And the chorus chants:
Slowly Agave understands what she’s done. I stare with a face like a mask of horror. The drums cease. Suddenly the lights go down. One spot remains, shining on the silver disc above us. I stand shaking, catching my breath.
The players who carried Ransom and blocked sight of his while I held up his head put him down and escort him off silently.
My Moon Itch has begun to ebb. The lights come back up. I am alone on the stage.
There is applause. But I shake my head. This isn’t over.
“Euripides wrote,” I say, “when people had begun to forget the time when woman and god and man and beast weren’t as separated and distinct as they are now. But his was a time when all humans male and female were tied by nature to the cycle of the earth, were servants to the phases of the moon.
“They still understood what seems a terrible alien disease to us now and that sometimes it was best to let that beast run.”
Again there is applause. Ransom and company are behind me on the stage. It goes on for a while. We take our bows after which we’re supposed to make our exit up the center aisle. Instead Ransom holds up his hands.
He looks drained, old. He puts his arm around Tomlinson’s shoulder and around Mary Kowal’s. “There’s a story theater people tell about a great actor playing a great part. He comes off stage to tumultuous applause and storms to his dressing room in a black mood. ‘You were stupendous’ they say, why are you so unhappy?’
“‘I was incandescent,’ is his answer, ‘AND I DON’T KNOW WHY.’ ”
Ransom shakes his head, says in rich actor tones, “Ah, the mystery of ART! But what if you do know why your performance is terrific and the reason why isn’t you? What if you’re the drum and not the drummer, the brush and not the painter? What if you’re a tool intended to give everyone a glimpse of ourselves as we are by nature?
“Descended from hunters of flesh, born to a hunter of souls, I’ve become a hunter of applause. I’m as surprised as you by some of what happened here. But each night the earth will take a small bite out of the silver goddess. In a week’s time it will be sliced away and Josie and I and young Mr. Tomlinson and even Mary Robinette Kowal will be very ordinary actors indeed. Try to remember that when the moon is full,” he tells Tommy. “You’ll not get nearly as many second chances as I was given.”
I’ve heard him say much of this on many different occasions. But it’s one of the reason why, when he holds out his arm, I take it and walk with him up the aisle. A camera backs up before us.
People rise applauding and he smiles his way into the narrow lobby and out onto Commerce Street.
Outside all is quiet. By arrangement with the block association, the Klieg lights are off. The crowd is largely dispersed. The moon has disappeared behind the houses. Cameras follow us to the curb then stop.
A driver opens the back door of a limo. We kiss the kids good-bye, promise we’ll see them all tomorrow, make sure Mary will have the shoulder looked at, and escape before the fans can get to us. The cameras don’t follow any further. We’ll see them tomorrow also.
Ransom and I settle into the back seat and I give the directions home. Yes. We are roommates again—un folie aux deux.
The energy of the moon has flowed out of us. The wolf sleeps after it has fed. I sink into the seat. “I hope they got the footage they wanted,” I say.
Next month we do this at the Chandler in L.A. In October under the Hunter’s Moon it’s the Colonial in Boston. We’re booked two years in advance. The documentary, the long farewell tour—we’re showing them how it’s done.
“Tomlinson was out of control, tonight,” Ransom says. He sounds tired and old. “Much as I like him I’m afraid Tommy’s got to go.”
“He reminds me of you at his age,” I say. “And he gave you the chance to make that speech.”
“What he did was unprofessional.”
“Hmmm. Remember the binge you went on after you walked out on Edia?”
“I remember waking up from a week-long blackout.”
“And discovering you’d signed on to play Cyrano de Bergerac in a former tin can factory in Jersey City.”
“The nose was great. You said so yourself.”
“They’ll find a medical cure for Tommy’s problem. We’ll be the last of our kind.”
But Ransom’s asleep and I take his hand. When I first saw him I knew he was dangerous. But it’s what I was used to. It’s easy to entice and easy to anger when you offer the mixed bag that I did. Now we are as you see us.
On my iPod, Dvorak’s Water Nymph sings to the moon of her troubles. I think of her as a creature caught between worlds—like me as a child. I want to tell her that I’ve seen over eight hundred moons both silver and blue come and go. And I look forward to seeing some more.
IN THE SEEONEE HILLS
by Erica Hildebrand
My name is Claire.
Four months ago, Jules told me she was a werewolf. We were already sleeping together. She should have known better, but I should have been more careful.
Lycanthropy, unless you’re born with it, is debilitating. Contracting it is easier than you think, even when you’re just experimenting with some rough play in the bedroom.
It’s all in the bite.
I went to the clinic—not just any clinic, the clinic, if you’re connected enough to find it—to get tested. The clinic’s only open at night, catering to the sensitivities of their clientele.
The test was just a smokescreen, my way of trying to cross paths with the Seeonee Pack.
I sat by myself, reading a pamphlet on lycanthropy. Jules had sworn to me it wasn’t a disease, but she’d been born with it. She could control it. I couldn’t. So, every full moon, her pack pumped me full of sedatives and muscle relaxants to keep me from changing. The Rothschild Pack ran a pharmaceutical company.
The clinic’s pamphlet talked about smells and instincts, about tapping into the primitive brain of the human psyche, all neatly arranged in bullet point factoids.
A nasty mechanical smell drifted from where the vampires sat, reeking of preservatives and rotten fruit.
I closed my eyes and focused on smells coming from the other side of the clinic instead, smells that reminded me of childhood trips to my grandparents’ farm: muddy creek water and cedar wood shavings. Comforting and familiar. The smells of a pack.
A clean, earthy smell came closer. Cinnamon, woodsmoke, and a November breeze. The plastic cushions of the bench shifted as someone sat beside me.
I opened my eyes and flinched when I saw how close she’d sat. She was early twenties, same as me. Her auburn hair had that short, tousled, bedhead look that I was pretty sure had taken an hour to style. Her amber eyes reminded me of white wine. Moon earrings jingled from her lobes, matching the long necklaces that draped over the cleavage her spaghetti-strap top displayed.
Her face dimpled with a devil-may-care smile and I instantly felt small and pathetic by comparison. She was gorgeous. I realized I was staring. My face heated with a blush and I instinctively looked away.
“Hi. You’re all alone. I’m Ginny Donnelly; would you like to come sit with us?” She gestured to the group from whom the earthy smells emanated.