Young Writers Society

*Note: This used to be Chapter 1, in case anyone was confused.

Chapter 2: Moon Dance (updated 2/13)

Lights.

Hundreds of bulbs, popping with eager glow, filling the leaves with luminosity, like magic.

Faces.

Singing, clapping, filling the clearing with sound as they pranced in circles around a glowing orange fire in celebration. Songs of ancient years and rhymes of old; a frail lady strumming on a withered guitar. Men, women, sharing kisses, embracing, worshiping, grinning.

Sky.

The sun was setting, painting stark contrast with the tongues of flame licking the air, breathing on the people, whispering in Malachi’s ear as his lungs were filled with midsummer warmth.

Majestic oak trunks stretched from the ground to the clouds, shielding the view of the village beside the wood. If you shifted your gaze and shuffled your feet, you could see the lampposts lighting the town dimly in the heart of the sacred night.

The fiddle played, the guitar strummed, the people sang. Malachi stood to the side, watching and listening, loving the moment, but feeling entirely separated from it. The clearing was filled with men and women who spent their days in struggle, but took one day a year to celebrate the few blessings gracing their lives. The young women’s faces were brushed with the colors of their gods, and the poor young boys’ dirty faces were painted over with the marks of their people.

Ho! Hey! The people chanted. Hey! Ho! They raised their arms in the air, and passed down a line of radiant grins. The men spun the women round in circles and the women laughed. The acrobats challenged the minds of the scientists as they flew over the fire from strings suspended by the towering trees.

Only at the hearty rumble of the gong did the people drop their instruments, cease their dancing, and gather around the glow of the sputtering neon fire. Many held hands. A man held an infant in his arms and whispered gently in her ear. A white-haired woman held the hand of her stout husband, his face orange in the glare of the flame. Some pressed their palms together and locked fingers, others closed their eyes and sang from their heart, and some sat down and watched, listening to the ancient hymn of their people. Malachi sat against a thin tree as the families joined hands and began to sing.

Aida ma venti

Serendoa poe!

Quis vox luminé

Hiresh saa.

Some bowed and prayed; others embraced as the music slowly began to fill the air once again. The old woman pressed her wrinkled thumbs to the frets and strings and hummed songs from her heritage in languages of old.

Malachi hummed along to himself and walked slowly to the edge of the clearing, the way you’d walk in a bookshop, ever so sure to read each spine and take it all in. He felt tranced, like he’d been viewing the world through a different lens. The Moon Dance was more beautiful and extravagant than ever, but something was missing. There were more lights this year, but also more shadow. There were more faces, but even through their laughing and dancing, Malachi saw their sorrow.

“Mal!” called a familiar voice.

It was Trista, a girl his age from the village. “Hullo,” he said with a smile, accepting an awkward embrace as he tried to find the right words, assembling his thoughts as he pulled himself from a daze. “What brings you out here tonight?” he asked, feeling nothing less than stupid the second the words left his mouth.

“You must be joking, Mal! It’s Moon Dance!” She laughed.

Malachi shifted uncomfortably. His focus tracked back to the festival. Why did it seem so wrong to be here? “I suppose it is!” he joked.

Firmly, Trista grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the glow of the fire. “Enough of this, let’s go on and celebrate!”

“Celebrate...?” He seemed to have lost all track of his thoughts.

She laughed. “You’re too funny, Mal. It’s Moon Dance, have you forgotten?”

The echo of the hymn pulsed through the balmy summer air and vanished seconds later. A woman beside them held out her hands in silent meditation; young couples pressed muddy lips to their infant’s cheeks; school children danced, jesting and grinning, their hair tangled, their fingers swollen.

Malachi, regaining consciousness and now determined to recover from his embarrassing conversation with Trista, turned and extended a hand, breathing steadily, concentrating and pushing the uncertainty from his mind. Even in the warm air, his fingers felt cold with bitter anxiety. The music picked up: the fiddle, the ivory keys, the fanfaring horns. As they danced, their shadows played to the rhythm of the lights strung above their heads. Malachi felt his palms grow sweaty; Trista only grasped them tighter. She laughed as he spun her round under the arch of his arm and met her gaze again, tense. They took hands and grinned widely, but nervously, their sound drowned by the blaring trumpets. They danced in harmony with one another; neither he nor she played the melody—the calm of the fire conducted their imperfect step.

Malachi touched Trista’s hips, feeling her bone where it met her skin. She squeezed his shoulder and leaned into him. Malachi twitched, but let her rest her porcelain head on his chest. He wondered if they’d ever remember this day fondly, or if they’d someday part ways.

Trista’s face grew somber. “It’s sad, the Moon Dance. Always makes me feel sort of forgotten, you know?”

Malachi shuddered and opened his mouth, glad someone finally agreed with him, but no words came out. He simply nodded. They swayed to the music like lovers, imagining that they were, knowing they’d never be.

“Malachi!” creaked a voice.

It was Solomon, the village beggar and Malachi’s great-uncle, the only relative he’d ever known. Malachi broke from Trista’s grasp with a jolt, and came to face the man’s creased visage. He scratched his head.

“Uncle…” Malachi began awkwardly, forgetting once again where he was.

“Malachi, you had me worried!”

Distracted, Malachi looked to the side. Trista had gone now. He hoped she hadn’t been embarrassed to have been dancing romantically with the beggar’s nephew.

“Son, I haven’t seen you in a week! Maybe more!”

“I’m sorry, uncle, I-”

“Have been spending far too much time with that girl! You’re busy enough at Hawthorn’s tower every night and have no time for a woman!”

“Uncle, please-” Malachi glared. If only Malachi knew what he’d been through that week—midnight lessons almost every night in Hawthorn’s tower, followed by an hour’s walk back home. He’d barely even seen Trista.

Solomon’s angry eyes were bulging from his head like a horse fly. “Do you realize how much I’ve done for you, boy? I’m ninety-seven years old, I could drop dead any day! And you don’t have the heart to say hello to your uncle, even at the biggest festival of the year. You should be ashamed of yourself, you foolish, witless, harebrained…”

“UNCLE!”

Solomon scoffed and shook his head. “I just don’t understand you young folk anymore. You hang around with rabble like that old hag Hawthorn, and before you know it you become an ungrateful piece of horse dung and—”

“He chose me, uncle. It’s not like I had much of a choice. He’s the most powerful man in Vagor.” Malachi was shaking.

“Most powerful man in Vagor, eh?” He paused. “Tell me one worthwhile thing that dotard is teaching you, boy. One thing, and I’ll shut up.”

Malachi clenched his fists.

“Nothin’ come to mind, eh? In fact, where is he? I’d like to have a word with the old hag myself.” Hands on his hips, Solomon scanned the crowd suspiciously.

Malachi froze, realizing he hadn’t seen Hawthorn all night. The Moon Dance had always been his favorite night of the year—since Malachi was only seven years old and named the Protector’s apprentice, they’d always spent it together. It was part of the Protector’s job to prepare the festival, after all. The string players, the acrobats the old woman on the guitar—they’d all been hired by Hawthorn for the occasion, brought in from the city. Malachi darted from Solomon’s gaze and searched the scene for the man he both feared and loved. What was that he’d said earlier? I’m sure you’ll see me around. Certainly he would have run into him by now—the moon was bright and clear, it was certainly late into the night.

At the sight of the Protector’s apprentice dashing around, knocking things into the fire, the people realized whom he must have been searching for.

“Where is that old wizard?”

“Better off without him, he scares the children, gave little Eva nightmares…”

“Makes me uncomfortable, that man. Very suspicious…”

“Sketchy business, magic. Wouldn’t want to get messed up with it.”

Hawthorn’s lean, lanky body was usually easy to spot even in the darkness, but he was nowhere to be found. Solomon yelled from behind: “Boy, I’m not done with you just yet! Come back here!”

Malachi ran off towards Hawthorn’s tower, his heart racing, the world spinning. There was a grimness in the air that told him that Hawthorn meant to attend the festival. Something was terribly wrong.