Hunter’s Moon
At this time of year I think about my friend from Transylvania. We were very close, once, for one whole, blissful evening, although I am ashamed to admit that I forget her name, and have great difficulty recalling exactly what she looked like. But I know we were close because my wife tells me so, every Hunter’s Moon.
Her commentary starts at the end of September, with a light hearted reference to my ‘Transylvanian tart’. The comments become more barbed and resentful as the month progresses so, as we approach the full moon, I sometimes hope for wet weather, in the forlorn hope that clouds will obscure my past misdeeds.
I am told that fifteen years ago I attended a conference at Transylvania University, somewhere in Kentucky. I was, apparently, fluent in a dialect favoured by the majority of the Roma people.
The hosts had organised a full programme of evening entertainments. It is said that I particularly enjoyed the Romani dancing, which closely resembles flamenco. I can vaguely remember the rhythm of the castanets and the clicking heels, but one moment is especially clear. I picked out a single sound, letting it reverberate inside my head. All on its own it was a perfect tune, with an echo that took an age to fade away, yet returning to the dance
I had not missed a moment so it must have happened in a heartbeat.
After the show I was standing at the bar when a young woman spilled her drink over my sleeve. As she turned to face me I found myself staring into a perfect face. I lost myself in her ruby red lips, her green eyes, and her long black hair. It was the dancer!
"You’ve changed" I mumbled.
She gave me a quizzical look.
"You’ve changed out of your costume."
She threw her head back and laughed.
"No, I haven’t changed at all! I am still me, the anonymous sister of the famous dancer. If you like, I can be my sister so you can buy me another drink?"
"I’d love to."
If she was a sister, she must be a twin, an identical twin. With a gesture of my thumb and wide staring eyes I asked the barman whether her story was true. He glanced at her, then at me, and replied, using his shoulders to say
"Don’t ask me. Who knows?"
As we danced the night away in the students’ disco, I stopped caring whether she was ‘the’ dancer because she was ‘my’ dancer. I was besotted.
Then, at last, she asked me to her room, so she could show me "the wonderful balcony with a magnificent view."
She did not lie. As she described the trees in the valley- the leaves that were red, brown, and gold – I stood in the darkness and believed every word.
She pointed to the full moon and grabbed my arm with a sudden urgency.
"Do you know the legend of the Hunters Moon?"
I shook my head.
"At this time of year the full moon is called the Hunter’s Moon, because it shines so bright it helps hunters find their prey. If you can capture this moon you will be guaranteed success in everything you wish for. Whatever you hunt will be yours!"
"But how do you ‘capture’ the moon? It’s not possible."
"The women do it like this" she said, brandishing her empty glass. "When the moon is reflected in the water in the glass, your wish will come true."
She filled it with water from the bathroom, and tried to place it on the rail that went round the balcony but there wasn’t a glimpse of the moon in the water.
"Maybe it needs to be higher" she said, handing me the glass. I held it high and realised the futility of this action. If by some miracle the moon was reflected in the glass, neither of us could see it up there, so what was the point?
This was my big chance to impress her so I stepped onto the little table on the balcony and stretched my arm out in front of me, over the edge. The table wobbled, I lurched forward, and then I was flying towards the cold hard ground.
In the hospital everyone wanted to know how I came to be there, but I was too ashamed to admit the truth. By then it was obvious my dancer had disappeared, leaving me to my middle age fantasies, so it seemed easier to feign more memory loss than had actually occurred, which was a perfectly feasible explanation in the circumstances. Who was going to question the honesty of a man with two broken legs, several cracked ribs, and a spinal injury that was to confine him to a wheelchair for the rest of his life?
My wife was given some details by people who had seen me entering the dancer’s room and assumed the worst. I don’t know why I didn’t put her straight. Perhaps it was my ego wanting her to believe that I was capable of such deception. Maybe I knew she wouldn’t believe me anyway. I think I just wanted a quiet life.
But every year, when the Hunter’s Moon comes round, I sit in my wheelchair and dance around the room.
