Full Moon (working title)

Full Moon

Preface

As the light fades and darkness slides over the land, as you begin to curl beneath your snug warm blanket and nestle your pretty head into the soft pillows…..consider this:

Werewolves, witches, warlocks and vampires. Werewolves? Unlikely. The human shape simply cannot metamorphose that way. Witches? Certainly.  I, myself, was married to a Celtic witch. Warlocks? Pffft. Some made up name, but of course there are male witches.

Then there are the vampires. Hmmm. Plenty of precedent in the world for feeding on blood, need I mention vampire bats and leeches? Darwin’s fine works speak at length on genetic mutation as an evolutionary tool for advancement of the species.

So if you were a creature that had a somewhat unusual need for blood, and that particular nutrient just happened to significantly extend the lifespan, per se, as a result of a certain genetic (hmm) mutation, would you take out a full page ad in the NY Times and advertise it? I think not. The government would snatch you up to poke and probe and never would you see the light of day again.

What then should be done? Hide in plain sight, among the general population, making sure to draw little attention. To keep an appearance so unlikely to the common vampire cliché, that one would never be mistaken for something unnatural. To vary that appearance; to conceal the lack of aging process, means to maintain a presence near the cities. That is where the most abundant “food supply” would be found and where an occasional missing person would go unnoticed. Not that every craving needed to result in one less member of the population. Unlike the myriad of fables, this creature still requires normal food consumption, and oh, yes they aren’t the “undead” either. Just someone with a bit more reason to taste the elixir of life…..might even be your next door neighbor…..the corner grocer…..the clerk at that shoe store you like….

Because yes, there is probably more than one out there, somewhere….

Just a bit of “food” for thought


                                                                  Morgan Talon




Chapter One
1420
            The woman stood at the edge of the glade as the mists rose and the shadows deepened. It had been three days since she first stood 

at same spot and gazed down into the carnage that lay before her in the moonlit glade. Three of the coven lay dead and her own daughter

writhed on the ground screaming in agony. Though she rushed to her side, she was too late as the young woman drew the sacred athame

across her throat and spilled her blood onto the damp grasses. Bound mother to daughter and priestess to heir, she too had seen a glimmer

of the terror that had filled her daughter’s mind. The knowledge of the horror that she had released had destroyed the girl.

          The woman stepped into the glade chanting softly, her senses alert, casting about with her mind. Whatever had been released would

have needed time to recover from the passage between the realms. It would linger here, at the entrance, for a time, anyways, gathering

strength. Darkness edged into a corner of her mind. She could sense the presence, evil and hateful, like a wounded animal. Doubt crept in,

but she brushed it aside. Fear began to grow in her mind but she fought it back as well. Any of the demon spawn thrived on what fear they

could stir in their prey. She began to cast the magic circle to protect and shield her self but before the woman could close the circle, a blast of

sheer terror assaulted her, thrusting her clear of the thin line in the earth. As the woman staggered to her feet, a wall of fire sprung up and

threatened to engulf her.
                 
    Raising her hands the woman pressed her will forward and the flames subsided. She began chanting the words of the binding spell to

entwine the demon and send it back. Her blood had released it and it was her responsibility to undo the error. Suddenly another blast erupted

from within the shadows, slamming the woman into the trees. With the force of a hurricane unleashed, the evil and hatred as solid as a fist,

pounded against her. It then flung her again into the trees. Broken and disheveled, the woman crawled beyond the trees and into the brush.

This was no low level demon, but a serious threat. She was going to need help…..



Ten years forward
              He had grown up in a small village. A simple life as a farmer’s son with plenty of sweat and hard work.  Not much in the way of

entertainment, but it was a good life, nonetheless. Even as a child, Carrick had been curious about many things. Like the old woman at the

edge of the village. She was the one you saw if you wanted a remedy for a bellyache, or something for a sick cow. There were always

strange smells swirling around her little cottage. Some whispered she was a witch, but no one bothered her. She was simply a part of the

village. Wandering past one day, the door of the cottage creaked open and the old woman poked her head out.
          “Boy, can you fetch me some water? I am too old to work the winch”

He nodded and stopped at the well outside her door. Lowering the bucket until he could hear the splash then winching it back up.
          “Carry it in here, boy.” The old woman motioned to him.

Being only 10, Carrick struggled just a bit with the full bucket, but made it inside and set the bucket to the low wooden table. His green eyes

were wide as he looked around at all the bottles and jars on the shelves. Brushing a wisp of his tangled black hair from his face, he looked up.
          “Thankee, boy” the old woman smiled at him.

Scrounging up his courage, Carrick blurted out “Are you a witch?”

The old woman laughed.  “Now, why do you ask, boy?”
          “Some o’ the boys say you are” he said turning a bit red.
          “Nae, lad, I just dabble bit in the Old ways, mixing me healing herbs an’ such” The woman studied him a moment, her eyes bright and sharp . “I be getting old, lad. Maybe ye would like to stop by onc’t awhile and help an old woman wit’ her chores?”

Carrick nodded “Yes, mum”, then darted off down the street.   
 
        As good as his word, Carrick began stopping a few afternoons to help the woman. It was not much trouble to fetch water or gather

sticks for her fire. After awhile he was even allowed to help stir the pot and help fill the jars.
          “Here, lad, fetch tha’ book from off th’ shelf there.”

Carrick lugged the thick book over to the table, where the old woman poured over the pages, looking for a recipe.
          “Eyes not what they used to be.” She said frowning at the pages. “Boy, read me wot this be saying” pointing a bony finger to middle of the book.

Carrick reddened and looked down. “Umm, I  cannae read, mum.” he mumbled.
          “Not read???” she looked surprised at him.
      “No, mum, me Da, he says a farmer don’t need reading and such, just a strong back”
At this the woman frowned.
“I see.” She paused, thinking for a moment. Carrick lifted his eyes back up.                                                       
          “Would ye like ta’ learn ta’ read, lad?” He swallowed hard, “Umm..Do I have ta’ tell me Da?” She chuckled, “No it will be our secret.” Carrick smiled back. “Then yes, mum.”         
         
  Over the next few years Carrick traded a strong back helping the woman and she taught him to read. Amongst the books on the shelves he

found a certain satisfaction.  There were books with tales of far off places and books filled with recipes for potions and healing herbal

concoctions, and some with fascinating diagrams and pictures. As the woman grew even older and her sight faded, more and more it was

Carrick that read from the books and mixed her potions.
       
          But with age comes responsibility and Carrick being older now found he had much more to do on the farm and less time for spending

at the little cottage. It had been several days since he had been able to find the time to check on the woman’s needs even though he had left

her with plenty of wood and water. Late that afternoon Carrick strolled down to the cottage and rapped on the door.
          “Old woman, are ye awake?”

Several more knocks brought no response. Carrick shoved the door open and peered inside. The old woman lay on her cot, so small among

the blankets that he could barely made out her shape. Even before he reached her side, he knew that she was gone.
   
      In his own way Carrick had come to love the old woman, almost like a kindly grandmother.  He was sure she had a certain affection for

him as well. But at fourteen, he was a man and men did not cry in the face of death. Carefully wrapping the woman in a shroud, he carried

her outside and laid her onto the wheel cart.

Taking the shovel from the wall, Carrick slowly wheeled the cart to the cemetery at the east side of town. He had grown tall now, still filling

out, but hard work had made him strong.  His father was not entirely wrong, as it was the strong back that best served him now as he easily

dug a deep pit. As he lifted the woman from the cart, a small piece of metal fell from the shroud. He bent and picked it up, thrusting it into his

pocket and continued his task. Lowering the woman to the grave, Carrick muttered a few words that she had taught him that meant farewell

and safe journey. Filling in the grave and tamping the moist soil, he finally let a single tear trickle down his cheek. The walk back to the

cottage was slow, with the squeaking of the wheel cart his only companion.
       

        Carrick settled to the bench inside the dimly lit cottage and pondered what he should do. When people of the village died with no family,

the Magistrate would distribute the deceased’s possessions among those who needed them the most in village. He looked around at the

shelves and walls. The woman did not have much, some pots and pans, cooking utensils, and household stuff. Then there were the books.

He reasoned, most of the villagers could not read anyway, so what use would it be to give them away? Having justified his actions to himself,

Carrick began loading the books to the cart. As he took one last look around the cottage, a box on the shelf caught his eye.

Taking it down and opening the lid, he found a heavy leather bound book with brass straps and lock.  Curious, he tugged at the lock but it

would not budge. With a frown, he placed the book back in the box and added it to the cart.
     
      Carrick rolled the cart back to the farm, careful to avoid his father and sisters. Lugging the books up to the loft in the old barn, he stowed

them deep in the furthest corner under the hay. Even now he had never revealed to his family that he could read, knowing his father would

scorn such as laziness and a waste of time. Returning the cart to the cottage, he stood outside the door for a moment. There was no need to

go in. There was nothing left for him but memories now.
          “Sla`n sliocht muinteoir” he whispered softly, turning away and headed back into the village.
       
      Stopping at the Magistrate’s office he did his proper duty and informed the clerk the woman had passed on. It was nearly dusk as Carrick

finally ended his day’s work. As he strolled down the pathway to the farm, he felt something poking his leg from in his pocket. He drew out a

thin piece of metal. As he ran his fingers along the serrations, Carrick realized it was some kind of key. Turning off the cow path he slipped

into the barn. He scurried up the ladder to the loft and dug out the box. The key slipped easily into the brass lock of the leather bound book

and the clasp clicked open.

Across the marbled parchment of the frontispiece was carefully written:
“The Book of Shadows of Isabelle Ivain, High Priestess of Donegal.”

Before he could read further, the sound of his father’s voice calling for dinner echoed in the barnyard. Carefully locking the book again and

hiding the key, he slid down the ladder and trotted to the farmhouse.       
       


          The summer weather was excellent that year and the crops ripened to perfection. Carrick was kept busy with weeding and trimming

and the multitude of chores that kept Mother Nature from taking back the land. Fall was rapidly approaching and this year he

would accompany his father to the city help sell some of the produce. Carrick had filled out during the summer. He was taller than his father,

over six foot now. His tanned face showed a hint of whisker shadow though he still did not yet need to shave. Hair black as midnight still

tumbled down, needing to be brushed from his emerald green eyes. Eagerly he packed his small bag and joined his father atop the wagon.

With small goodbyes to his mother and sisters, Carrick settled back to the gentle rocking of the wagon as it creaked along the road. The

wagon was heavily laden with onions, carrots and fresh beans, which should bring a healthy amount of coin in the city. Only a month past

fifteen, it was time Carrick learned the worth of all the hard work the summer had wrought. As dusk began to fall, his father pulled the wagon

into a small clearing to stop for the night. The journey to the city was only a day and half, but it was best to arrive in the morning to get a good

spot at the market. Carrick unhooked the tired gray mare from the wagon and gave her a measure of oats. As he slipped into his bedroll, the

nearly full moon was peeking through the tree branches like a beckoning beacon. As he drifted off to sleep, he dreamed briefly of the old

woman and the ancient book. With the busy summer, he had not had a moment free to sneak up to his secret place in the loft and read.
       
        Morning broke the horizon early and they wasted no time in hitching up the wagon and finishing the journey into the city. Carrick spent

the morning helping to unload and set up the produce. Much of the wagon load was quickly bought up by local merchants and grocers with

wheel carts who would resell the goods on the many street corners through the city. Finally, as the day wound down, his father handed him a

couple of coins and bade him to find some meat and bread for a dinner repast. Whistling as he

strode along the narrow side streets, Carrick failed to notice the three scruffy thugs following him. As he turned down an alley, he was

suddenly surrounded by the thieves. The golden moon was just rising full as Carrick backed against the mud wall of the

building at the end of the alley. Silently the thugs closed in, then attacked as one. Carrick did his best to fend them off, blindly kicking and

punching the thugs. Pinned down, he resorted to even his teeth, biting hard on a bare arm.
       
      His vision blurred and a humming in his ears drowned out the scream from his vicious bite. His eyes refocused with a golden glow, feral

and hot. Carrick arose from the dirt casting off his attackers with ease and snarled. In a wild blur he became the attacker, slashing and biting,

blood flowing freely from the stunned thugs. It was like a wolf had been unleashed among helpless sheep.

Two of the thugs lie dead and bleeding in an instant, while the third backed away, crippled.
          “It will still hunt you! You cannot escape” the thief spat, as he turned and fled.

Carrick collapsed in a heap, chest heaving as he writhed in the dirt and passed out.

It was an hour before Carrick awakened. Eyes wide at the carnage he saw, he limped away toward the market square. Somehow, he was

conscious that he had been the source of the violence, but he had no recollection of how or why. To his further amazement, by the time he

had reached the wagon, all manner of damage that had been inflicted on him seemed to have healed. Mumbling some excuse of being ill, he

avoided his father and curled in his blanket below the wagon.
         
    The ride home was uneventful. Troubled by what had happened in the city, Carrick was quiet and withdrawn most of the way home.

Fortunately, his father was not given to an abundance of speech himself, so Carrick’s silence went unnoticed. The violence he had

experienced had left Carrick drained and confused. How had this happened? Was he some kind of freak? And more importantly, would it

happen again?
     
        Even after he was deep beneath the covers of his bed that night, he could not sleep.  He slipped out of bed and made his way silently

down to the kitchen and out the door. He slid the barn door open, stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind him.

He knew the barn by heart and had no trouble climbing to the loft in the darkness. Nestled between the bales of hay, he drew out the book

from its hiding place and dared lighting a candle. The key worked silently in the lock and Carrick opened the heavy cover. As he did, a paper

fluttered free and landed among the bales. Drawing it out and unfolding it, he read:


Carrick,

If you are reading this, then I have failed you. I had hoped the sands of time would not run out before I had the time to teach you what you need to know. It was not to be. Most of what is important is inscribed in this book, read it, use it well, I bequeath it to you now. You are looking here for answers; I must assume the bloodlust has been awakened.
Do not fear what you are. Yours is an ancient race, rare, but not alone. Open your left hand and see the mark between your fingers. That small star marks the Sealgaire, the Hunters. Yours is a destiny to hunt evil, to overcome it and destroy it. The bloodlust will only rise against such evil. You are not a vampyre, though many would call you such. I had called the God and Goddess for the help of a Sealgaire, though I did not expect a 10 year old boy. Perhaps they too thought that I had more time. A dreadful evil has been unchained in the world, a predatore’. Through my own failings this has come to pass, for I did not see my daughter’s weakness for the darkness. Nevertheless, this evil must be returned to the shadows. It will prey on mankind, feasting on terror and fear. It is powerful, Carrick, watch your back, for it will hunt you as well, once it knows you have the book. It’s hatred of all who are of the old ways is unbounded, for it was chained in the darkness by those followers, eons ago. Learn its ways, find the weaknesses, seek out the help of others of your race. They are found, often, in unlikely places. Remember I am always with you.

                                                                          Isabella


          Carrick caressed the soft leather of the book. So ancient, passed down from generation to generation, each adding their knowledge

and skills to the book. That was until the chain was finally broken. After the debacle at Donegal and her daughter’s subsequent death,

Isabella had no one to pass the knowledge on to.  She kept it close until her final days. It was fortunate that he had taken the book along with

the others. He smiled. Of course he knew better, for even from the beyond Isabella had a way of shaping things. Carrick knew full well he had

been chosen as guardian of the book, until it could be given to the rightful one.  He turned the page to where the thin red ribbon laid, carefully

chosen by Isabella. Knowledge older than hers, written to aid and guide the Coven before her time, was marked for his eyes:


                    There are many spells written to aid in the struggle against the darkness. One such spell can be used to call upon the help of the Sealgaire. If the God and Goddess grant you aid, your call may be heard. There is no certainty in this. The Sealgaire are a proud and stubborn race. They serve their own purposes and are not readily disturbed from those purposes. But if you are successful, you will find they are loyal to the task and pursue the hunt to the ends of the earth. The Sealgaire are powerful allies against the darkness. But beware, the call is heard by others as well. There are rogue Sealgaire, ones who have succumbed to the darkness, rather than defeat it. These are called vampyres. They use the bloodlust for their own purposes. True Sealgaire carry the star on the left hand. Vampyres are cunning and have been known to copy such, so proceed with caution if you chose to issue the call. Be sure the need is great; this is not to be done lightly for it stirs deep forces within the realms.


          Carrick sighed softly. He was not a freak, then. The book spoke of others like him. He leaned back against the bales, nibbling on a

stalk of straw. What could a boy of fifteen do against evil? There was so much that Isabella had not begun to teach him.

Carrick thought back on his time with the old woman, not as a boy but as a student. He tried to see the lessons in the things they had done. It

was clear that each day was a step in the learning process, although he had never realized it. Carrick closed and locked the book and hid it

again among the bales. Digging around he located another book, the one Isabella had used most often. Paging through, he found the spell

she had sometimes used before bed. He read the words over, but hesitated, not sure. His inquisitiveness had led him to her door, once, and

he had no choice but to follow it now. Reciting the words aloud:
                                           

                                                As I rest upon the bed
                                                Let wisdom old come to me
                                                An open vessel shall be my head
                                                Let closed eyes yet see
                                               
                                                Put aside my desires
                                                Let the Goddess come to speak
                                                Amidst the ritual fires
                                                And I will find what I seek


Carrick closed the book and blew the candle. Making his way quietly back into the house, he was once again under his cover. His eyes finally

closed and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.                                         

          The dream came slowly. Like an aperture opening, the scene unfolded in his mind’s eye. The woman, walking through the forest. The

ring of fire. Her pain wretched deep into his own heart, and he moaned softly in his sleep. Then darkness. No, it was more like the complete

absence of light. Finally, a pinprick in the center of the abyss, which grew, larger and larger, until it filled his whole mind with pure evil. The

sound of a thousand tortured souls screamed in his ears. The stench of pestilence gagged in his throat. Carrick bolted upright in the bed,

then slumped over the side and retched.

Drenched in a cold sweat, he could not stop shaking. Even awake, the evil clung to him like a wet robe. Silence surrounded him as the dream

slowly faded. Yet there was a faint echo, buried deep inside, and he knew what he needed to do.

          The dawn came bright and clear. No hint of the darkness touched the land as Carrick slipped from the bed and came down stairs. His

father was already up, sitting at the rough hewn table in the kitchen. He lit his pipe and looked up as Carrick settled across from him.
        “Da?”
        “Aye, lad?”, meeting Carrick’s eyes with his.
        “th’ harvest is all in…..and….cows well tended…..” Carrick sighed deeply “Da,  I need to make a trip.”  His father studied the boy for a

moment. The lad was tall, taller than himself. And sturdy. At fifteen, he was more serious than most. He studied Carrick’s face. It was still

youthful, the high cheekbones and square jaw barely touched with beard. His slightly broad nose was set over a mouth that smiled too little. It

was a face he had watched for years. But something had changed. It was the face of a young man, now, not a boy. Perhaps it was time the

fledgling took flight. He nodded to Carrick. “where will ye be going, lad?”
     
  “North, I think.” Carrick said, not elaborating. His father drew deep on the pipe, then let the smoke rise to linger among the open rafters.
        “Back before th’ spring plantin’ ?”  Carrick nodded. “ aye, then, ye best see to what be troublin’ ye”
   
      Carrick rose and reached out his hand, shaking his father’s firmly. “In the spring, then, Da.”  He turned and headed out to the barn where

he packed the leather book and a few others. Then slinging the sack over his shoulder, he strode down the path. Stopping at the main road,

he only hesitated a moment, then turned to the north and headed over the rise.