The Moonfox

At last, she stood in sight of the end of her quest. From the foot of the tumulus, she was able to discern the dim outline of the remains of the great World-Oak; wreathed in mist and silhouetted bleakly against the perpetually clouded sky.

Although weary, she decided to begin her ascent at once. There was too much at stake to risk any further delay.

As she passed between the massive Stones that ringed the base of the mound, she was acutely aware of their glowering life - the pent up force within each of their hearts - for she was akin to them: An elemental creature, also born of the womb of the Earth.

Her eyes - cold and hard, like pebbles - became fixed upon the summit. The focus of so many hopes and dreams. The only chance of release from the oppression of Umbra.

Fear gave her renewed strength. She began to run up the slope, her bare paws slipping on the slimy dampness of the grass. Thorn bushes grabbed at her from the darkness; scratching her exposed downy flesh, snagging her already tattered garments and once almost snatching the leather bag from her shoulder. After that, she slowed her pace a little and cradled the bag protectively in her arms. Its contents were precious beyond imagining.

A terrible gloom seemed to be gathering - and with it, an ominous silence.

Her progress was suddenly halted. She was caught in a chilling grip. Enveloped by a numbing coldness that froze her limbs. She could not move. Could not escape. She was paralysed. Trapped. Suspended in the web of a spidercat.

She should have realised. Should have seen that the mists had been woven into a deadly pattern. This was just the sort of desolate region the spidercats would haunt. It was well known that they made their nests deep amongst the thorns and brambles. Already, she could hear their shrill cries as they came to feast on her blood.

In desperation, she looked up imploringly towards the World-Oak. Its massive form seemed to dominate the sky, despite its being no more than a blackened stump in relation to its former glory. But there was no hope of intercession. Indeed, the whole situation was bitterly ironic, for she was the only creature with the Power to free the Man from His age old bondage.

The strange, shifting red and green sparks of the spidercats’ eyes now surrounded her. They seemed reluctant to approach her too closely. Probably they had never encountered an elemental before. Or perhaps they could sense the Artefact she was carrying and were rightly wary of its Power. Or, most likely of all, they were merely toying with her and delaying the kill.

All of a sudden, a ghastly radiance flooded the scene. The spidercats scuttled way in confusion, screeching madly. Almost miraculously, a gap had appeared in the dense clouds above. The full, hideous brilliance of the Moon beat down upon the face of the Earth.

The elemental was stunned. She had never before witnessed such an awful vision. It was surely the most ambiguous of all portents: The Light in Darkness. A symbol perhaps that the fate of the world was in balance, between Umbra and the Promised Dawn.

A faint moaning came to her sensitive ears. It emanated from the foot of the hill. She glimpsed a flicker of movement down amongst the Stones. A slight breeze stirred the air. It carried a sharp stink of decaying matter. The moaning rose in pitch and became a desolate howl. The breeze picked up and swiftly reached gale force. It swept up the hill in wave after wave, drenching her with torrents of freezing rain.

There was a final demented shriek. The spidercat’s web was torn apart in the rabid jaws of a hurricane. She was flung through the air like a thistledown, then smashed with crushing force down into the mud.

A low growl was all that now sounded in the far distance. Everything was once again still and expectant. She was certain that the storm had been of supernatural origin, but was at a complete loss as to the possible identity of her saviour.

Bravely, she struggled to her feet. She was a pitiful sight in her bedraggled remnants of clothing and her filthy, matted fur. The bag, although grimy and sodden, remained clutched tightly to her chest.

It was then she realised she was standing in the presence of the Man. His tall, naked form towered over her, close enough to touch. For a moment, she was overcome by a sense of reverence. Her breath caught in her throat.

However, He was not the bronzed demi-god of legend. His skeletal limbs were extended in the shape of a cross, throwing the stark spurs and valleys of His rib cage into sharp relief. A sour smell rose from His sallow flesh. The tangled strands of His hair and beard were long and grey and lifeless.

He was bound to the World-Oak with mistletoe, which seemed to have become fused to His hands and feet. His head was slumped down onto His chest; crowned with a wreath of holly, which appeared to be actually growing out of His skull.

As she gazed up at Him, a holly berry fell and splashed on her tail. It was, in fact, a droplet of blood from His tortured brow.

For the very first time, she doubted the Prophecy. She could not see how freeing the Man could possibly bring about the Promised Dawn.

Nevertheless, she unfastened the bag and withdrew the sacred bundle from within. Carefully, she removed the protective wrappings from the Artefact, to reveal a curved white leather scabbard; cracked and discoloured with age. She then untied the thongs and uncovered the handle of the Sickle it sheathed.

The handle had been fashioned from ivory and was inlaid with sapphires. She grasped it as tightly as she could. Her paws were not well suited to the task, but it nestled comfortably into her palm and seemed to hold her in a firm grip of its own.

As if imbued with an unnatural life, the Sickle gradually emerged from its scabbard and pulled her arm high above her head. It shone with an eldritch, blinding light, far brighter than if it merely reflected the Moon. Its blue/silver blade could have been tempered from a lightning bolt.

Transfixed with horror, she observed the fur melting from her limbs. Her claws became delicately painted china blue fingernails upon pale, translucent human fingers. Her whole body was changing... growing... She was dressed in a diaphanous, flowing white robe of the purest silk. Her hair was long and ash blonde.

She was now as tall as the Man. He lifted His head towards her - but His eye sockets were dark and empty. He could not see her evanescent beauty. He opened His mouth to speak - but He had no tongue. All He could do was make a pathetic croaking sound in the back of His throat.

She felt no pity. She was possessed by a cold, nameless spectre. She watched in morbid fascination as her hand fell with appalling slowness. The Sickle severed the Man’s genitals and bit deep into the body of the World-Oak.

For the space of a single heartbeat, everything was static in a phantastic tableau.

The Power unleashed then exploded in a deadly backlash. She was convulsed and thrown violently off balance by a shockwave of energy. Her fur blackened and smouldering, she once again lay sprawled in the mud.

Through eyes blurred with pain, she saw that the Sickle was twisted and dull. A foul blackness gouted from the wounded World-Oak. Its roots had burst free from the ground and were writhing like malformed fingers on a huge, mutilated hand. Mercifully, she lost consciousness...

An age later, or so it seemed, she was awakened by the chilling breath of an animal against her cheek. Although her eyes remained shut, she was profoundly aware of its presence. A seventh sense told her it resembled a fox. The ethereal skeleton of a fox. Intangible. Invisible - to all but the most sensitive and perceptive of beings.

In her mind’s eye, she could see its ectoplasmic skull glaring down at her impassively. Its vacuous gaze threatened to engulf her, absorb her into sheer nothingness.

That was the most terrifying thing of all. It had no allegiance either to Umbra or to the Promised Dawn. Its motives were so devious and obscure that they were incomprehensible to her.

She knew implicitly that this was the vague, shimmering creature she had seen fleetingly amongst the Stones. This was her ‘saviour’. Not that it mattered now. All hope had died with the Man.

Vaguely, she believed she could hear the ghostly creature’s un-voice, deep in her soul. Its quasi-words offered no comfort.

“The only freedom from Umbra,” it seemed to say. “Is in death.”

The clouds closed over the Moon like heavy iron doors. She was left alone on the hillside with only the silent, half imagined echo of the transient cry of the Moonfox to ease the darkness.

She exhausted the little vitality remaining to her by forcing her eyes open and staring eastwards. Towards her homeland. Towards those whose trust she had betrayed.

A dull redness was suffusing the horizon. It was as if the edge of the world was stained with the Man’s blood.

And so she died - without ever seeing the rising of the Sun and the fulfilment of the ancient Promise.