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Women gathering at moonlight, how could I resist such a prompt. Another offering for @labyrinthiamythweaver salon.
The moon glowed with a hint of mischief. Small rebellions lurking in its shadow. The tree welcomed the women in a small semicircle around Mother Moon.
They had begun to call her that in jest. She was the oldest among them, though she didn’t look it. With her long, wavy curls and porcelain skin, she was almost ageless. She said her secret was moonbaths, naked at midnight. But most thought it was magic.
She was a strong yet warm matriarch for the ragtag crew of odd women. Mother Moon, or Mary, had never had children of her own. But in a way, everyone was her child.
She adopted strays into her home. At one count, she had twelve cats, a goat, a small pig, and an army of crows.
Then there were the constant visitors. Every woman in the village had come to her. She guided them in birth, aided them in illness, her whispers mended hearts, and her resilient hands soothed uneasy minds with a simple stroke.
They were a Christian people, the women of the village.
But they had begun to worship her.
She never asked for it, but she accepted it.
The men of the village did not like this. The doctors did not like Mother’s healing. The priests did not like Mother’s advising on matters of import. The mayor did not like how the women gathered around her when something needed fixing.
She was a savior to the women and therefore a threat to men. The men began to discuss what to do with her in hushed rooms. Their wives overheard and warned Mother Moon.
Though she loved the village, Mother Moon decided to leave it. The women pledged that she would not leave alone.
They would follow her anywhere.
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The village women met in the night to plan their escape. Each had their reasons.
Some gruesome. Some tragic. Some that betrayed a glimmer of hope that remained.
Many women had been beaten. Others raped. Some wore their bruises in their hearts instead of their bodies.
Agnes, the youngest, did not want to leave, but she had dreams considered unbecoming of a woman of her station. She wanted to learn to read and write. It was forbidden, as were most things worth having.
They had been told it was godly for women to stay silent as they bore burdens and bore children. In harsher words, they were told to shut their mouths and know their place.
The mornings became a form of servitude: cook, clean, tend to the needs of the men. But the nights were theirs.
As the men slept, the midnight society met by the mother tree and spoke of their dreams, their sorrows, but most of all, they mapped a way forward. A path to freedom.
On the eve of the eclipse, the women gathered a last time, children at their feet. What small belongings they could carry were strapped to their backs. There was little light, much fear and the peace of knowing an end was near.
Mother Moon had given them all a special elixir to drop into their husbands’ and fathers’ drinks to make their sleeps long and hard. They only had the night to make their way out of town and into the mountains.
In the morning, the men would come looking, hunting for them.
That night, the women followed the moon and the mother into the dark forest. They protected each other, as creatures howled in the night. They almost made it. They made it all the way up the mountain. Joy within grasp.
And just as they eyed the mountaintop, all was lost.
A small mistake destroyed their hopeful plot. One of the children, who had erroneously left a goodbye note to their father. A note that gave up too much. That confessed where to find them. An act of love that ended in the most brutal display of hate.
The next day, the women were burned at the stake. A perfect circle of stakes orbiting Mother Moon. Their mother tried to save them, and their own children betrayed them.
There would always be those whose loyalty lies with those in power, who fear freedom.
Mother Moon’s last gathering was held under the moon, against her will, as the women of the town burned while the men watched.
Vengeance in their hateful eyes. The women had dared to try and escape their cruelty. And in the end, they did. In the only way a women could in those times.
Ever since, the crows have gathered at the mother tree and pecked at men that approached. The nearby crops went fallow. The night came earlier and earlier.
And under the moon’s glow, the women gathered, haunting the town forevermore.
Pacing back and forth. Walking through their homes. Gathering in the village square. They plagued the men. Soon the men began dying from sudden injury and excruciating disease, many followed by their own guilt-ridden hands. Mother Moon could’ve helped them. Cured them. Healed them. Helped them.
But Mother Moon was no more.
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About Mila
I’m Mila. A mother of two. A Creative Director by a day, a writer of plays, poetry, films and fiction every spare moment I can find. My dream at this not so young age is to make writing and teaching of writing not just my creative life but my working life. Every sub and paid sub helps me get there.
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A few custom pieces I’ve created for my Paid Subscribers. Put a lot of love in these to make them truly special for each person.
Help me produce more indie plays, films, fiction and poetry and create a stage and community for other artists.
Help me produce more indie plays, films, fiction and poetry and create a stage and community for other artists.
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