The Moonies (no, not disciples of the Unification Church) were out in force on the 25th Anniversary of Moonfall.
(I know the Moon didn’t fall. If it had, we wouldn’t be here. But that’s the name that stuck.)
A damn near thing though. The off-center dark-side explosion at apogee set the Moon spinning, exactly when a dark matter mass just happened to be hurtling by. Enough gravitational nudge to pluck the Moon from its orbit rather than crashing into Earth. That was the scientific consensus anyway.
The sheer improbability led some to proclaim it an act of God. But if we repented our sins, He would restore the Moon. So here the Moonies were, gathering for a massive prayer session in the park. (Did they even realize they were calculating the anniversary in solar years?)
I dodged around another group, clad in shimmering robes, like they’d just stepped off the ship from Remulak. Except they wore bulbous spheres on their heads. Should’ve called them Moonheads.
Despite the empty night sky, not even a new moon’s darkness occluding the stars behind, I felt the old rhythms like clockwork in my veins. I didn’t need to look at my watch. Even avoiding the park, I’d still make the lecture on time.
The audience was sparse. A smattering of undergraduates, probably hoping for extra credit. Octogenarian faculty types in the front row. Someone in shadow in the back. Not much interest in obscure Greek and Roman classical literature, apparently. Which was fine with me—I found a seat far from everyone else.
These days biologists were the big draw, detailing the ongoing repercussions of the Quaternary Extinction Event. All over the world the Moon’s absence wreaked cascading ecological havoc. After the stilling of the tides over eighty-percent of all intertidal organisms died off. Massive clouds of birds circled around nighttime city lights. And who knew dung beetles, crucial participants in fecal decomposition and soil aeration, also navigated via the Moon?
Psychologists were a close second. Suicide, depression, and anger-fueled violence had spiked. New cults proliferated; Moonies, Loonies, Gaiaists, and Mánists. Third-Kinder’s argued aliens stole the Moon to run experiments on Moonbase Alpha’s crew—a prelude to mass abductions on Earth. At airports, Krishnas were replaced by zealots dressed as Imperial stormtroopers, panhandling for the Death Star Project. Allegedly SpaceX would help them begin construction by 2040.
The Moon might be gone, but human lunacy had only multiplied. For me though, Moonfall was the most blessed day of my life.
A final trickle of students found seats. The first generation to never see a Moon in their night sky and seemingly perfectly content without it. They baked pearlcakes for the Mid-Autumn Festival; karaoked Hepburn’s Loon River. Incessant lunar laments only made them salty. Couldn’t their elders just get over it?
How long, I wondered, until the Moon was mere myth? I suspected this lecture would bowdlerize it even further.
At the lectern, a distinguished-looking woman introduced the speaker, Helen Riorden. She was surprisingly young—early thirties, maybe. A mere child when the Moon vanished. I’d been expecting another dusty classicist like those up front. The Moon’s chances weren’t improving.
But as Helen began, I could almost believe the Fates were still weaving. Her astral voice, achingly like my lost Callidora’s, recited Ovid.
He tried to speak, but his voice broke into
an echoing howl. His ravening soul infected his jaws;
his murderous longings were turned on the cattle; he still was possessed
by bloodlust. His garments were changed to a shaggy coat and his arms
into legs. He was now transformed into a wolf.
I was right about her thesis, though. For Herodotus, Plato and Ovid, the curse was Zeus’ just punishment of immoral men. No Moon required.
I knew better. The curse was a despairing goddess’ capricious whim.
After Q&A finished, the students dispersed to begin their Friday night revels. The moderator spoke briefly with Helen and then assisted a tottering colleague out. But not before he managed to knock Helen’s notes off the podium. They scattered like falling moonflowers.
Surprising myself, as if drawn by some unseen pull, I moved forward to help.
“Interesting talk, Prof. Riorden,” I said, picking up several pages, “Though Zeus was not the first to use that form of punishment.”
She didn’t look up, still snaring errant notes. “It’s not Professor. I’m ABD, looking for a topic actually. And there’s no evidence of any dependence on earlier Babylonian transformation tales.”
“I concur. Zeus stole the idea from Selene.”
She looked up abruptly, piercing eyes scanning me skeptically.
“Do you have textual evidence?”
“No, but there is physical evidence.”
I heard movement behind me. Helen’s eyes widened, momentary fear, then surging anger. I looked over my shoulder. Shadow man had emerged.
“David!” Helen gasped. “You followed me halfway across the country?!”
“He’s the reason you left?”
“Don’t be absurd. I just met this man—we’re discussing my lecture.” She stepped back. “You can’t be this close. The restraining order…”
He turned to me, his visage betraying covetous arrogance. I admonished him in Homeric Greek, “Strange man, thou dost not well to nurse this anger in thy heart.”
Helen stifled a laugh, before adding her own Homeric contribution, “But this man’s understanding is not stable, nor ever will be.”
David just glared in baffled silence. Then he lunged, swinging a fist. I sidestepped, letting him flail past. His subsequent attacks were equally ineffectual, yet he pursued with a rabid dog’s tenacity. I could hear Helen berating him to stop. And another voice. The chairwoman, returned, was talking frantically into her phone.
David charged. I bared my teeth into a feral smile. Time to end this.
At the bar in Helen’s hotel, she nervously sipped her coconut margarita (aka a Supermoon). I propped an ice pack, compliments of campus EMTs, against my swelling cheek. My Eclipse sat untouched.
“Why did you let him hit you?”
“What makes you say I let him?”
She tilted her head at me. “He wasn’t getting close—you deliberately stepped into his last punch.”
I’d hoped to be less obvious. I sighed. “Before Moonfall I tore men like him apart. Now I have the luxury of more elegant solutions. Malicious wounding, battery, and an egregious restraining order violation ought to ruin the next few years of his life.” I gestured at the ice pack with my free hand. “A small price to pay.”
She narrowed her eyes, the math not adding up. “How old are you?”
“Much older than I look.”
“Well, you look quite fine, even with your accoutrement.” She smiled teasingly, sparking another remembrance of Callidora. “And you speak Homeric Greek, though the accent is strange.”
Still lost in my recollections, I murmured, “Homeros taught me the high poetic forms.”
Helen went very still, clutching her drink.
I sighed again. “Now I’ve made you think you chose poorly.”
She took a deep breath, slowly relaxing. “You’d be hard pressed to be more of a controlling asshole than David.”
“Never been the controlling type,” I replied. “Only since Moonfall have I finally regained myself.”
“Many would say Moonfall made humanity feel increasingly powerless.”
“And yet through all the tumult, we still meet new intriguing people and go out for drinks.”
She smiled softly. “Before, you said you had evidence.”
“First, I must recount a story. Do you know the Menai?”
“The fifty daughters of Selene and Endymion.”
“Yes, but do you know their names?”
She shook her head. “No textual source I know of gives them names.”
“The youngest, and most beautiful, and most curious of the Menai was Callidora. One day, at the sun’s highest ascent whilst her mother slept, Callidora ventured forth from her mountain. On its slopes, she befriended a goatherd, not much more than a boy really. She asked him endless questions. About the goats, the birds, his sandals, the rocks, the trees, the clouds, the villagers… For many, the boy didn’t know the answer, but her questing ethereal voice imbued in the boy an insatiable curiosity to find them.
“And so it went for many months, until one day a squad of mercenary soldiers passed by. Seeing her stunning beauty, they coveted her. They set upon the pair, grabbing and binding Callidora. When the boy tried to stop them, they laughed and beat him with the hafts of their spears until he fell unconscious.
“When he awoke, the full moon filled the sky, closer than he had ever seen it. ‘Where is my daughter?!’ a voice thundered. The boy, bowed to the ground, cried, ‘Soldiers have taken her. Luminous Selene, grant me the speed and strength to overcome them and I shall reclaim her for you.’
“And Selene poured the strength and fury of the mighty wolf into his veins. Howling, the wolf-man sprang forth. Finding the soldier’s camp, he set upon them. Claws tore flesh, teeth ripped throats, until only one remained. Holding Callidora before him, a knife at her neck, he threatened her death unless the wolf-man retreated. But Selene’s gift had made him so bereft of reason, that the wolf-man recklessly charged forward. He ripped the soldier’s heart from his chest.
“But not before the mercenary sliced Callidora’s throat.
“When the boy-man, carrying Callidora’s lifeless body, finally returned to the mountain, a crimson moon shone down. In her anguish and rage, Selene cursed him. Whenever my full face shines upon Gaia, the lykos shall reclaim you. To wreak my vengeance upon humanity for the death of my daughter.
“For that man, endlessly transformed and reborn again, the moon’s departure was a blessing.”
§
While Helen pondered my tale, I pulled out my phone, opened GeoMaps, and typed in coordinates. (At least all the satellites had finally been recalibrated.) I dropped a pin and passed her the phone.
“Okay, a spot on Mount Latmus in Turkey,” she said.
“Endymion’s cave. Sealed and undisturbed. On the walls you will find tiled frescoes depicting Callidora’s story. Enough material for countless dissertations.”
Her silent pensive appraisal weighed upon my soul. Finally, she murmured, “I do have some unused research funds.” She graced me with another delicate Callidora smile.
And I dared to dream that Moonfall might become the second most blessed day of my life.
Jeff Currier works three jobs, so has little time to write. Hence, he writes little stories—like this one, or “Temporal Avoidance Game,” or “The Fate of Time Travelers,” or “The Foulest of Them All,” all of which we’ve published previously. Find links to more of his published stories at @jffcurrier on X or Jeff Currier Writes on Facebook.
2 comments:
Great story! I really enjoyed it. Although...there would still be tides from the sun, about half as powerful as those from the Moon.
Thanks! Chuffed you like it, even with its flaws.
Post a Comment