Moonshine

by Susan Dexter

  If he aimed himself straight at the moonglow on the horizon, he could keep a steady course, Tristan decided. He wasn’t certain where that course might take him, but at least he wouldn’t wander in a circle. The need to watch the ground just in front of his feet made it hard to keep from straying. If he walked in a broad arc, he’d wind up where he’d begun. Tristan was on his guard against that, but still it could happen. The bog had few landmarks, even by day. Tall as he was, he couldn’t see far enough. One pool looked just like the next and the last. Every tussock of grass mimicked its neighbor. The sky over all looked infinite.

  Nightsong replaced the day’s insect buzz. Frogs were the singers—frogs of every size, by their voices. Tristan heard shrill pipings, deep boomings, croakings pitched everywhere between. He stepped over to a dry hillock. Possibly it was an abandoned muskrat lodge. Tristan sat down and waited for moonrise. Once he’d been still for a bit, the nearest frogs regained their boldness, and added their voices to the distant choir.

  Stars came out in the deep purple sky. He ought to be able to use some of them for guides, Tristan knew. Yet stars did shift with the hours. And stars wouldn’t give him light enough to pick his way in such country. Best to wait for the moon.

  Waiting, Tristan grew drowsy. His day had begun early. It had been long. The sun had been hot. He’d walked many a league, even if never in an especially straight line. Trudging through the sucking mud of the bog was tiring. And negotiating with bees sapped whatever strength he might have had left.

  Tristan rested his head on an upraised knee. Only for a moment, he promised himself. Too long, and he’d have a stiff neck. But just for a moment, to rest…

  * * * *

  His eyes were gritty. For a dozen heartbeats, Tristan was utterly at a loss. He couldn’t decide where he was. He didn’t remember how he’d come to be there. The darkness, the lack of familiar objects about gave the feel of a dream. He wanted to wake up, but he wasn’t sure he was asleep.

  He lifted his head—and pain shot through his neck. The discomfort convinced him that he was awake. But awake where? Where was he?

  Memory came back. The bees. The bog.

  If he’d slept past moonrise…if he’d lost his only guide through his own weakness…Tristan’s mouth was dry. How stupid, to fall asleep!

  No. There it was! A golden-pale glow on the horizon. Tristan got to his feet, dizzy with relief. He fumbled with the strap of the linen bag.

  Frogs went silent as he moved. In the sudden quiet, he could hear the bees humming inside the skep. Had he disturbed them? No. Bees used the beating of their many wings to warm the hive in cool weather, on chill nights. Motion made heat. Rub your hands together, soon your fingers were warm. Bees were clever. And these sounded comfortable.

  A pair of green coins shone, hovering midway between Tristan’s toes and his knees. That would be Thomas, otherwise invisible.

  Moon’s up? the cat asked.

  Tristan nodded and settled the strap on his shoulder, so the skep rode on his back. No jostling, not joggling. The bees made no protest.

  Not much light, Thomas complained.

  “There’s probably a little mist. It should be brighter as the moon climbs higher.” Tristan peered out across the bog, trying to sort water from muddy earth. He could fix a course on the rising moon, but he’d still have to watch his feet closely. Some bogs fringed lakes. He could be at the edge of one such now, for all he knew.

  Taking frequent bearings on the moonglow, Tristan slogged off. Was the moon rising over a hill, or behind trees? It was slow to climb, meaning the horizon was not flat, or bare. There was something tall out there. Earth, or the forest edge. At this distance, he had no way to decide. Tristan was content if he was only in mud up to his ankles, rather than his knees.

  The frogs grew used to his splashing and kept up their singing no matter what Tristan did. Obviously he was no raccoon hunting a supper of tender frogs. A raccoon would have made far less noise than he did.

  Odd, how the night stretched. Tristan was certain he had walked for the best part of an hour. Yet in such a time the moon would surely have lifted clear of the highest hill. It would be lighting his way from overhead. He looked for it.

  Toadstools! How had he wandered so far off his course? Instead of straight ahead, the glow was well to his right.

  Tristan corrected his aim. His feet ached with cold and wet. His calves cramped. His knees were sore and his hips hurt. The mud was hard to avoid. By day, the color of the plants had told him where to step. Bright green was the shade to be wary of—that was usually duckweed, which grew lushly over standing water. But in the dark, every color was some shade of gray. Unless it was black. Tristan’s steps were unsteady and often quite deep.

  He was off course again. Tristan bent his steps to his right, determined to cease his straying. He was not a child, to constantly lose his way. He was a wizard in training. He knew better than to walk in circles. Was the load on his shoulder subtly steering him awry?

  He soon had Thomas on the other shoulder to balance the load. Wading through water by day and night did not suit the cat. Tristan didn’t blame Thomas one bit. His own longer legs were no real advantage. Nor was stopping to rest a temptation. Whenever Tristan stood still, he began to sink.

  Thomas wasn’t heavy, but his shifting about was annoying. Tristan didn’t object to the purring. Warm fur against his neck made a nice contrast to the chill wet paws that kept bumping his ear. Had Thomas settled and stayed put, he’d have been a pleasure to carry.

  However, it seemed the cat couldn’t decide how he wished to ride. Thomas turned this way, that way. He used his claws freely, to secure his position. Thomas kept his claws wonderfully sharp. Their tips could pierce skin right through several layers of heavy cloth. Tristan gasped and took a distracted step straight into deep water.

  Floundering, trying not to jostle the bees, Tristan got his footing back at last. He faced the pale glow once more. Would the moon never rise?

  Which one’s the moon? Thomas asked, shifting about once more.

  “There’s only one moon!” Tristan snapped, shoving Thomas’ tail out of his eyes. If only the cat would stay still! Tristan raised his shoulder to protect his neck from straying claws, but that just made Thomas shift again.

  There are two glows. Which is the moon?

  “What?” Tristan halted. He began to sink into the mud at once. He kept moving because he was forced to, but he looked sharply over his shoulder. Thomas’ whiskers brushed his cheek, like a spider’s legs.

  One over there. And another there. Thomas tapped a paw against Tristan’s cheek, asking him to turn his head. Not to mention that they move.

  Tristan’s feet stumbled onto firmer ground. He wished his wits could do the same. Thomas was right. There were two glows. And neither one of them rose as the moon should long since have done.

  The wet earth seemed willing to bear him for a moment. Tristan took a careful look at the sky. The stars were sharp enough. He couldn’t see even the thinnest veiling of cloud. Once he sorted out a constellation or two, he’d have his direction.

  Then he saw the moon.

  The near-disk was gray as old iron. A wash of rusty color along its lower edge helped that resemblance along. It was far above the horizon. In fact, it was well overhead. Tristan had to tip his head back to see it. No great wonder that he hadn’t noticed it rising. The moon was still as dim as it had been during the eclipse.

  How odd. Tristan couldn’t remember ever seeing such a moon on a clear night.

  The light he’d been following—just possibly he’d been following both the lights, at one time or another, Tristan thought dizzily—must be a marsh-light. Dead-lights, some folk named them. They were said to lure unwary travelers to deep muddy graves.

  Well, these had not managed to do that to him, but it was hardly for want of trying. Tristan decided to stay where he was till dawn. It wouldn’t be so comfortable as the muskrat lodge had been, but he might not find anoth
er dry spot in the darkness. He couldn’t keep wandering through the mud all night. He’d be all right once the sun came up. There would be no mistaking the sun.

  The dead-lights flitted about, seeking to recapture his attention. Tristan ignored them. If only he had a place to sit! His feet hurt, but he dared not set the skep down, far less himself. The ground underfoot was just too wet. Thomas began to seem very heavy on his left shoulder. Standing for the remainder of the night was not a happy prospect. He was so tired.

  It could be worse. He could be in mud to his neck. Tristan sighed and, for lack of anything better to do, watched the dead-lights. When he had tired of that, he turned slowly in place and watched the other way for a while. Moving should help him keep warm, same as the bees. He examined the stars. He tried to reckon how many hours remained till morning. He knew when certain stars should rise…

  There was a third light out there. Tristan squinted at it. The brightness lacked the faint green cast of the dead-lights. It shone silver as the moon should have, only it was on the ground, not sailing across the sky. Or so it seemed. In the gloom, his eyes tried to invent explanations for anything they could not plainly see.

  The longer he watched the light, the more Tristan wanted to know just what it was. It always held steady, as if whatever made it was fixed to the distant spot. Was it starlight reflected from a pool of water? It seemed too bright for that. Could it be pale flowers? Tristan didn’t think so. He hadn’t seen anything of that sort when there’d been light to see it by. Most flowers shut themselves at night. Closed their petals tight till morning.

  The mud gave off sucking sounds. The sounds continued whether Tristan moved or stood still. It sounded like something strolling past, invisible. Tristan shivered at the thought. He told himself sternly that the notion was pure nonsense.

  Just then, Thomas dug several claws deep into his shoulder. Tristan gasped. He was certain that he heard something—not Thomas—snicker at him.

  Tristan willed himself to relax. He lowered his shoulders. He unclenched his fists. He struggled to swallow his stomach back down, to forget that his mouth was dry. He was long past being afraid of the dark. He was a wizard. Well, he was an apprentice wizard. But he was past such childish fears. Definitely past them.

  Something darted past the tail of his eye.

  Tristan couldn’t tell what it was. He turned so fast that he nearly fell, but he saw nothing. He heard another thick chuckle. It might have been a bubble of swamp gas bursting on the surface of the bog. Or not. The hair on the back of his neck lifted.

  Just to help matters along, Thomas made a weird noise, low in his throat. His throat was just beside Tristan’s left ear.

  “Can you see it?” Tristan hissed.

  Yesss.

  The cat did not say what he saw. He didn’t need to. Plenty of nasty things haunted certain bogs by night. Moonless nights were their favorite times. And that faded moon overhead was useless.

  Tristan reached a decision, without knowing whether he’d been seeking one.

  “Whatever it is, it’s too bold. If this place weren’t so wet—I can’t set wards here. Let’s go over to that light.”

  Think it’s dry there?

  There was no way to know. At least the steady light wasn’t the color of the dead-lights. Tristan splashed off. Something splashed behind him. Tristan told himself that it was only his imagination. He refused to look back over his shoulder.

  He wanted to recite a spell that would firm his footing, or keep his boots dry. Only the driest thing in the bog was his throat. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t swallow. He definitely heard something behind him.

  Tristan’s heart thumped violently in his chest. If he opened his mouth to whisper a spell, it would probably fly right out.

  Whichever way he turned, his back was unprotected. Tristan’s skin itched, and not just where Thomas’ claws were digging in. He felt constantly watched.

  The frogs went silent. In their place, the bog bubbled to itself. The mud made nasty smacking sounds, like rubbery lips kissing. What could it be? Tristan had seen nothing. Therefore, anything might be hidden in the night. Tristan faltered, longing to run. He resisted the temptation. He must not give way. If he panicked, he’d be herded like a sheep by whatever was back there. He’d be drowned long before morning light. He must be calm.

  Walk. Walk slowly. Never look back.

  Look at the light, Thomas suggested into his ear.

  The cat was right. Looking at the light was better. It was nearer than it had been. At least it wasn’t playing hide-and-seek with him, the way the dead-lights had. Tristan’s steps brought him closer to it, not quickly, but visibly.

  And the ground must be drier—Tristan saw the black shapes of trees. Dead trees, drowned trees, but trees, all the same. He’d be able to hang the bee skep from one of those branches. His back wouldn’t ache so, if he could get a little relief from the weight.

  The white glow was behind the tangle of bare branches. It shifted in place, moved forward, to and fro. Tristan squinted. He took another step. He halted. His lips parted as his mouth opened. His whole face went slack with wonder.

  A pale creature crouched behind the interlaced wood, feet braced, head down. Its long mane bound it in place. The silken hairs were caught on the rough branches, knotted and twisted dozens of times. Snared so, all it could raise toward Tristan was its eyes.

  Save for the eyes, it was as white as the moon. Its hide glowed with pearly light. By its shape and size, it might have been a pony, strayed somehow into the bog.

  Except for the single horn sprouting from the center of its wide white forehead, spiraling toward an icicle point between its cloven hooves.

  The Unicorn

  The unicorn’s beauty was overwhelming. Tristan could not move. Not his feet, not his hands. He could not breathe. He could not remember that he needed to breathe. He could only stare, astonished.

  The unicorn stared back at him, fiercely. Ensnared though it was, helpless, it warned Tristan to keep his distance. Its dark eyes were deep and ancient as the spaces between the stars overhead. While he looked into them, Tristan felt awe and more than a little dread. He stayed where he was. He held his breath.

  The horn between the eyes was as long as his arm, but very slender. It tapered. It twisted along its length, and every ridge of it glinted a different color. Tristan had seen no colors since the sun had set with a last flaunt of glorious banners. Now he discovered salmon, peach, rose, palest lavender and a green nearly white. Sparks of blue and gold accented the pure hues. The crowns of kings never held such jewels.

  That wonderful horn was jammed under what must have been a root, while the drowned tree was living. A dark pool of water glittered under the tangle. It looked a little like a well. Maybe the unicorn had been tricked into gazing at its reflection, lured into a trap. Tristan had read that mirrors fascinated the beasts. Maybe it had simply lowered its head to drink.

  However it had happened, the horn was stuck tight. Tristan remembered getting his hand caught inside on of Blais’ herb jars once. The hand had gone in easily. Out was quite another matter. In the end, Blais had smashed the jar to free him.

  The unicorn had obviously struggled. One cloven hoof was snared by another twisty root. The silken mane was caught fast on the tree, strand after strand after strand. Every movement the unicorn made had only bound it more securely. Now, it could scarcely stir. It rocked back and forth, but not strongly enough to tear free. The unicorn was helpless. It was frightened. It was furious.

  The bog-haunts had tricked it, Tristan decided. He hung the skep on a handy branch. Then he began setting wards against visitors. He couldn’t work magic upon running water, but earth—even soggy earth ringed round by a great deal of water—was another matter.

  Tristan was startled to see that his fingers left trails of silver in the air. The traces of his spellcasting faded slowly away as he stared. They were useful, he decided nervously. He could see the protections he was shapi
ng, instead of having to hold his objective in his head in the usual way. That was an advantage, for all it took some getting used to. Once the protective circle was complete, Tristan turned back to the unicorn.

  How long had it been trapped here? It had been bold enough to confront him, when he might have been a danger. But now it drooped. It looked somehow shrunken. It closed its eyes. Exhausted, was it? Maybe it had been caught a long while. It seemed worn out.

  Tristan laid a spell on his brass-bladed knife, to make the tip sharp. Later, when he set to work against the tree, he might need the knife to sprout teeth. Whatever it took to free the creature slumped against the tree, he would do.

  First, Tristan sorted out the mane. Silver hair rippled over his fingers like silk, as he pulled strand after strand away from the rough bark. He used the knife’s tip to widen narrow cracks in the wood. Forcing the knife in, he held the cracks open while he released the strands they’d trapped. The unicorn twisted its head sideways, testing new limits of motion. The horn was still stuck fast.

  “I’ll get to that,” Tristan assured the creature. He spread two branches that had trapped a hoof, ignoring a third that had nothing to do with the capture. The wood barely yielded. Tristan had to push with all his strength, and the angle was awkward. Holding the branches, he nudged the unicorn’s leg with his shoulder. “Pull it out!” he gasped, hoping it would understand him.

  The unicorn shied back from his touch. The silver hoof slipped free. Its edge grazed Tristan’s chest. The roots promptly closed upon Tristan’s fingers.

  The blow was sharp enough to bruise, almost enough to crack bone. Tristan put his knuckles into his mouth, holding back a groan. He waited for the pain to ebb. The unicorn’s flailing hooves showered him with sand. The creature struggled wildly, uselessly. Nothing held it now but the horn. That, however, held it securely.

  “Calm down,” Tristan told it. “Stop thrashing. That’s what got you stuck in the first place, I bet.”

  The spirals of the horn seemed to have meshed with the twists of the roots. The roots couldn’t have grown around the horn—though they looked as if they had. Roots didn’t grow that fast. Tristan studied the problem from a little distance. He couldn’t go too close. If he did, the unicorn began to pull back in a panic. It kicked sand into his eyes, and then he couldn’t see. Tristan let it settle, twice and thrice. Its silver sides heaved like a smith’s bellows. The sound of its breathing was harsh.