Speculative Fiction Centre

Shadows of the Dark Moon

The skies wept in bitter sorrow when I parted the long–closed curtains of time.  I peered through, seeing shadows of the dark moon creep from thorn-beds, yellow eyes gleaming hatefully.  Off to the side, a young boy ran through a quiet village, arms churning for greater speed, a message held tightly in his teeth.  

His feet caught the wind as he vaulted the stone ring that was carved with runes, holding the night demons at bay.   

Their eyes glared hungrily, following the boy’s course, but they did not give chase.  A Guardian ran beside the boy, matching his jump and stride with quick feet.  Demons slunk low, hissing dark wrath, as they fled the Guardian.

The scene flickered.  Night became day, and I watched the demons change.  Dark fur patterned their bodies with unknown symbols, hiding them in plain sight from unsuspecting strangers.  The demons, now powerless under the sun’s bright glare, could enter the village at will.  They skittered aimlessly, keeping to dry places, in search of rest.  The runes only caged them in their dangerous form.
          The boy and his Guardian made sport of the demons by day, chasing them into the trees.  And those they caught, he baptized in an icy stream of melted snow--drawing squalls of rage.

          Days flickered past, then seasons.  The boy grew stronger, bolder, but didn’t know I watched him along with the demons.  In a fallow field, the boy constructed a fort between his home and the edge of the thorns.  He kept vigil there sunup to sundown, awaiting his chance to harry the devils.  The demons growled as they tested the wards by night, but hid during the day, mocking the boy safely from afar.

          Lazily, the summer wind wafted through ribbons of dry, brown grass, its song lulling the boy to sleep.  The Guardian, too, gave into the warmth and rhythm, closing his eyes in slumber.  Hours passed.  The sun reached its zenith and descended toward the west.
          A shadow flitted by, and the Guardian raised his lids.  In seconds he was up, sounding the charge.  Roused from sleep, the boy sprang into action, rushing to the edge of the thorns.  He realized his mistake too late.  The passing creature, though dangerous, was not a demon.  Tail high, the skunk showered the boy and Guardian with its vile spray.  I gagged at the stench as the demons watching laughed themselves silly.

          Years flickered past.  The boy grew taller, almost a man. 

Though the Guardian kept a constant vigil, the youth lost interest.  More often than not, he visited far-off friends, avoiding the fort for days at a time. 

One night while the boy was gone, the Guardian heard a cry from the road. 

Was that the boy? 

The Guardian rushed from the fort, thinking the demons had attacked his boy.  He followed the road up a rise.  I heard a roar, then beams of light crested the hill, catching the Guardian in a glamour.  A silver dragon thundered by, trailing smoke.  Thrown to the roadside, they Guardian lay still and broken.

          The boy returned early the next morning.  Instead of the warm tongue of his faithful companion, he was greeted by frost-kissed dew and an empty bed.  His heart sank with worry.  Though tired, he ran, searching up and down the thorny banks.  Cold pierced his marrow upon reaching an empty fort.  Tirelessly, he searched on, walking to the main highway.
          Around noon, a spark of hope extinguished in misery as the boy came upon the cold body of his best friend.  Heart pounding in his throat, tears streaming from both eyes the boy lifted the stiff body and carried him to their long-neglected fort.  Rain fell from the sky like tears as he forced the shovel deeper into the earth.  At first, he dug slowly, but guilt and anger gave power to his efforts.  Soon he had a hole deep enough to bury himself.
          Jamming the shovel against a rock, the handle splintered in two.  Tears and fury spent, he wrapped a small black spaniel in a blanket and covered him with soil.
          Startled, I watched the scene melt and fade.  The stout walls of the fort became a rusted old Buick with a warped plywood upper deck, and a wringer washing machine for a turret.  Feral cats, instead of demons, darted in and out of berry vines along the ditch bank.
          The boy saw me at last, and I knew he was me, still holding the magic I had lost. 

Leonard James was born in Sacramento, California and grew up just north of there in Gridley. Despite having failed highschool English three times, he went on to become a truck driver. However after spreading a load of mulch along with parts of his truck across Oroville, he decided a new vocation was necessary. He now fancies himself as a fantasy novelist with hopes of a book deal in the near future.  This is his fourth published story.