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"Write a Curse Upon the Moon"
May. 28th, 2022 04:24 pm"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.
( the rest of the story )
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.
( the rest of the story )
