath banter and colloquialisms, Gareth. But I know your belief in our Old Ways is strong."
"Ah, let the boy complain if he will," whispered the third cultist. "Shhh. There she is. Maeve her own self."
In the courtyard on the other side of the fence, next to an old Episopalian church which was being renovated, an elderly woman came briskly down well-worn steps. She held a slim ebony walking stick but did not rely on it as yet. Dressed all in white with lace collar on her modest dress and a broad-brimmed hat on her head, she nearly shone in the sunlight.
As she stood next to her car, Maeve the Seer froze into position. Her head turned slowly from side to side, gazing about and listening. At least seventy years old, with brilliant silver hair done up beneath her hat, Maeve had a narrow hawklike face where the beaked nose and pointed chin seemed headed for each other. A pair of cornflower-blue eyes stared out bright as gems, probing and searching.
The Seer tapped the driver's door of her vintage Bentley with her cane. A second later, all three of the robed men rushed shrieking around the edge of the wooden fence. They were swinging hand-held sickles with curved blades three inches long. Their screams were meant to paralyze the intended victim with fear and surprise.
A wide form heaved up from behind the driver's wheel of the Bentley, not tall but broad and silent. He seemed encased entirely in armor made of black leather plates, even his face was hidden beneath a round helmet which revealed nothing. As the Grimua got within reach, the armored man moved to meet them with startling agility. One open hand swung like an axe blade to strike down a Grimua with a noise like a branch snapping. The others were slashing wildly with their sickles but not doing any perceptible harm.
The armored man lashed out again in a backhand of the same blow, catching another Grimua across the face. That cultist fell to his knees and then over on his side. A second later, the man in leather plate seized the final cultist by the top of the head and by one shoulder, and effortlessly twisted the man's head around clockwise with a hideous accompanying noise.
At the armored feet, the final surviving Grimua groaned and tried to turn over. The dark figure swiveled his helmeted head down to see this. One wide foot lifted to poise over the cultist's head.
"Cormac, wait," said the old woman. She moved closer, keeping on hand on the fender of her car as if she might need support.
"I obey," the armored man answered in a hollow voice. The foot remained raised as if no effort was required to hold it in mid-air like that.
"Your continued life is most uncertain, my friend," Maeve said. "What business do Druids have in this new world?"
"We.. we are not Druids. We are Grimua, older by ages, heirs to a deeper wisdom from the First Days. The damned Druids derived many of their customs from us." He placed both forearms flat on the ground and managed to struggle up to one knee. The armored man called Cormac allowed this, stepping back.
"My brethren, dead," the Grimua gasped. "Gareth, Dinal. Slain so easily."
The elderly Seer tapped her ebony cane on the courtyard flagstone. "You have much to explain, if you want to see tomorrow."
"We seek to keep the Moon potent. To prevent the loss of its mystic power which feeds us. The High One knew you might try to prevent us from our cause."
"Really," Maeve responded. "You will tell me everything you know. Perhaps, if I feel merciful, I might allow you to go about your remaining days with this memory wiped from your thoughts as a damp sponge wipes away dust."
Getting slowly upright, the Grimua was staring in open-mouthed horror at the armored figure. "We worked and trained to be fast, to be strong. Yet your servant struck down my brothers with such ease. What manner of man can he be?"
"Cormac?" Maeve the Seer chuckled in a low throaty way. "My friend and companion these past twenty years? Cormac dear one, reveal to this fool exactly what sort of man you are."
Lifting both gauntleted hands, the dark figure raised its helmet high to reveal nothing at all beneath. The leather armor was empty.
II.
The Targhul replaced its helmet to its shoulders and then waited further developments. It stood still as no living being could, with none of the tiny swaying adjustments men and beasts must make. Cormac remained still as a carven image, which in a sense it was.
"Place him in the passenger seat," the Seer ordered, then walked over to open the rear door of her car and climb in the back herself. The hint of her age was a faint moan which escaped her lips as she settled down and took the weight off her back. A second later, the right front door swung open. Cormac had dragged the unresisting Grimua to the car and now thrust him inside.
"Wait," said Maeve. "Cormac, before we leave, place the other two behind that fence where they will be out of sight."
"I obey," came a ghastly voice created without a mouth or lungs. The Targhul bent, seized a corpse with each hand and flung them over the high wooden fence with no attempt at gentleness. Returning to the car, Cormac took an oversized white trenchcoat and a broad-brimmed fedora to tug onto himself before squeezing in behind the steering wheel.
"Drive out along Fenwick Road, my friend," said Maeve. "Nice and secluded, no one there to hear any screaming."
In the front seat, the Grimua literally stuttered before managing, "This is a Targhul. Forbdden Magic from the Darthan Age. Your learning is great indeed."
"Know that I am Maeve Kehoe, and I am last of the Seers of the House of Kehoe," announced the old woman. "Long have we served the Halarim of Jordyn, Cirkoth and Eryasha. You interest me, child. What name do you use?"
"Kirowan. Well, that's my Grimua name. On my driver's license, it's Jack Lucey. Part of our ritual is a new name and a baptism in freezing depths."
"I see. Do not entertain any thoughts of still harming me, Kirowan. Cormac's hand is not limited by flesh and blood. He could snatch a gem from the mouth of a serpent without being bitten. So, you and your friends thought you would stab a poor old beldame? Is that your courage?"
"No, no, it was a command from our master. We have sworn in our own blood and under the Red Star to obey him in every way. Nothing personal was meant."
The elderly woman made a slight scoff. "Your own fate will not be personal, either. We both know what strange times this will be for our Luna. Your master feels mystic forces will be cast out of line, I take it?"
"That's what he said. He fears losing his own abilities, his visions and insights. So he's working a death curse on the mariners, a spell to still their hearts and empty their veins from even the greatest distance."
"I see." Maeve reached up to untie the streamer which held her sunhat on. It was warm in the Bentley as the afternoon sun produced a greenhouse effect. "Obviously, such deviltry will not be suffered to continue. One may not write a curse upon the Moon with impunity. You have only to give me the address and you may see out the years alloted to you."
"I dare not... Please. Have mercy."
"Cormac, a tap," the Seer said.
Instantly, quicker than Human eyes could follow, the leather-plated right arm swung across from the elbow to drive that fist into Kirowan's chest. Air exploded from the man's lungs at the impact. For the next few minutes, gagging and trying to recover occupied the cultist's full attention.
"My Targhul could treat you like a daisy whose petals are plucked by a child's innocent hand. Where is the address you were about to reveal?"
"I'll talk, don't make him hit me again. That hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The estate is north of here, two hour's drive and then a hike of ten miles. We are deep in the woods, living in tents and lean-tos, away from electricity. None of us have left the conclave for weeks."
"Until you three were sent to slay me?"
"Well... yes. The High One had a vision. He saw you and your servant standing on a trail, blocking the path we trod." Kirowan's voice was a mere mumble in his shame. "We were not to doubt his words."
"I see. Cormac, north we go then. You may survive this, young man. I can not forget nor forgive your attacks upon me! But you have turned toward the right course. Not only will I see your High One cast down, brave voyagers will not suffer for his selfishness."
III.
They had left the Bentley parked off the dirt road a few miles back. This was an old forest, the oaks were thick and the underbrush dense. The green canopy overhead filtered the sunlight through its hue. Despite her stoicism, Maeve had to stop walking after a short while. She was pausing, leaning on her cane and trying to get her breath as they went up a gradual incline. "Cormac..." she said at last, "Pride must give way to prudence."
The Targhul clenched the fingers of its left gauntlet on Kirowan's wrist with a grip as if a solid object had been cast around it. The cultist did not even try to struggle, he feared rightly that a slight effort by that armored hand would snap his bones into bits. Pulling Kirowan with him, the leather-plated figure went down on one knee. He offered his free arm at waist level, elbow outward as if escorting a lady and Maeve carefully place herself on his forearm. She put her hand on his collar for support.
Without any seeming effort, the Targhul rose and began striding through the forest at a much quicker pace. Dragged along, Kirowan stumbled to keep up. They made much better time with the unliving construct moving at his own rate. Along the way, the Seer had made her golem stop at a gas station where the attendant filled the tank for them and brought her three newspapers she requested. Maeve had rolled the newspapers up tightly and stuck them into the inner pocket of the Targhul's trenchcoat without explanation. She was used to keeping her own counsel.
"Easy, easy," Kirowan gasped as he saw a familiar rock formation. "We are nearly there. Listen."
Through the sullen warm air, voices rose and fell. The melody sounded familiar, but that was because later Celtic folk songs had borrowed from it. This original dated far back to an historical blind spot that archaeologists tended to dismiss. Cormac slowed, walking with that same steady tread but more cautiously.
They passed some two-man pup tents, where long-cold fire pits showed no one was occupying them at the moment. More frequently, Maeve spotted lean-tos constructed of branches propped up against a hill and covered with brush to make impromptu shelters. Once or twice, a discarded canteen or walking stick gave evidence that the Grimua were in the area. That haunting song trilled in their ears, louder and clearer.
The old woman whispered to her unwilling guest to make no sounds, that Cormac could reach his throat before he finished any warning yell. Although Kirowan did not reply, his silence was sufficient. After Maeve tapped Cormac on the shoulder, the Targhul knelt again and she dismounted with care, using her ebony cane for security. Slowly she moved to the crest of the low hill and peered down.
In the clearing fifty feet below, a round space had been tramped down by many feet. Standing chest-high upon four stone pillars was a granite slab that had been chipped into the shape of a table. Even in the growing dusk, dark stains could be seen which had been left by some liquid spilled on its surface to run down its sides.
Walking counter-clockwise around the table, pausing at every other step to raise their hands overhead, twelve Grimua in their heavy robes sang the age-old song passed down in secrecy. The effect was hypnotic.
Seated on a pile of loose rocks capped with a flat stone which was itself cushioned by folded furs was the thirteenth man. His robe differed from his followers in that gold threads ran in esoteric patterns over its surface. The cowl was thrown back. He was a man in his prime, wide-shouldered and deep-chested. The High One's face was impressive enough with its lantern jaw and deepset eyes, only the receding line of thinning hair gave away that he was reaching middle age.
Across his lap, the cult leader rested a shepherd's crook carved of ash, with a green gem inlaid at its upper bend. Rising to his feet, the High One struck the crook sharply on the rocks to signal his followers.
"Our beloved Moon rises," he announced with a deep somber voice. "Source of our visions, cold white fire of the night that drives our magic. This is the hour we must defend our Vaklkor against unbelievers who would defile her."
As he went on, up atop the hill, Maeve whispered to her servant. The Targhul bent and closed its leather gauntlets around a rounded stone big as a man's torso. He lifted it and, without seeming to take aim, hurled it high. The stone whistled in an arc over the startled cultists and crashed down to crack the ceremonial table so it fell into halves.
"Well done, my friend," she laughed.
In the screams and running around which followed, the High One swung his gaze wildly about and saw Maeve the Seer gingerly descending the hill toward them. Behind her came Cormac and Kirowan.
"Settle down, settle down," he commanded and his followers eventually did resume their circle around the now ruined table. "Well do I know and curse you, Seer."
"As if your curse means anything to me," the old woman replied. She came to halt out of reach of the Grimua, leaning on her cane. "It is naught."
Even though Kirowan was trying to hide behind the Targhul, he was spotted. The High One pointed an accusing finger and intoned, "Long and bitter will be your suffering before you cross to the next world, traitor."
"Oh, stop," said Maeve. "You're wasting your time. Even if your hex does reach the travelers, it would change nothing. You are too late."
"What is it you say?"
"I mean, you and your sad little band have been camping out in these woods too long. You lost track of the days. Cormac, show them."
The unliving construct strode into the midst of the cultists, who drew back in understandable fear. One gauntlet drew out the newspapers from inside his trenchcoat and handed them out in sections. The front page of the thickest newspaper was given to the High One. For the next few minutes, nothing could have stopped the buzz of excited conversation as the hooden people gathered to read and exclaim.
It was the High One who cried out in anguish. "Undone! We are undone. Off by one day...."
Touching her Targhul on the shoulder, the old woman said, "His staff."
The High One did not protest as Cormac seized his sherpherd crook and snapped it in half, then pried the green gem out of its setting. Against the unnatural strength of the leather-armored being, no resistance was possible for human arms.
"I tell you to disperse," Maeve called out. "Back to your worldly lives. This coven is disbanded."
As the dazed Grimua watched for orders, the High One sagged back down to the rude throne where he had been sitting. "Do as the Seer says. It was all for nothing. One day's error..."
When the Targhul moved toward them, everyone's nerve broke. Most had been fasting and praying and ready for a momentous ceremony. Now they ran off in all directions. Several shrugged out of their robes and discarded the garments as they fled.
Coming over to lean up against the shattered stone table, Maeve the Seer shook her head. "Fool you have always been, Liam. Those men mean no disrepect, they seek knowledge. Yet you intended to murder them from many thousands of miles away."
The dark figure in leather was picking up and reassembling the scattered papers. Created originally as a valet, the Targhul had an innate impulse for tidying. Maeve held out her hand and her servant gave her the newspapers.
"It is better this way," she told the dejected High One. "Cormac would have had to slay you all. He is not made of iron or granite like my other boys, but he is still unstoppable against mortals."
"I had never thought this day would come," the mystic leader grumbled with his head done.
"It's the nature of men to explore and to voyage far. Still, I'm surprised at this day myself," Maeve replied, glancing over the headlines in the last bit of daylight. The NEW YORK TIMES banner read, "Men Walk On Moon," and the WASHINGTON POST said, "The Eagle Has Landed- Two Men Walk On the Moon."
6/30/2020
