The Black Harvest Moon
09/04/21 21:42
The Black Harvest Moon
There was a quietness to the night with nothing seemingly stirring but for the whisper of bats busy in the sky above Gareth’s head. He watched them flitting jerkingly as they followed the lines of the hedgerows and trees.
He burped loudly and apologised to the empty night. There was no one there to react.
Halfway home from the coaching inn he stopped for his traditional dewatering exercise into the shallow ditch by the lonely oak. He wobbled unsteadily at the top of the slope and momentarily thought he might fall in. That had happened more than once. And always he’d skidded down through the freshly damp patch. He caught himself and smiled at his little victory.
As he turned back to the road he saw the moon looming over him, silhouetting the willows on the top of Kendell Hill. The moon was full and seemed unnaturally large in the sky - it was somehow supernatural. He’d heard a snippet of conversation in the pub earlier. He wasn’t sure who from, but someone had said tonight was the Black Harvest Moon. He’d not heard that phrase for years, probably back to his school days. The moon was supposedly late rising, full and low in the sky like this, and the harvest was not agricultural, it related to the taking of young lives. That’s why school children told the story. Death brought to the young under the full moon. He recalled it was headless bodies found on the moors.
He laughed to himself. To think he’d believed such nonsense. Anyway he was too old now to bother a man with an axe. He was no longer young: as an old man he was safe. Though he’d never admit to being old to anyone.
Gareth hardly realised that he’d sped up the hill. His walking was normally constant. His mother had said she could set the mantel clock by when he got home from the pub. Urgent or relaxed, his strides seemed pendulum sure. But not now. Something spooked him. He needed to get home. The axe of the Black Harvest Moon could fall on these moors.
The moon was so bright it gave an ethereal glow. His eyes accustomed to the night, he could make out the road to the cusp of the next hill where it hung before dropping to their cottage. He thought of his mother. She’d probably be asleep in front of the embers of the wood fire. She’d smell of damp smoke like preserved meat. He’d joked that she’d be preserved forever by that fire. They’d find her long after she’d been dead and buried with her smile and eyeglasses still knitting some hideous blanket.
He wanted to be home now under one of her blankets. It was less than a mile. His heart was now going faster than his feet: ten to the dozen his mother would call it. Away from the trees there were no bats, there was nothing around the moors at the moment, though he’d tripped over a dead sheep just last week. The farmer had blamed wolves, but Gareth had never seen or heard a wolf himself. He thought the farmer a story teller.
His heart was thumping in his ears. A man was near. He could feel it. But there was no one young here. And the story was nonsense anyway. He was safe. But still he was now all but running. He’d seen no one ahead from the top of the hill - but that didn’t stop him running into the man. He ran straight into him. Over six foot tall, wide and healthy like the best of farm labourers. But so much more. It felt like he’d run into a wall. He blinked at the silhouette of a man in smart clothes like never seen; no one would wear those clothes in the country. Gareth shifted around on his elbows to see this impossible man. The moon framed him. He had a high top hat like something from fancy pictures. In his right hand he held the long handle of an axe. It looked too nice for a tool. Not something for chopping wood.
‘I can hear your thoughts,’ said the man. ‘It is not for chopping wood.’
He turned and twisted as the axe rose and fell in one smooth move, perfected over years.
‘Young enough my friend.’ He said, as he picked up the severed head by the hair. The moon saw it all. As it did every year.
There was a quietness to the night with nothing seemingly stirring but for the whisper of bats busy in the sky above Gareth’s head. He watched them flitting jerkingly as they followed the lines of the hedgerows and trees.
He burped loudly and apologised to the empty night. There was no one there to react.
Halfway home from the coaching inn he stopped for his traditional dewatering exercise into the shallow ditch by the lonely oak. He wobbled unsteadily at the top of the slope and momentarily thought he might fall in. That had happened more than once. And always he’d skidded down through the freshly damp patch. He caught himself and smiled at his little victory.
As he turned back to the road he saw the moon looming over him, silhouetting the willows on the top of Kendell Hill. The moon was full and seemed unnaturally large in the sky - it was somehow supernatural. He’d heard a snippet of conversation in the pub earlier. He wasn’t sure who from, but someone had said tonight was the Black Harvest Moon. He’d not heard that phrase for years, probably back to his school days. The moon was supposedly late rising, full and low in the sky like this, and the harvest was not agricultural, it related to the taking of young lives. That’s why school children told the story. Death brought to the young under the full moon. He recalled it was headless bodies found on the moors.
He laughed to himself. To think he’d believed such nonsense. Anyway he was too old now to bother a man with an axe. He was no longer young: as an old man he was safe. Though he’d never admit to being old to anyone.
Gareth hardly realised that he’d sped up the hill. His walking was normally constant. His mother had said she could set the mantel clock by when he got home from the pub. Urgent or relaxed, his strides seemed pendulum sure. But not now. Something spooked him. He needed to get home. The axe of the Black Harvest Moon could fall on these moors.
The moon was so bright it gave an ethereal glow. His eyes accustomed to the night, he could make out the road to the cusp of the next hill where it hung before dropping to their cottage. He thought of his mother. She’d probably be asleep in front of the embers of the wood fire. She’d smell of damp smoke like preserved meat. He’d joked that she’d be preserved forever by that fire. They’d find her long after she’d been dead and buried with her smile and eyeglasses still knitting some hideous blanket.
He wanted to be home now under one of her blankets. It was less than a mile. His heart was now going faster than his feet: ten to the dozen his mother would call it. Away from the trees there were no bats, there was nothing around the moors at the moment, though he’d tripped over a dead sheep just last week. The farmer had blamed wolves, but Gareth had never seen or heard a wolf himself. He thought the farmer a story teller.
His heart was thumping in his ears. A man was near. He could feel it. But there was no one young here. And the story was nonsense anyway. He was safe. But still he was now all but running. He’d seen no one ahead from the top of the hill - but that didn’t stop him running into the man. He ran straight into him. Over six foot tall, wide and healthy like the best of farm labourers. But so much more. It felt like he’d run into a wall. He blinked at the silhouette of a man in smart clothes like never seen; no one would wear those clothes in the country. Gareth shifted around on his elbows to see this impossible man. The moon framed him. He had a high top hat like something from fancy pictures. In his right hand he held the long handle of an axe. It looked too nice for a tool. Not something for chopping wood.
‘I can hear your thoughts,’ said the man. ‘It is not for chopping wood.’
He turned and twisted as the axe rose and fell in one smooth move, perfected over years.
‘Young enough my friend.’ He said, as he picked up the severed head by the hair. The moon saw it all. As it did every year.