The Old Man and the Hunter's Moon

On my travels I've come across many tales both weird and wondrous, and even more that would send you to sleep in an instant. But in all that time, none ever let its mark in quite the manner of an incident in my youth in which I myself was a player.

It occurred, somewhat conveniently from an ageing storyteller's point of view, you might think, on a chill winter's night at a place called the Hunter's Moon, a small wayside inn along the north road to Calenhar. Put aside what you are doing, come closer so you can feel the warmth of the fire, and I shall tell you what transpired that night.

It was purely by chance that I happened to be in the Hunter's Moon that evening. As many of you know, I am a wanderer. I have no home to speak of, and no companions save the sun and the stars, and grandfather's trusty mandolin. Well, it had been my mind to continue past that inn, hoping to make the next village before the shroud of darkness fell upon me. Yet that was not to be, for as I neared that lonely tavern the heavens saw fit to open their gates and unleash their icy missiles upon me.

So you see, circumstances and not choice drove me to that accurse place, though I had no forewarning of what was to come at that stage. Or perhaps there were darker forces at work, as some have suggested as I have told this tale. I know not. All I can say is that, though I was warmly received by the few whom fate had chosen as my companions for the night, still there was something about the place which left me with an uneasy feeling. Many times in the years since have I wondered as to the cause of that initial concern, and I confess that I do not like the direction those ponderings take.

The inn itself was largely empty, it being the middle of a fierce winter, and travellers being understandably scarce on the north road. Aside from myself and the inn's staff, there were only five that I could see: Robb and Tevrin, two eager young brothers with dreams of joy and prosperity in the big city; Melinda, the solemn outrider who drank alone; and the cranky merchant Arieste with her servant Myr.

Note that I say these five were all I could see. Now I consider myself a worldly man, not overly given to superstition and flights of fancy. An imagination is a healthy thing, no doubt, but an overactive one will do no favours to a man travelling these wild lands alone. But it is my earnest opinion, and I'll leave it to you to draw your own conclusions when you have heard the fullness of my tale, I say that it is my mind that we were not the only occupants of the Hunter's Moon that night.

I will not dwell further on my initial unease, as I had at that time no inkling as to its significance. Rather, I soon found myself engaged in pleasant conversation with the brothers Robb and Tevrin. For while our fellow travellers exhibited a determined reticence, the brothers and I drank and talked and sang heartily, and I was gladdened indeed to have met two fellows possessed as they were of a generosity of spirit and purse sadly so rare in these dark times.

Robb, the elder of the two by some seven years, was strong and determined. His hardened features hinted at many tales, and a life of struggle and graft. Yet despite the burden placed upon him by the death of his parents when he and Tevrin were but children, Robb remained outwardly cheerful. As an experienced observer of people, I could see through to the sorrow behind those soft grey eyes, but it was not my place to delve into the brothers' past too deeply, and so our conversation dwelt largely on more frivolous topics: the interminable weather, Cardinal Armand's alleged preference for women's clothing, the seeds of romance between the Crown Prince and the Lausenian ambassador. For once the initial introductions and harmless chit-chat were dispensed with, scandal, rumour and innuendo were our guiding lights that long evening. To which I added further sauce with the occasional bawdy tune grandfather had taught me.

Yet though I refrained from probing into the seemingly tragic history of my new friends, there was much to be learned from their company alone. Most striking was the strength of the bond between the two, forged as it was out of grief and loss, and reinforced by subsequent years of toil and hardship. Tevrin idolised his brother, that much was clear to all. Always he sought Robb's approval, and recognition, as if it were the only thing that truly mattered to him. Yet it had been the younger brother who had inspired their current adventure, their attempt to break free from the farm life and make a new future for themselves in Calenhar. They had a vitality about them which was inspirational and infectious, and I remain grateful for the time I was able to spend with them.

Our mood was light, helped by the landlord's fruity ale, and any concerns I might have had earlier were soon forgotten. Even the solemn Melinda joined in with a rousing chorus of "The Wizard, the badger, and half a pound of carrots", for which the landlord kindly donated a free round of drinks, bless him.

But such high spirits sadly never last, and with the moon barely peering out from behind a midnight storm cloud, Robb, Tevrin and myself found ourselves in contemplative mood. We were joined that hour by the barman Symmac, a bleak fellow with a liking for tales of the Otherworld. It was Symmac who first introduced us to the topic of restless spirits, as he shared the story of his great-grandfather's ghost.

'He was killed by murderous brigands whilst travelling this very road some fifty years ago. But he didn't go down without a fight, no sir. They say that when the Rangers arrived the found the bodies of four of the thieves and old Craiglas, suffering much from a score of mortal wounds, drawing his final draught of air from this world.' A single tear seemed then to surface briefly in Symmac's eye, but he ignored it and continued his tale.

'After they had seen to it that grandfather was buried in the proper manner and with due respect, the Rangers made to return to the town of Bywater and raise the militia to hunt down the rest of the murderous dogs. But then one of them heard a noise and, being of a curious disposition, moved to investigate.

'Upon reaching the tree from which the sound had come, he found nothing. Thinking it must be his imagination, he turned back to where his comrades waited. But he was stopped cold in his tracks by a further sound, and this time there was no mistaking it. He heard the words, in a cold whisper, "Follow me".

'Calling his fellows to him, so as to confirm to himself as much as anything that he had not lost his mind, the young Ranger was relieved to discover that he was not alone in hearing that strange, disembodied plea. Not that any of them found comfort in sharing the predicament, nor the fact that there was no apparent source for the words.

'Then it came again, more urgently this time. Macabre forces were at work, of that they had no doubt. But in spite of their fear, these were courageous men and women. They decided to try and follow the voice, and it was good that they did. For in a short while they came upon the bandits' ragged camp, hidden deep in the low hills, a spot they would surely never have found unaided.

'The voice spoke no more, but the Rangers took full advantage of the help they had received. The bandits were surprised, to put it mildly,' and here Symmac allowed a sinister laugh to crack his gaunt features. 'None of them escaped alive.'

His tale concluded, the barman sat back triumphantly, and a brief silence ensued. It was I who ended it.

'And you believe,' said I, 'that it was the ghostly voice of your great-grandfather who led the Rangers to that place?'

'Aye,' replied Symmac, his face full of pride. 'And let me tell you this, there hasn't been a spot of trouble on that stretch of road in all the years since. Craiglas sees to that.'

The bar-room took on an eerie quality then, as we all let the implications of Symmac's tale seep through to our ale-soaked consciousness. This time it was Tevrin who spoke.

'But surely not all spirits are so benevolent,' he said. 'I have heard tales of ghouls that feast on small children, and shadows that haunt ancient churches, stealing life away from the unwary.'

Robb shook his head disapprovingly. 'Come now, little brother, don't talk such nonsense. Those are just ghost stories of the kind used to excite and frighten children, nothing more. There is no world beyond that which we can see and feel, unless one counts the fanciful realms of tales woven by mischievous bartenders,' a nod towards the scowling Symmac, 'or our friend the minstrel here,' indicating yours truly. 'Now, let that be the end of it,' he added with finality, lifting his tankard as if further demonstration was needed that the conversation was at an end.

'But Robb, it's just that I heard-'

'Enough!' Robb snapped, harshly. 'There is nothing to be gained from furthering this conversation.' With that he rose from the table and walked to the bar to get a refill.

With the elder brother out of earshot, and perhaps my better judgement suspended temporarily by the influence of the ale, I could not resist an inquiry.

'But Tevrin, what could it be that you heard which so needs repeating, and which has soured your brother's mood?'

Tevrin hesitated, but seeing that Robb had paused at the bar to consume his ale, revealed the source of their conflict. 'It has been said,' he began nervously, 'that is to say, it is rumoured, that this very inn, the Hunter's Moon, is haunted.' Symmac visibly flinched at that, but I ignored him and pressed Tevrin further.

'They say, those in a village we passed on our way here, that in the cellar dwells the spirit of a powerful beast, a creature of darkness and evil that feeds on the souls of the living. It is believed that none who spend the night in that cellar can live to tell of the horror that resides there in the darkness.'

Fanciful stuff indeed, the sort of melodramatic folk tale that you'll encounter in just about every town and village in the land. I was, I confess, a little disappointed to hear something so bland and uninspiring, but Tevrin was certainly excited. Symmac, too, seemed to have been affected by what he'd heard, his complexion had developed an unnatural whiteness to it. Almost ghost-like, you might say. And when he spoke, it was with undisguised trepidation.

'I, too, have heard such tales, though I have worked here for only a month or so. But I have felt things in that cellar, unnatural things. I do not like the place.'

Robb returned to the table, and caught Symmac's words.

'Utter nonsense,' he scoffed. 'You are fools, the lot of you, to believe such tall tales. Like innocent children, you are.'

'If you're so sure,' Tevrin said, 'then why don't you spend the night in the cellar?'

'What, when I've already paid in advance for a perfectly comfortable room, with a soft bed?' He attempted a chuckle, but there was the barest hint of uncertainty in it. All attention focused on him. Clearly the challenge was one his considerable pride could not allow him to refuse, and he did his best to make light of the prospect of his night ahead.

I must say that I cannot claim to have been so unaffected by the path our conversation had taken. Indeed, had I been offered a chest of gold and the hand of the King's youngest daughter, still I would not have spent the night alone in that cellar. And, you might recall, I am not an overly superstitious man.

Yet Robb, at least to all outward impressions, did not share my vague concerns. For reasons which were perhaps known only to him, he did indeed enter the gloomy cellar of the Hunter's Moon that storm-wracked night. The three of us initially descended the cold stone stairs with him, though none of us was keen to overstay our welcome. There was nothing further to say, so we left Robb alone in the oppressive dark and returned to the welcoming glow of the bar-room.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, I reached into my purse and drew forth a single silver florin. Flicking it to Robb, who caught it effortlessly even in the half-light generated by the small lantern I carried, I said: 'My lucky coin. It was given to me by a young lady of my acquaintance. Take good care of it, and yourself.'

Robb simply nodded thanks, and gripped the coin in his strong right hand. It may be that he smiled also, but in that shadowy hole his expression looked more like a grimace. The trapdoor closed with a dull thud, and what had begun as an evening of merriment had ended in the darkest of moods.

I did not sleep well. Preternatural sounds nagged persistently at the borders of my dreams. Scratches and scraping, distant howls and echoes to chill the bravest of souls. I was glad indeed for morning when it finally arrived.

Clearly my friends Tevrin and Symmac had spent similarly uneasy nights, and I met them both on the stairs at sunrise. I decided not to mention the sounds I had heard, or dreamt, and they too were reluctant to engage on conversation. But what of Robb?

Without discussion, we three edged nervously to the trapdoor. There was no sound to be heard, inside the Hunter's Moon or out. Even the birds seemed anxious. Slowly, Symmac raised the door. Still there was silence.

'Robb?' Tevrin called softly, unable to hide the uncertainty in his voice. 'Robb, can you hear me?'

At first there was no reply, and we glanced at each other with similarly ashen expressions. Then a low groan reached our ears. It was a peculiar sound, and not one we had expected. Each of us regarded the others in bemusement. 'Fetch the lantern,' I urged Symmac. In our haste we had forgotten to bring it. He left without hesitation, and we waited in the tense silence for his return. The sense of fear was palpable.

For some reason it was I who took the lead. As the thin beam of light searched the corners of the cellar, there was still no sign of Robb. Gradually we edged our way around the cellar, between barrels and crates piled high for the winter months, yet Robb was nowhere to be seen.

I did not know what to think, or rather did not want to think at all. And I dared not look at Tevrin's face. Then, that low groan again. It seemed to come from the far corner, behind the dividing wall. We edged closer, wanting to move faster but constrained by our instinctive fear. Though in truth there was nothing inherently malevolent about the cellar during the waking hours.

'There!' said I, pointing to a foot protruding from behind a large barrel. We moved quickly now, rounding the corner with expressions of relief breaking out on our faces, only to discover to our horror that the foot did not belong to Robb at all. For in that damp corner, inexplicably, was curled a hunched and crumpled old man unknown to any of us.

Confused, and not a little afraid and even angry, we helped this aged stranger to his feet, as he was seemingly unable to perform the task himself. There was no strength at all in the man. His skin was a worn leather bag loosely stuffed with old bones. Tevrin's initial reaction was to grab the old man by his tunic, demanding to know what he had done with his brother, but even through his grief and anguish he could see it was a fruitless course of action. The old man's mind had long since gone, and it was as much as he could manage to sound the occasional agonised groan.

As we emerged into the daylight, the old man sought vainly to shield himself from the sun's penetrating warmth and brightness. Yet after a brief while, it seemed to give him renewed strength. He edged free of our restraining hands, and staggered uneasily out into the courtyard, where the first coach of the morning was just arriving.

At that point we first became aware of something astonishing. Somehow, the old man seemed to be wearing Robb's clothes. They hung loosely from his tiny, emaciated frame, but they could not be mistaken as belonging to our lost friend.

We followed him out into the courtyard, just in time to see him collapse to the ground.

'Robb!' Tevrin shouted, and rushed to the old man's side. Symmac and I were not far behind, and we did what we could to make the old man comfortable. I cannot say for certain whether he was aware of us, but I like to think there was a spark of gratitude in those faded eyes as they looked upon the three of us for the last time.

As the old man died, Tevrin wept openly, holding the ragged body tightly as if he was afraid to let go. He seemed to find some connection between this old man, who must have been over a hundred years old, and his brother. Neither Symmac nor I made any attempt to persuade him otherwise.

For my part, I cannot say what transpired that night in the cellar of the Hunter's Moon, for it is beyond my understanding. I do know that it was something unnatural, something not of this world, something more sinister than mere ghost stories and fairy tales. The Hunter's Moon stands no longer, having burned to the ground later that same year. No-one was harmed, and the perpetrators were never identified. Most who knew the place would, if pressed, concede that it is good the place is no more.

Oh, and one last thing, before I leave you to your thoughts on this frosty night. As we made preparations to bury the old man, Symmac noticed that his right hand was clasped firmly in a fist. Even in death, the grip was so tight it took the strength of two of us to loosen it. As we did so, a dull metallic disc fell to the floor. I stooped slowly, hesitantly, and picked it up. A single silver florin. And on the old man's palm, imprinted through the pressure generated by decades of fear-induced strength, was the royal symbol of an eagle in flight, branded onto the hand of a old friend who had finally found a place to rest.