Phases of Luna

[twistdfateangel]

A very odd piece to develop my Geist PC.

 

The hush of the library is broken only by the muffled footsteps of librarians and visitors. The soft smell of old books, aged wood and brass polish hangs in the air, bringing a gravity that deepens the shadows and forces even the noisiest student's voice to an awed murmur. Up ahead, you hear a whisper of movement and catch a flash of something fluid ducking around a corner. Curious, you follow.

The woman you've followed has her back to you. She's dressed conservatively, almost frumpily, in a dark, velvety rose-print skirt and a button-down olive drab blouse, the same color as the leaves of the roses. Flat shoes and white stockings like a little girl's, long dark hair pushed back by a dark ribbon around her head, spectacles creeping down her snub nose. Simple, bland makeup, or is she wearing any? She could be pretty, beautiful even, if she'd smile. But, the very thought seems to scare her.

She turns. Ace of Spades earrings sway violently. Her dark brown eyes widen and she smiles nervously. Around her neck, there's a silver chain, bearing a pitted silver disk. It's a full moon.

“Can I help you find anything?” she asks softly, in a low, sweet voice. For an instant, you swear you can see a shape, hovering at her elbow, tall and smelling even more strongly of ancient papers, leather and ink.

 

It's raining more than just water today. One minute, you were just standing there. The next—THUD—someone was in front of you and clamboring up the wall as though defying gravity. Stunned, you regain your calm, thank your lucky stars you took up parkour and follow.

You reach the roof in time to hear the person ahead exclaim, “...And shun the Frumious Bandersnatch!” A flash of brilliant orange, and the person—a woman from the voice—springs to the next roof. She's in dark gray yoga pants, the words “You've Been Mooned” across her butt, and an orange hoodie, orange and silver sneakers pounding the tarred rooftops mercilessly. The hood flaps back, revealing a knot of dark hair, made darker by the cool summer rain and a baseball cap, a headphone strap holding it down.

Suddenly, she comes to a screeching halt and ducks under a garden awning left on the roof. “...So rested he by the Tumtum tree and stood a while in thought,” she continues, catching her breath. She's not at all unattractive. A freckled, tawny face, round and snub nosed, pink-cheeked from exertion, grins out from under her cap. A word is blazoned across the crown, hard to read from the nodding and bouncing her head is doing to keep time with the music. A button is pinned to the front of her hoodie, glittering silver and reading “Six Impossible Things: Believe In Them Before Breakfast”. The phases of the moon march down one pant leg in silver. She glances at you, and winks. For an instant, you swear you hear laughter, like rustling of papers.

She's off running again and you give chase. At times, all you have to go on is the sound of her voice, reciting “Jabberwocky” as she zips and springs along. When you spot her, you can't help but think she's dancing. Her smile in the diffuse light is pure rapture. Just when you think you can't keep up with her anymore, she drops to the ground.

“'Twas brillig and the slithy toves/did gyre and gimble in the wabe/all mimsy were the borogroves/and the mome raths outgrabe.” She turns to you and smiles hugely, bowing with an almost-theatrical flamboyance, and strolls sedately away, leaving you to realize just how far from home you are.

 

Either Halloween came early this year, or the woman at the bus stop is crazy. She has an iPod strapped to her arm and a copy of The Marvelous Land of Oz, totally engrossed in her reading like a child. Her deep Ruby Slipper tote purse holds other, less incongruous books, Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, and books on the ghosts of Washington DC and Virginia. An e-cigarette, green LED glowing spectrally, lights her face, making ruby red lips gleam with a winter holiday cheer. Except it's May.

You sit beside her, and she glances at you with a quick, shy smile. The faintest breath of clove, lilies, and fresh cotton hangs around her. She's actually rather pretty, for all that she dresses like a child. Her poofy black skirt has a pair of ruby slippers sewn on and a broomstick, behind which is embroidered “Surrender Dorothy” in glittering red and silver, apparently meant to compliment the slogan on her shirt (“Don't make me get my flying monkeys!”). Her dark hair is in a smart bun, but adorned with a huge green bow and huge white silk poppy. You almost expect her to dig out a witch's hat and cackle at you, before skipping away to kindergarten. The only out-of-place piece is the black and green choker, with the phases of the moon in silver.

Above your heads, the rain begins again. Without looking up from her book, her nose crinkles and she pulls a rainbow umbrella out of her purse. Perhaps its a trick of the light, but you swear someone is peering over her shoulder, someone with old-scroll-gold hair and ink smeared on her face. She shuts the book at last as her bus arrives.You shout after her, “Act your age, lady!”

Over her shoulder, she replies, “You and your little dog, too, chief!” She cackles just like a witch as the bus doors swish shut.

 

This has been a shitty night for clubbing. One more drink and you're leaving. But, as you order another martini, you spot her. She's a moon-faced girl under a sequined fedora, frisking like a springtime lamb to the music. She knows how to dress to impress, chessboard top, red pencil skirt, silver heels that shape her legs just so. It's hard to tell who's in charge of who, her or the music, because the synthesizers swell with every ecstatic smile and her every gesture seems perfectly timed. She's lost in a trance, moving dream-like on her tiny patch of dancefloor.

Her eyes snap open behind her glasses and she waves you over. Something silver flashes on her ring finger. You figure, what the hell, and head over. You follow her lead, not sure what you're doing. She's wearing a crescent moon on a brooch at her cleavage, flashing with the lights. “IT'S MY NAMETAG!” she shouts over the music, and you pity her for a moment. What heartless person could name a defenseless infant “Moon”, especially when she's grown up into such a graceful and seemingly normal human?

Some shift in the music sets her to twirling like a child in a swirly skirt. You follow suit, not sure what else to do. Someone else in the crowd is spinning along and you catch a sound like paper in the wind. But, then, Moon is laughing and the rustling of paper is drowned out.

 

The police cover your friend's face and the coroner has him wheeled away. Wasn't there supposed to be a lunar eclipse tonight? You can't bring yourself to give a damn. Jimmy's dead. Just dropped dead for no reason under a moonlit sky, on an ordinary night.

“He's in a more peaceful place,” says someone behind you. You see her reflected in the plate glass window before you, a dark haired woman, dressed in sober gray, relieved only by an orange rose behind her ear. Her wide belt is buckled with a silver skull, faceted amber eyes twinkling with silent, malevolent laughter. “Trust me,” she says gently, “I know I can't say for sure I know how you feel. But, I've lost someone I love, too.”

You look away and want to storm off, to rid yourself of the pain alone. Yet, suddenly, you're talking. With the talking, comes the crying. With the crying, comes a gray jersey clad arm around your shoulder. She cries a little with you. It occurs to you, you've seen her before, dressed differently and acting differently, but that same freckled moon face and dark eyes behind glasses. She walks you away to a bus bench and sits you down, offering you a few puffs of an e-cigarette (no nicotine, but the flavored vapor is quite soothing, she apologizes). Finally, a ringtone sounds from her phone.

“I wish I could stay with you,” she says, “but I have to go and I think you'll be okay now. Here,” she hands you a card, “this guy's a really good grief counselor. If you need somebody, call him and tell him I recommended you.”

“But, who are you?” you ask as the girl rises.

She pauses, face blank with thought. “Call me Luna.” Behind her head, you can see the moon going dark. But, you know it won't remain dark. You go to thank her... But she's disappeared, leaving only a smell of old books and a feeling that you've been talking to a ghost.