Blue Moon 

It's been a long time, grant me that. Too long to recall exactly what happened. I have probably woven my own dreams and thoughts into the tale, and patched what I can’t recall. But for you, I will go back across the years, demanding all I may from the memory I have left. Pour yourself another cup of tea, my dear. This will take a while.

It started, at least for me, a bright day. Too bright, in truth. I was down by the river collecting coloured stones. I did that for Grandmamma. She used to take them in her delicate hands and tell me how beautiful they were. She kept them upon the windowsill to gaze at them when she was alone, she told me.

Stones are wonderful things. They are quiet, content. No shouting at each other and making other stones miserable. The smallest pebble has the right to sneer at us, at our little selfish boundaries, at our greedy borders between mine, and yours. But they don't sneer. Because stones are wonderful things.

I only found one stone that morning. But I felt it was special. Bright blue, and slightly cloudy, it was carried proudly in cupped hands all the way to Grandmamma's house.

Everyone said Grandmamma was a witch - and she never contradicted them. She lived in her little ivy-encrusted cottage atop a hill, away from the village. She kept to herself, mostly, but always had a kind word of wisdom for anyone.

Truly told, everyone thought of her as a grandmother. The farmers brought her wheat, and the dairymen milk. She kept her own vegetable and herb garden in the back. She got sugar cane from the few traders that stopped by the village, to make cakes and puddings, which she sold or gave to her granddaughter. After a hot day's stone searching I could always expect a tasty treat and a glass of lemonade.

In return for their kindness, Grandmamma advised anyone who came to her. Women brought woes of their husbands, and men of their wives, and were always certain of a wise and well-based reply. Mourning family and friends found comfort, angry landlords, calmness.

And for those whose needs went beyond mere council, she lead upstairs to her study. That study was a regular storeroom for all those knick-knacks of gypsy science. Tarot decks, ancient books, beads, interesting boxes, wigs, bandanas, bells and just about everything else. There she gave them mystic judgment.

In this way Grandmamma lived her life in the ivy-covered cottage on top of a hill.

Usually, when I brought river pebbles home, Grandmamma looked at them, smiling. "How beautiful," she said, and slipped them into the pocket of her apron, and then invited me for a taste of her new recipe. That was the last I ever saw of the stones.

But on this occasion she merely frowned and closed her fist over the blue, cloudy stone. That afternoon's tea was drunk in silence, with me tentatively wording a question every now and then. "How are the herbs?" or "Ron said he saw an eagle last night." But to no avail.

"Juliet," she beckoned to me when we had finished. I followed her up the stairs to the gypsy room. There she sat herself at her desk. "Sit down," she murmured

I obeyed.

"Juliet. Juliet, my dear, where did you find this?" She pulled out the stone.

"In the river. Opposite the old jetty." I peered at her, trying to see what expression was passing through those features, hidden by wisps of white hair that had fallen on the desk. She nodded, as if confirming a happening that both of us had witnessed long ago, that she had forgotten and was now being helped to recall. "I will tell you a story, Juliet. It is true, all true. It is important. So listen..."

"Long ago, when this village was just a trade post between Laha and Generico, there lived an ancient woman named Mother Marial. She was very old, and very kind and very wise. She lived in a garden, a mile or so from this town. She sat there for hours at a time, meditating, for this is the only true way to achieve inner peace, you know. She crossed her legs in the middle of the garden and emptied her mind of all things. The only way of doing this is to repeat your mantra that unites the chakras of your soul. Every person has a mantra, and no two are the same in the history of the world. Many people wished to seek Mother Marial's wisdom, but they never interrupted her meditation. Those who felt the courage sat down and tried to meditate with her.

"One day, Marial took on an assistant, a little girl named Karrel. She taught her the properties of herbs, how to talk to people - all the outward skills. But Karrel, who was a very curious child, probed into the dark corners of the conversation, seeking some way to get Mother Marial to tell her something. She did everything to please her. She helped in the kitchen, she studied harder, she worked in the garden, she ran errands. She saved up and bought a gold necklace for her mistress. But though Mother Marial smiled and laughed and thanked her assistant, she never told anything revealing.

"One day, Karrel was walking down the river and spotted something sparkling in the sands. Hitching her dress up, she stepped into the water, and immediately slipped on an algae-covered rock. She fell face-first into the freezing water and shrieked as it covered her head.

"But as she was submerged in the crystalline flow, Karrel relaxed. The subtle play of water on the river bottom soothed her, and she took no note of the cold. Instead, she searched for the stone. There it lay, glittering in the sunlight. She reached out to grab it, to pull it towards her. Her hands grasped around its cool, smooth, gentle surface, and then the world thinned, faded from view, and Karrel melted into nothingness."

Here Grandmamma stopped, and peered up at me. "Do you understand?" she asked.

I nodded, not understanding but not knowing what to say.

"No you don't. There is nothing to understand. She fainted. So what?" She turned to the window. "It's getting dark, Juliet. It's time you went home and to bed. I have not told you much today, but there will be more, I promise."

"But Grandmamma!" I cried, standing up and spreading my fingers on the desk. "I want to hear more now! I want to go on talking for hours and hours..."

"Listen, listen, child. You must listen. Come back tomorrow. Do not collect any more stones. There will be more time tomorrow. Now go!"

I walked home dejectedly, listening to the birds in the cypress trees. It was bad luck to fall to sleep under a cypress tree, I remembered. You would be spirited away by wood elves and taken to a far-off place. Perhaps I should try it sometime. But only when Grandmamma has finished her story.

I wandered up the dirt path in the failing light, wondering what would happen to Karrel and the stone. I entered the house and knew at once that my parents were out. The cat was inside. There was no sound of Father in the kitchen. I walked up the stairs, into my room and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I dreamed of rushing rivers, cypress trees and magic gardens.

I woke early, before dawn, before the first fingers of sunrise caressed the horizon. No birds sang. I got dressed in yesterday's clothes and was out of the house and down the slope without breakfast.

I made my way down to the river. A few ripples spread in the dark. The moon was huge and circular, like a giant white pebble in the still-dark sky.

And its light fell on the water's surface, disturbed by the ripples of passing water insects, I felt that there was another moon in the lake, a huge shining liquid thing, squirming under the surface.

And the darkness, the blackness, became blueness, a few shy rays tap-danced on my face, and the sun peaked over the horizon. A beautiful dawn. I found myself wanting to jump and shout, to rush at something and either hug it, or kick it. I'm sure you know how it feels, when you are so excited that you will do anything to get it out of you. Adrenalin, I think it's called. Yes. But somehow that name doesn't fit the feeling properly.

Dawn rose like a goddess, spreading her wings across the valley and onto the river. The moon, sullen in the brightness, slowly faded from view, leaving not even a shadow of its former self in the blazing inferno.

I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the light. I had never before seen a sunrise like this one.

But though the sun was magnificent, I felt sorrow when I saw the moon leave.

Grandmamma had prepared some fresh lemonade by the time I arrived at her cottage. There were chocolate muffins on the table. I loved chocolate muffins, and still do, as a matter of fact. Try one. They are delicious.

Once again, we ate in silence, but this time in a thoughtful silence rather than a nervous one. I was once again mulling over the story and wondering what would happen next. Grandmamma must have been reorganizing the facts in her head for the storytelling. I had no doubt that she was telling the truth. Grandmamma would never lie. Anyway, I know now.

Once again, she took me up to the gypsy room. A delightful scent of lavender hung in the air. We sat down at the little table again. She took out the stone and fingered it in her delicate white hands. It was a blue drop among moving snow.

Without waiting, she launched into the story.

"Karrel woke up to see a wooden ceiling, stained with damp and cracked with age. She recognized it. It was the ceiling of Mother Marial's spare bedroom. She sat up with a groan to look around the room."

Really, Grandmamma was a wonderful storyteller. She told stories as though she were writing a book. Maybe she was. Maybe she just took a skeleton of truth, and fitted it out with finery, like I am sure I do now.

"Her vision drifted in and out of focus, but she could make out Mother Marial sitting in one corner, writing in a book. Mother Marial looked up at Karrel's groan, and hurried over when the girl sat up. Lifting a cloth from where it was soaking in the washbasin, she bent over Karrel, pushing her down, and wiping her face.

"The water was scalding hot, and Karrel cried out, but soon the cry dulled down to a level whimper. At last, Mother Marial seemed satisfied and put the cloth down. She held out her hands for Karrel to pull on. Karrel slowly lifted herself up, and looked into Marial's face."

Here Grandmamma stopped, and stared off into space for a few minutes. I kept as quiet as a newly oiled door.

"Moon is stolen by Sun.," she whispered.

"Sun is stolen by Time...

"Time is stolen by Joy...

"Joy is stolen by Ending...

"No thief wishes to steal an Ending." She bent her head, "But Moon lasts forever."

I waited.

"That was what Marial told Karrel. And that is what I am telling you now. Remember it. You might understand it one day."

I felt I already understood. I looked at the blue stone that Grandmamma had been holding. It now lay there on the deep pine, between us. I picked it up and fingered it as Grandmamma had fingered it moments before.

"Go now," said Grandmamma, "It's time to go home."

"But it's not even dark!"

"It is time to go home when the tale is finished. So go."

I didn't feel satisfied as I walked home. The story was incomplete in my head. But I knew - somehow - that there was a way to make me happy, to fulfill my heart.

I sat at the bank of the river and sought a way of answering my questions. What happened to Karrel? Who was Mother Marial? What had Grandmamma got to do with all this?

The moon was almost full, and not a ripple disturbed its reflection in the water. Despite the absence of wind, it was quite cold, so I put my hands in my pockets and felt something even colder. I drew out the stone and looked at it coldly. Then I decided something.

I stood up and threw the stone into the center of the moon's reflection.

What happened then? I'm not absolutely sure. The stone disappeared without so much as a ripple. It just landed and was accepted by the water. No, not by the water, by the moon. It was taken in, and welcomed.

And then something happened that I will always remember, no matter how old I get. My body seemed to fill with a glow of happiness, a radiance of joy, that was inside me and around me and everywhere, and that I was in those places, in those times, being the light and the joy.

And then it was gone. The last thing I saw was a full moon, shining on me. I fell asleep to the sound of creaking cypress.

And that is how I came to be here. But you must be off, traveler, such is your need. Tell my story, if you must, but exactly as I have told you. I have no doubt you will remember.

- Hannah Tillim    (Age 12)
Manama, Bahrain.