The day the moon fell down

Rumor had it that the old cottage under the grassy knoll wasn't locked. Rumor had it that every sixth night, the lights would flicker on and Baba Yaga would sing her crackled call and that the harsh midnight noises we heard was her song. I often imagined the branches tapping my window were her fingers. Maybe she was starving, hideous, and wanted shelter after living so long.

After the second month of fall, the moon darkened. My friends packed up and left with their families; the older families with roots in the ground stayed. So did we, but only because we were poor.

After two months, the moon was only a white sliver. School was canceled and we prayed instead, hoping desperately that things would be alright. More people left. I was alone.

When my mother got sick, enough was enough. I left my house, and camped below that grassy knoll until the sixth day. When the lights bloomed inside the cottage like a bonfire had gone up inside those flimsy walls, then I knocked my fingers at Baba Yaga's window.

"You know the deal?" she cackled. Her face was like the moon, cracked and round and ancient.

"I want you to bring the moon back" I stated. Fear tightened like a fist in my belly.

"Close your eyes girl," Baba Yaga said. I did, and felt her branch-like fingers on my cheek. "I cannot hold it up any longer. Too tired. Too old." She was so close now. I could smell her sour breath on my face and I had to force my eyes to stay shut. I imagined mother, red-faced and glued to the bed, chest rising then falling like hope's taunting whim.

"I-I know the deal," I lied.

The next day I woke in that cottage. My skin was like parchment and my face lined. I was still young, but I wouldn't be, not forever. The weight of the moon fit snugly on my shoulders and I knew I had to carry it for as long as eternity until someone else came to take my place.


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