Manhunter Moon

They call it Manhunter Moon.

A group of elder men has welcomed me — I learned that they meet occasionally at an inn near my room. I had taken to sitting there, outside, under the trees, but had never seen another customer at such an early hour. And so this morning I could not help but notice when one after another gray-haired gentleman walked up the path, went inside, and stayed.

Eventually, one of them came back out and approached me, asking a question. At first I did not understand what he wanted, but through his gestures and friendly expression I soon determined that he was inviting me to join him, and when I followed him inside I saw the entire group sitting around two tables pushed together in the small dining hall.

They made room for me, and I sat down next to my new acquaintance. Then each put his hand on his breastbone, and with a slight nod spoke a word that must have been his name, and so I did the same — not my real name, of course, but a nickname I have not used since childhood, and that no one living would ever know once belonged to me. They then resumed their conversation, which was spirited and full of joking at each other's expense, in the way men everywhere seem to enjoy when no women are present.

My grasp of their language is weak, but I was soon caught up in the cheerful mood of the company, laughing along with them, thinking how long it has been since I was able to do that. The meal was delightful, and when it was over, no one would let me pay my portion of the cost, which embarrassed and worried me, but I could not change their minds. In the end the group broke up into twos and threes, and soon I was alone again, having promised, I think, to meet them once more the next time they gather, whenever that will be.

One part of the conversation did stay with me, for with their help I came to understand it well enough: the name of the moon I watched hang over the mountain this morning as the dawn came up — Manhunter Moon. In the moment, it did not seem any more than a topic of casual discussion. It is the time when the moon is full, after all, and just now it seems unusually large, especially near the horizon. But my fellows — or, now I think about it more attentively, just those few closest to me — were quite earnest that I learn the name of this particular moon: Man. Hunted. Under such a Moon.

Back in my room, I began to doubt that this was just some innocent item of local lore they were trying to impress upon me. In my fugitive state, it is dangerous for me to relax my vigilance in any way, at least not until I know more about this place — especially the contact and relations it has with other communities nearby, about which I know almost nothing.

Should any of my pursuers get to hear of this pleasant gathering, it will be the end of my stay here, one way or another. If I learn of them before they learn of me — and indeed, my new friends may have been trying to warn me in some obscure fashion — I may be able to get away; if not, then I will leave here by other means.

I doubt that I can weather another desperate escape — the effort that brought me here in the first place nearly finished me — and it may happen that I will just let my enemies take me this time, since, weary as I am, it seems inevitable anyway. They are many and I am one; they work in concert, while I am alone and know no one, nor can I ever return to any familiar place again.

It feels as if I left my home long ago, and yet I have been in flight only something less than a year, though how many moons have looked impassively down upon my exile I can no longer say. It was high summer when I abandoned everything I knew — but here the seasons are different, and I cannot tell what time of year it is.

However, writing these things calms me, and I begin to regain some heart. I may not be safe — no one is ever safe, anywhere, except for a time — but for this time at least I have the time to remember better times, and be grateful for whatever happiness I knew then.

Thinking this makes me wish that the same happiness comes to my new friends, and then to their friends, and so on out to every living thing that creepeth upon the earth, as the man I called my Grampa used to say. I would object, when he said this, that not everything creepeth upon the earth: birds fly through the air, and fish swim in the sea — and he would reply, 'You are right! let us bring them into our wish as well!' and so we'd go on, naming every creature I could think of: the birds that flieth, the fish that swimmeth; the wolves that runneth, and the rabbits that hoppeth; the trees that waveth and the flowers that bloometh and the rivers that floweth and the winds that bloweth, until I could think of no other -eths, and then we would shout, LET IT BE SO!

It is now afternoon, and the face of the mountain opposite me is edging into shadow, as the sun soars beyond it toward its disappearing place. This morning, from almost the same position, old Manhunter Moon looked into my room; whether he could not see me sitting in the dark with the sun in his eyes, or saw me perfectly well and decided to let me go, at least for today, I feel somehow blessed by this place, which may as well be my disappearing place as any other that sitteth upon the earth.

And I say, whatever is to come, LET IT BE SO!