Fate of the Moon Goddess

Chapter One

THE SILENCE OF the night is deafening; an eerie counterpart to the brilliance of the full moon.

The outcropping overlooking the farm is my favorite place to be in this backwater village, especially after a day like today.

I sigh and watch the moonlight dance across the wheat ready for harvest. Porto, my “uncle”, and I had quite the argument today; bigger than usual.

A crack thunders through the air, echoing across the farm, breaking me out of my thoughts.

Scanning the field and tree line at the opposite ridge of the valley, I don’t see any sign of what caused the noise.

Until I see her. Eyes wide, wonder and fear mix in my veins as I watch what unfolds in the distance.

A woman effortlessly glides down from the tree line and across the wheat field.

Tendrils of silver radiate off her body, highlighting a strong feminine stature.

She stops three quarters of the way through the field.

Despite the cool of the night, a bead of sweat trickles down my back; I am in the presence of a goddess.

She tilts her head up while lifting a hand toward me. Without warning, a beam of silver shoots from an extended finger, hitting me in my head. Pure white floods my vision as her power courses through me, shedding light in the deepest corners of my being. A voice echoes in my mind.

“I finally found you.”

***

Lounging on my favorite rock again the following day, the wheat fields below sway with the slight breeze; a needed respite from the midday heat.

Running a tanned hand through sun-streaked hair, thoughts of last night dominate my mind.

Was it all some dream? Or something more?

A sigh escapes me, idly fidgeting with the sandals winding up my calf.

I don’t have a choice but to talk with our local Speaker; if anyone would know what I saw, it would be them.

A wordless shout grabs my attention from the fields as my uncle waves me down to help, snapping me from my musings.

I make quick work climbing off my perch; Porto never was one to tolerate laziness as he saw it, especially out of me.

Gravel shifts under my feet as I scramble down the hillside.

He probably wants to yell at me about something.

Not that I care at this point; we’ve been odds for a while now.

Athos is a backwater village toward the north-western edge of Thetan.

There’s no strategic value nor much in terms of trade goods, and it’s challenging enough to reach that travelers usually avoided the route altogether.

This forces us to be self-sufficient, growing our own food, but also makes us fairly cloistered; often hearing of world events late and generally stagnating in beliefs.

Gods and goddesses were revered, never to be trifled with, and generally feared, especially when they appear unbidden without omens. Porto is going to love this.

“Skion! Get down here you freeloader!” Porto’s voice finally reaches me as I approach the edge of the field, ire clear as crystal, his face flushed from more than the sun.

The other farmers work their way away from my uncle; they know him well enough to know when to become scarce.

Muscles in his cheeks flex, his teeth grinding and brows knitting together.

“What were you doing slacking off up there? You know it’s the harvest!

We need to clear the field before we can plant our new olive trees.

” I nod, casting my eyes downward, experience having taught me the fastest way to end conversations like this.

Porto is not actually my uncle but a family friend who took me in after my parents had died. A fact he reminds me of. Constantly.

“Well?! I didn’t take you in to leech off of me.” Impatience oozes from him, slight spittle flying in my direction. I shrug, still not making eye contact.

“I saw something up there last night. Something I need to talk with the Speaker about.” Porto’s rising anger deflates immediately, his superstitious nature rearing its ugly head at the mention of the Speaker.

“And what exactly did you see?” A touch of fear blends with suspicion.

It’s rare that someone needs to see the Speaker; they are a conduit between humanity and the divine.

Shrugging again, the coarse fabric of my tunic runs along my back.

I try to ignore the feeling; now’s not the time to be wishing for something I can’t change.

“I’m not sure. That’s why I need to see them.

” Porto squints at my words, suspicion warring with superstition.

It’s easier to believe I want to skip work rather than having witnessed a divine being.

A moment passes. Then another. Finally, he sighs and waves a hand, anger lowering to its normal simmering state.

“Fine. Go.” Eager to be out of his presence, I hurry by him, not waiting for a change of mind.

His disappointed grunt causes me to pause, sandals crunching on fallen wheat chaff.

Without looking at me, as though speaking to the wind, Porto airs his inner thoughts.

“I’m sure a failure like you just doesn’t want to work.

You won’t ever be the man I need to take over this farm. ”

Striding back through the bales of grain, Porto starts yelling at those unlucky enough to be closest. The grain wouldn’t harvest itself, nor the trees plant themselves. For all his faults, Porto is a shrewd man and had procured seedlings for olives, ready to turn Athos into an important town.

My thoughts darken working my way down the hillside terrace toward the village. Porto is indeed shrewd and perceptive, despite the anger and prejudice. This time though, he has no idea how right he is; I don’t ever want to be the man to take over his farm.

***

Athos is nestled along a mountain hillside, several terraced plateaus combining housing districts, farm land, and all the necessities that come with rural life.

By nature of how the sun casts its tremendous glow and where the ground was fertile enough, the farm land is mainly at the highest terrace levels.

Sweat trickles down the small of my back as I walk the path down.

The afternoon is in full swing and as such, the bottom terraces of the village are slowly being swallowed by the shadow of the mountain hillside.

The beauty of my hometown cuts through my muddled thoughts.

Tenacious trees dot the rocky landscape between the stone and wicker houses, their golden blossoms catching the fading light, savoring it until the next day.

Relief courses through me as I continue my descent, the shade a balm for the heat of the farm. I much prefer the heat of a kitchen compared to the harvest heat combined with the sheer monotony of farming.

I reach the housing terrace, nodding here or there to passerby. Athos is small enough that everyone knows everyone; which makes the looks of pity and whispers all the more weighty. I pick up my pace, ready to make it through the houses and on to the next terrace where the Speaker resides.

Crunching along the gravel path between the terraces, the comforting aroma of freshly baked bread engulfs my senses and a low rumble emerges from my stomach.

I know the smell of Menna’s bakery from a mile away.

Feeling for the small money pouch threaded through my leather belt, a handful of coppers and two painstakingly saved silver coins jingle pathetically.

My feet lead the way toward her bakery, despite our history and my poverty.

Working for Porto, or for any farm owner, is not a lucrative job but at least I have a roof over my head and free meals which allow for just enough saving to keep dreaming. Well, the free meals are edible. I wish Porto would let me cook more; it’s one of the few places I find peace these days.

I enter Menna’s bakery, ducking to avoid the overhang of the low wicker roof. I am on the shorter side of men my age, but due to the seasonal northern rains all buildings in Athos have low overhangs to help drain the water.

“Skion! Come on in my love!” I can't help but chuckle at her greeting. A few years older than me, Menna is a successful business owner, turning Porto’s wheat into glorious golden loaves.

While everyone who comes in is her love, she’s also my most recent entanglement though we’ve known each other forever.

I suppress a wince and struggle to keep up my chuckle; we haven’t talked much since what happened a few nights ago.

Despite the greeting, Menna is still hard at work, flipping a last batch of loaves in the clay oven at the back of her store.

Flour cakes the front of a sleeveless tunic, heat from the oven making anything else too warm to bear.

Years of kneading bread have built glorious muscles on her arms, standing out along her fair complexion.

“Smells absolutely divine in here, Menna. Well, nothing is as divine as you are!” I can’t hide the wince this time; that was not my best work.

A titter of laughter escapes from behind Menna's hand regardless, a pleased smile peeking around her palm. Maybe she doesn’t think too poorly of me yet.

Stepping swiftly over to a wooden counter at the entrance, she gestures toward a few goods.

“Well?” she says. “What are you in the mood for today, aside from blasphemous flattery?”

I fish a copper out, my tiny pouch shrinking even more, and slide it gently along the counter.

“I'll take a half loaf of olive bread if you have it.” Menna picks up the copper and saunters over to a section of the counter where the special breads sat. Normally, one copper would get a full loaf of bread but olives are harder to come by in Athos and well worth the price; at least that’s what my stomach thinks.

Menna returns with a full loaf and smiles as she hands it to me, with a wink and a finger to her lips. The loaf is still warm from the oven and smells incredible.

“Are you busy later? I’d like to see you again.

And—” Menna blushes and looks away before continuing, “I want to talk about the other night. I don’t like how things went and I want to figure it out.

” Oh. That’s not what I expected. Heat rises up my neck, but whether in shame or a searing hope of understanding, I don’t know.

“Maybe tomorrow?” Menna’s face begins to fall, urging me on. “I have to see the Speaker today and I don’t know how long that will take. I’d…like to talk about things too.” It’s hard to meet her hopeful eyes. There’s truth in the fear, truth in the unknown.

“Tomorrow then.” Eyes bright, she turns and walks back to the oven to tend her final loaves of the day. Quickly, I slip out a second copper and lay it quietly on the countertop before heading to the door. History or not, kindness is something I’ve always struggled to accept.

***

Munching on my delicious treasure, I move swiftly to the center of the terrace where the Speaker's house is. They are one of the few who live on the business terrace, but according to them, it allows for a cleaner separation with the rest of the populace. Speakers are among but apart, urban hermits at the core of every village’s spirituality.

Supposedly, towns and cities don’t have dedicated Speakers but temples of the gods welcome all traveling Speakers. They are the voices of the dual pantheons to the rural folk. A bastion of knowledge, both physical and godly; knowledge I desperately need.

Rounding the corner of the blacksmith, I see the Speaker's house.

A circular stone building surrounded by finely kept shrubs, one of the Speaker's hobbies. Sure enough, there they are, carefully cutting a hedge. The Speaker has seen around forty or so winters, but their age doesn’t show.

A tight bun of black hair striped with grey keeps the hair from their face as they work, a loose and flowy robe cooling from the heat.

I rip off half of the remaining bread and raise it in offering.

With a slow nod, they accept the bread and grab it.

“Well, to what do I owe this generosity to?” They turn to open the door and lead me inside.

“Especially from a non-believer such as yourself.” I wince as I follow, my eyes adjusting to the limited light inside, taking the offered seat on the cushioned floor.

It’s a well-known fact that I do not believe in the gods.

When you're scratching a living off of a mountainside wrestling with who you are, it's hard to believe in higher powers.

At least, it used to be. As if sensing my thoughts, the Speaker sits across from me and nibbles at the olive bread, a few crumbs falling to the floor.

“Tell me what brings you here and, tell me what you saw.” My mouth creases; Speaker indeed.

I share my experience of seeing the woman in the fields, the power she possessed, the way she looked at me, and every detail I can remember. In between bites of bread, the Speaker asks questions. Was she holding anything, did she speak at all, what color were her eyes, and so on.

Silence settles upon us as my tale comes to an end along with their questions. In the low and fading light, the Speaker’s face twists painfully. The look you give a lame oxen needing to be killed.

“Skion, you have been chosen.”