Blue Moon (22 page)

"Point taken. At least you don't need a flashlight to see."

"Aha!” Libby said, and the lights came back on. In the other room, she could hear televised voices. “We're back in business!"

Dashie* * * *ooked up at her. “I think the girl did it,” he said, talking about the TV show.

"No way! That is so the easy answer."

"Sometimes it is."

Libby knelt in front of him. “Dashiel, you're my best friend, right?"

He put a paw on her shoulder. “Of course, I am."

"Well, you might want to take it slow with the chatting. It is getting a little ... surreal, now that I can see your jaws moving and all that. Just for awhile, until I get used to it."

"That's probably wise. Can I have the leftover steak?"

"It's a little old."

"I'll chance it."

She took it out of the fridge, unwrapped it and threw it to him. “Knock yourself out. And let's get back before the show ends."

Shopping After Midnight

In the all-night supermarket, a young woman pushed her cart slowly down the aisles. Fruit, cans, jars and boxes of all sorts had sprouted legs and were following her. She pulled over to let an older lady pass.

"Um ... miss?” the woman said to her.

"Yeah?"

"Do you know that ... er...” She pointed to the ever-growing parade of groceries.

Sigh. “Yeah, I know."

White brows came together. “Young lady, are you on something?"

"Drugs?” Her eyes widened. “Now, there's an idea!"

The older woman shuddered slightly and quickened her pace. The young one sighed and looked back at the conga line behind her.

She had once been a creature of magic, and thus, in the calm before the blue moon, she was a lightning rod of sorts, attracting all manner of weirdness. She started toward the register. Perhaps it was time to stay home.

A bottle of pop tripped over something, and the cheese and an ear of corn helped it right itself.

At the register, she dumped the inanimate objects from her cart. The grocery parade had gathered around and appeared to be looking up at her.

"I suppose you all want to go home with me."

There were nods and limb-wavings. The pop made itself temporarily unusable by jumping up and down.

"All right, everyone can come. Except you. I hate spinach.” She helped the others up onto the conveyor while the spinach, its leaves wilted and dejected-looking, turned and slouched away.

She felt sorry for it, and so she said, “Wait! Um, I'll mix you with the foccacia, it'll be all right.” She smiled sweetly. “Add a little pasta, maybe some tomatoes, and you'll be a meal to remember, I'm sure."

The spinach turned and ran to her feet. She felt its leaves brush her ankles before she picked it up and set it on the belt. The other groceries were packing themselves.

"I'm dreaming,” the girl at the cash register told her.

"Yeah?"

The girl nodded eagerly and returned her change.

The customer tilted her head. “Ever hear of Morgan Le Fay?"

The girl shook her head no.

"Pity,” the lady said, and loading squirming bags of groceries into her cart, she left.

Midnight found him, as usual, padding back and forth between rooms, patrolling constantly. He usually kept alert all night, but at twelve and three, when the powers of belief were at their strongest, he patrolled.

His real name was Brutus, but Dashiel was a fine name. Better than Spot or Rover or, God spare him, Fluffy. Oh, those names were fine for dogs with a low IQ, but he felt he deserved better.

She hadn't asked for an explanation of what a blue moon was, and truthfully, he wasn't sure he could give her one. He wasn't positive of all his facts, and when Libby—and he loved his Libby—got worried about things, she became extremely paranoid. She over-bought on food and refused to answer the telephone.

He considered this for a moment. Well, she did those things anyway, but when she worried it got worse, and he wasn't going to do without his daily run through the forest. Not for anything. Except maybe the end of the world.

He tilted his head, listening. Ah, the refrigerator had kicked on. Libby turned in her sleep, the springs on her bed giving just slightly. All was well.

He padded back to his own bed. You couldn't run from the blue moon, he reasoned, so he might as well try and enjoy what life he had left.

Nimue and Melnue walked for a time, until sand became scraggly pines. They passed silent houses, greeted only by an occasiona* * * *ight. Both looked around as if everything was new to them, and in different ways, it was.

Melnue knew it was rude to stare inside the houses, although what she saw charmed and fascinated her. There was nothing special, really—tables and knickknacks and the yellow glow of a lamp. A dog would begin to bark as they passed, but Nimue only had to glance at it and it would stand in silent respect. Cats would pause and watch them—no, watch her—as they traveled along the smooth, silent road, and they didn't disappear until the pale woman and her companion were out of view.

Nimue would stop occasionally and sniff the air, looking, she said, for water. Eventually, their path led back into the woods. A creek, small and thready, ran towards the sea. Nimue dipped her fingers in, tasted it, made a face and sighed.

"Better than naught, I suppose,” she said, and took Melnue's hand. “We'll step in together. I have enough power left to me, in my element, that this should work."

"Okay.” Melnue felt almost like she was humoring a madwoman. The creek was barely deep enough to wet her toenails.

Nimue tugged forward, and she followed.

Everything vanished, replaced by cold and wet. She felt like her flesh had become a sieve, and the water ran through it. It went on and on, through her skin, her hair, her blood vessels, her eyes, her viscera—cold and swift.

When they stopped, someone pulled her arm, hauling her out of the water. She felt herself come back together, her cells and disparate parts sliding back into place.

She climbed up a mossy bank. They were in a gully not much cleaner-looking than the creek they'd started out in.

"What time is it?” Melnue asked. “How long have we traveled?"

Nimue was wringing out her hair and her clothes. Wherever her hands touched, the water seemed to run away, leaving dryness in its wake. She did the same for Melnue, and soon the dark-haired girl stopped shivering.

"There we are,” Nimue said. “All better. And as for what time it is, I am not sure. We traveled for some time.” She looked up at the sky. “It was very early morning when we started, the fifth or sixth hour. I would say it's about that again, save for now it is evening."

Nimue guided her again, up the gully and into a fairly large town. They avoided vehicles and gawked at the bright lights until they came to a huge Victorian house wrapped in a pillared veranda. The doors in front, inset with panels of etched glass, seemed locked at first, but Nimue tapped one then pushed it open. Her eyes were half-closed now, Melnue noticed, as they climbed stairs and stopped in front of a door with the number thirteen in gold on it.

The door was painted forest green, while its neighbors were drab tan. Nimue placed the back of her hand on the door and seemed to think for a long time before she knocked. It was an odd knock—four raps, stop, two raps, stop, then five.

They waited a long while, and finally Melnue said, “I don't think anyone's home."

"She's there. She's thinking."

Finally, the lock turned, and the door opened a short span, stopped by a security chain. A pale-green eye the same hue as Nimue's regarded them. There was a soft sigh, the chain fell, and the door opened the rest of the way. The woman was slender and very beautiful, with hair of a deep, rich red curling down to her waist.

"I was wondering if you'd ever bother showing up,” she grumbled. “Well, there's nothing for it. You'd best come in."

The apartment was small, having been carved out of what had once been an imposing mansion, but everything in it was of a sumptuous quality. A fainting couch in dark-blue velvet was positioned in front of the TV set; the rugs beneath their feet were as deep as unmown grass. Motion caught Melnue's eye, and she looked into the kitchen, oddly separated from the living room by another door with a panel of etched glass. A cluster of greenery had curled its leaves around a knife, and seemed to be fighting off the advances of a block of cheese.

The woman followed Melnue's gaze into the kitchen and sighed.

"Settle down, you! Now! Or you won't be supper tonight!"

The two fell immediately into reassuring stillness.

"I'll get you both some water, then I'll make us a nice dinner. Okay?"

Nimue nodded. “I would be thankful, Morganna."

A moment later, Morganna returned with mismatched goblets of water. Nimue pointed at the row of posters on the wall. Each was framed magnificently. The first said, “See Elaine Morgan in
MacBeth
Willow Theater June 1794” in ornate lettering. It pictured a woman who looked like Morganna dressed in deep-green medieval robes and looking haughty. In fact, each poster was a variation of the one next to it save for the costumes, theaters, the dates ... and the name of the star. The last one read, “Morgan Black is Lady MacBeth See the Littleton Company's production of this timeless Shakespeare classic August 9th at the Benedum."

Morgan Black's hair was short and straight, her costume dark and modern. While all the others were in color, this one was stark black and white. A
photograph
, Melnue recalled, and smiled happily for remembering.

The woman in the photo looked imperious and queenly.

"Is this how you've been making your living?"

"Oh, yes,” Morganna said. “And it's much less dangerous than palmistry or rune reading.” She smiled up at them. “I have three Tonys sitting around here somewhere.” She noticed their confusion, so she sighed and said, “They're awards. Where have you been?"

"In a cave, sleeping,” Nimue said.

"Bummer.” A clattering sound came from the kitchen. “I told you guys to behave!” Morganna looked at her guests. “Don't you just hate the blue moon?"

A little later, after they ate and cleaned up, Morganna sat down beside Melnue.

"Let's see what we can do about you.” She looked into Melnue's eyes. “Describe yourself to me,” she commanded.

"I don't know. I mean, I don't remember."

"Close your eyes. Now, picture a room, a perfectly empty room except that there is a mirror on one wall. Walk up to the mirror. Slowly, now. What do you see?"

"Nothing, nothing ... oh. Wait, I see a woman—tall, with red hair."

"Like mine?"

"No. More coppery. She has gray eyes and pointy ears."

"Describe her features."

"Squarish jaw, straight nose, tanned skin, strong features but not altogether ugly."

"All right, then. Open your eyes."

Melnue obeyed. She grabbed some of her hair and confirmed it was inky black.

"She was describing herself, then?” Nimue asked.

"Yes. Someone stole her features as well as her memory, but thankfully not her body.” Morgan patted Melnue's cheek. “Go to sleep, child."

Melnue's eyes grew heavy. Someone picked up her ankles and pulled them around, encouraging her to change her position and lie down on the couch.

"It is a deceptively comfortable couch,” a gentle voice said. “You will sleep well."

Nimue and Morganna left the apartment and climbed the stairs to the widow's walk. There they stood a long time, not talking.

"What do you suppose woke you?"

Nimue sighed. “I'm not really sure. I think something's happening with the Stone. As you said, a blue moon is coming. Perhaps trouble is brewing."

"But you cannot interfere. It is no longer your place. The task has been passed on. The magic no longer shines from your eyes, but from another's."

"When the blue moon rises, magic will call to magic. All our eyes will shine once more, and magic will run, briefly, through our veins."

"I know. Three blue moons have I lived through. Being reminded what magic was like, then having it ripped away again ... it is a hellish torture. Oh, how I hate you both when the blue moon comes!"

"You could have gone with them."

Morganna looked at her. “I couldn't have. I fought too hard to keep Merlin from his purpose, made too many enemies."

They considered this awhile, looking up at the brightness of the moon. It wasn't full yet, but still its brilliance cancelled out the stars.

"Are the stars not out tonight?” Nimue whispered, quoting from the past. “I would sing to them, but the moon has eaten them all up."

The tension between them grew instead of abating at this memory. They had a lot of history between them, and many years of bitterness.

"Have you read the old stories?” Morgan asked. “We are not half-sisters anymore, according to the books now."

"If the stories change on paper, does the truth change with it?"

Morgan placed her hands on the wall next to her sister's. “I don't know."

"I know what they say of me,” the Lady of the Lake whispered sadly. “That what I did to Merlin was out of spite."

"Time hasn't been kind to any of the women of Arthur's time. They can't even get your name right. And what they did to poor Gwennie..."

"Was not entirely undeserved. Elaine certainly confused the hell out of them, did she not? I spent some time reading in a library just after I awoke, and one encyclopedia has her marked down as twelve different women."

Morgan laughed. “That girl sure got around. And they called me loose."

Nimue giggled with her. “But I never truly believed she could be had for a couple of fistfuls of dyed wool, no matter what Pelenor said."

The laughter died down, and things became slightly more companionable. Nimue watched a few vehicles pass.

"Did you ever live with him, Nimue? As a wife?"

"We were never married."

"And that is not what I asked."

Nimue nodded. “Yes. We were as man and wife. When we could be."