Servant of the Moon #1 - unedited draft

Comhnyall walked in the house with groceries and the payment for Mamó’s soaps and creams. Since their pack had fallen, they had added nearly 100,000$ to the over a half-million kept in the New Wemyss Pack secret account. Mamó was confident that they could take the money without anyone noticing as long as they left the main accounts untouched, but Comhnyall was not so sure. Crabbing, lobstering, and fishing paid him well, they could afford to simply leave with the money he had earned. The holidays had been good for sales through the two apothecary shops and they would need to restock soon. He had groaned when he saw how few bars and jars remained. He hated the smell making the soaps and creams created, and with the temperature remaining well below freezing for the foreseeable future months, the thought of being cooped up in the house while it was being made was not a pleasant one.

But today the house smelled of acrylic paint. He carried Ainsley’s new sketchpads up to her room, they had foolishly let her run out of paper and she was drawing the same image on everything she could find. He was shocked when he found the source of the smell was not her room. Ainsley was painting on the walls of his and Moire’s bedroom. The faded wallpaper had disappeared and a spring meadow, the meadow near Mamó’s den, had replaced it. It looked exactly as it did the day Ainsley had made the flower crowns for them. From a foot above the floor to almost the ceiling, the walls were a panoramic of the meadow. Blue sky with gray clouds in the east. Each flower perfectly detailed, bees and butterflies, moths and dragonflies, the pond even looked like it would ripple. He could almost feel the warm breeze of that day again.

“Beag Shionnach, what ’ave ye done?” He question, awed at the image that now surrounded the bed, cradle, and dresser pushed to the center of the floor. “It looks like springtime.”

Ainsley’s dark, burnished gold eyes looked at him, great tears welled up in them, as she hugged herself. Then she ran and threw herself into his arms, sobbing silently, her dark copper curls shaking with the violence of her sorrow. “Shhhh, shhhh, Ainsley? What has ye so sad?” He was shaken, he had never seen her so distressed, not even after their pack was killed.

Her wolf spoke seven words to him, ‘For sissy, I painted her favorite season.’

“I can see tha’, but why?” He wasn’t sure why she was so disturbed by it. The work was beautiful, no one would believe a seven year old had done it.

‘Her favorite season.’ Her wolf said again, then she kissed him on the cheek, and went back to painting a crocus.

He could only shake his head in amazement. In Ainsley’s room, Moire was asleep on the bed. She moaned slightly, as though she were in pain as she turned from one side to another. Her brow was damp and she seemed to tremble in her sleep as if she was cold. He was about to lay next to her when he heard the kitchen door close. Downstairs, Mamó was putting herbs into her mortar bowl and grinding them. She was muttering in the ancient Lycaon dialect of the temple.

“Mamó ‘ave ye seen what Ainsley has done ta tha walls of meh an’ Moire’s room?”

“Aye, Nyall, I ’ave. She wants Moire ta see tha springtime, because et be ‘er favorite time of tha year,” Mamó answers. “An’ when I ask ‘er why, she jus’ shows me tha same picture o’er and o’er. I think she be worried fur ‘er sister an’ tha pup.”

“Her wolf told mine tha same as she told yourn. Do ye... do ye think something bad is gonna ’appen?” He can barely put his fears into words.

Mamó sighed, and he can’t tell if it is a tired sigh, or a sad one, or something else. “I do nah kno’.” She dumped the herbs into a bowl and poured hot water over them. “I be doing all I can fur ‘er, but she is still sick when she should nah be, an’ I do nah know why. Did ye post meh letter?”

“Aye, Mamó.”

“Good. Perhaps tha healers at tha temple can help us,” she spat tersely, almost angrily.

“Mamó, what be botherin’ ye an’ Ainsley so?” Cohmnyall feared the answer, he feared that she was going to say that Moire was going to die and they can’t stop it.

But instead Mamó answered, “Tha Goddess has closed Her Eye ta us. We both be dreaming tha same thing an’ et makes no sense.”

“What es et ye be dreamin?”

“Silver leaves blowin’ on a breeze I can nah feel, they blow from Moire’s hands up ta tha Moon. An’ Ainsley be dreamin’ tha same silver leaves fallin’ from tha Moon like tears.” Mamó scowls with concern. “I asked tha Delphi what she makes of et an’ what she can see fur us.”

Cohmnyall’s jaw drops, as the old she-wolf climbs the stairs with the tea she made for Moire. Mamó had spent almost a year training the Delphi, and while Comhnyall had spent the year training with the Wanderers, who were Servants of the Moon. He had never meet the elusive she-wolf, and had only seen her a few times walking in her veil with a young warrior named Luca from the Greater Montreal pack. His father had made him train with Luca everyday for many months and they had become friends. Luca’s mate was the youngest oracle in centuries and his father had wanted Luca trained as Wemyss wolves were trained to better protect her. He had said Oracles needed special protection, they were gifts from the Moon to help wolves in hard times and bring them hope. For a moment, Comhnyall missed his father and again silently thanked him for preparing this place for his family.

Outside the wind began to rage in a tempest. Another storm was blowing off the mainland and out to sea. Comhnyall closed his eyes and sent a prayer to the Goddess that either the Delphi could find the answer or that Luca could help them. There was no silver in the house and definitely none of the toxic silver leaf plant anywhere on the land they lived on. He and Mamó had both checked last summer. There was no way he would let her be poisoned thusly but she often smelled of it. He had sent a letter to Luca to see if his alpha in Montreal would allow Moire to be seen by their doctors and healers. It wasn’t that he doubted Mamó’s ability as a healer, and Moire was no worse than she had been for the last three years, but she was also no better. Upstairs he heard Moire’s delighted cry as she saw what Ainsley was doing to their room, she called out to him to come and see what her sister had done. Her laughter was a balm to his worries.

Two nights later, the wind was still howling when Moire whispered to Comhnyall.

“Comhnyall, aire ye awake?”

He raised up instantly, “Aye Moire, aire ye unwell? Do ye need a hot bath or a tea?”

“I... I don’t know Comhnyall. Meh belly keeps squeezing and meh whole body hurts. Can ye wake Mamó for meh, I can nah reach meh wolf.”

She sounded shaky, and even in the dark room, he could see that she was paler than normal. As he pressed a kiss to her forehead, a light sheen of sweat wet his lips. When he licked them, he could faintly taste the bitterness of silver. He pulled on his kilt and rushed to Mamó’s room. He had barely reached Mamó’s door when Moire’s shriek pierced his ears followed by the thud of a falling body. He ran back to their room. Moire was lying on the floor in a puddle of liquid and bright red blood, it reeked of silver poisoning.

Her haunted, pained eyes looked up at him as she clung to his arms, “He’s gone Comhnyall, he’s gone... an’... an’ I be followin’ ’im,” she gasped raggedly.

“Nay, do nah leave meh, Moire! Mamó, HURRY!” he roared. He realized he could not hear their son’s tiny heartbeat. They had lost their pup.

Ainsley rushed in as Comhnyall lifted Moire back to their bed. Moire screamed and curled her body as her stomach tightened like a drum, she clawed at it. She was giving birth two months too soon.

“Hold ’er hands, Comhnyall, do nah let her claw ’erself. Moire, drink this. Ye ’ave to drink.” Mamó dumped the liquid into Moire’s mouth around her clenched teeth.

In moments, Moire’s eyes glazed before closing and she lay still. Her breath coming in ragged pants. She groaned as her stomach tightened and relaxed but the dead pup never moved to leave her body. As Comhnyall ran his hand over her scarred belly he knew without Mamó saying anything that the old wound from the night their pack fell had killed her and their son. Moire woke near dawn, the wind had stopped and the sky had cleared.

Moire whispered,“Comhnyall, take meh up the hill, I want ta see tha dawn before I go.”

“But Moire...” He didn’t want to take her out into the bitterly cold air.

“Please Comhnyall, I ’ave had more time than I should ‘ave. Time with ye, an’ Ainsley, an’ Mamó. Please Comhnyall, thar’s nah long,” she begged shakily.

He nodded, he could not refuse her. He finished dressing quickly. Wrapped her in her favorite quilt and carried her downstairs.

“I wish ta see tha dawn before I go,” she repeated, explaining to Mamó and Ainsley.

He was glad she spoke because he would not have been able to. She held out her hand and squeezed Mamó‘s, her voice a weak whisper, “Thar was nothin’ ye could do Mamó, I be meant ta be walkin’ tha Moon.” She squirmed slightly then held out her pendant to Ainsley, “This is yurs now, take care of Mamó fur meh, an’ keep drawin’ yur dreams. Thank ye fur painting the spring fur meh. I love ye, beag shionnach.” Ainsley held up her head bravely and nodded once, her courage gave Comhnyall the strength he need to make Moire’s last request.

The walk to the top of the hill only took moments, but it was the longest walk of Comhnyall’s life. The stars still shone like diamonds in the lightening sky. Just above the horizon, hung the slimmest edge of light along the dark orb of the moon. The Eye of the Goddess was closed. Comhnyall sat on the fallen tree they had sat on every time he was home and waited. Moire laid weakly in his arms panting, while they watched the changing sky. Neither spoke.

The first rays of light danced and dropped toward the water, Comhnyall could feel his soul tearing apart and knew they had only moments left. He pressed his lips into her hair, the air was so cold that his tears had frozen into crystals on the coppery strands of her hair.

“I love ye, Moire, let meh come with ye,” he begged.

“Ye know ye can nah come, tha Goddess will call ye home when tis time. Be thankful, Comhnyall, be thankful fur tha time more we were given’, we were blessed. An’ do nah be mad at tha Moon. I love ye,” she sniffed, as she reached up weakly and ran her hand through his golden hair. “Thank ye for lovin’ meh e’ery day of meh life, Comhnyall.” Her voice drifted away in the breaking sunlight, soft as a sigh.

He stared into her honey-colored eye and the ghostly white of her scarred one, memorizing every detail of her, every freckle on the paleness of her skin that always reminded him of the iridescent inside of a seashell. He choked on his sobs as her hand fell away, trying not to shake and disturb her in those last few frail moments. Moire did not turn her head to look at the dawn, she only looked at him, until her breath failed and he heard the final beat of her heart. Her light fled a moment later and Comhnyall howled his pain, cursing the Moon and the promise he had made because as much as he wanted to he could not follow her now.

In the dark of the next night, a ghostly golden wolf dug through the frozen earth next to a long lake of black water. It dumped a bag of ash into the hole before nosing the frozen earth over the remains of his mate and his pup. He sat and howled for his mate, howled for his pup, howled for the murdered wolves who were buried here. Comhnyall howled like a lost soul of the Christian damned, then he ran toward the land bridge that led to the continent. He was going hunting. There were 17 wolves whose lives were forfeit for the blood they shed. He would show them the same mercy they had shown the shewolves and pups of his pack, none. Light had left his world and he chose to run headlong into the darkness.

Delilah sat up suddenly in her bed, it seemed only a moment ago, she was in the Archives of the Sacred Mountain when the Moon had pulled her into a vision. Kaiyou must have brought her to her rooms. The golden wolf and his mate, those she had been watching over from the Tides since she was a child, were shown to her. He was sitting on a log on a hill, below a rock strewn beach was caressed by deep sapphire waves under a matching sky. He was holding his dying pregnant mate in his arms. Her hand on his cheek as the sun rose, before the light touched her, her hand fell away.

On the horizon, the Moon’s closed eye wept silver tears into the sea. The Delphi watched him lay her on the stacked wood and light the fire, pushing the burning coals into an ever smaller area until almost nothing remained. Only his tears to wash the soot from his face. She saw how reverently he gathered the ashes and carried them to the place of burial. His wolf’s song of grief broke her heart, because her wolf had sung the same song when she lost Luca. Delilah sobbed out her sorrow and grief, the queen-to-be, the one with the pure heart, was dead.

Her phone rang, Del knew it was her sister. Essie was sobbing, and crying, Del could only say, “I know, sister, I saw it too.” Half a world separated them, but they shared this moment of grief.

Finally Del heard the click of a lighter and Essie drew a deep breath before speaking, “What are we going to do now?”

“Pray, sister. Pray for a boon from the Moon. It is our only hope now. I’m coming home.” Delilah hung up without saying goodbye, she was so tired of saying goodbye.