The Moon

Prologue-3

Peter nudges her again. Her mind comes back to the room, and she glances up at him. He offers up a small grin, nudging her one last time. Sarah doesn’t take the bait. Her frown sinks farther into her face. They both watch Luke take the swords, leaving the daggers, and walk to the door. He stops, looking over his shoulder at Peter behind him.

Peter jumps, taking a couple exaggerated steps before walking normal the rest of the way to the door.

Sarah takes a few steps with her hand out to her father. “But, Father, I think I—” She stops, putting her fingers to her mouth, biting her lower lip.

Luke stands tall and looks down at her. “It is decided. Go into the kitchen to learn.” He grunts, nodding, and turns away.

Peter follows Luke down the hallway towards the kitchen.

Sarah walks to her parent’s door, leaning on the door frame. She looks from the swords in her father’s hands to Peter. Peter turns to her, eyebrows scrunched, and gives her a shrugging frown. She gives him one back with a shrug of her left shoulder. After a second more of sulking, she walks behind them into the kitchen.

Gloria waits for her in a chair next to the spinning wheel.

Sarah sits in the chair beside her mother as she hands Sarah a thimble. Sarah takes it, grinning to herself. She will be needing one of these. An hour passes as she and her mother patch holes in socks. When done, Gloria sits her down at the spinning wheel for her first lesson. The spinning wheel stands right in middle of the family room today. Sarah glances up, and the kitchen window grabs her attention.

Peter and her father stand outside.

Sarah watches her father set up a straw dummy on a post in the yard.

Gloria puts a hand on Sarah’s shoulder.

Sarah looks back at the wheel. Her mother tries to show her how to press the pedal and control the speed. While Gloria is showing her how to control the thread, Sarah stares out the window at Peter, watching him spin with the blade and slice the straw dummy. In her head, whooshing passes with a fwack at the end. She sighs. Peter’s breath puffs in front of him with every huff. The sound of his breath resounds in her mind. She could be making that sound. She should be hacking into that dummy. She watches his every movement and how his boots leave a myriad of prints in the snow. Her father shows Peter what he has done wrong. Peter nods and tries again.

Gloria puts a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Sarah, you’re pedaling too fast.” Giving her shoulder a gentle grip, she releases.

Her mother’s voice pulls her back to the wheel, and she turns her foot pressing the pedal over and over, making the wheel spin to a blur. “Sorry, Umula.” She offers her mother a weak smile, letting off the pedal until the wheel slows down.

Gloria nods, glancing to the window. “It’s fine this time, but don’t let it happen again.” Eyeing them for a moment, she shakes her head and turns back to Sarah and the wheel.

Sarah nods, taking one last glance out the window. She sighs. She should be out there with them, not in here doing what her father says is only women’s work. One day, she will use that sword.

The sun sinks below the horizon. Their bedroom fills with a glow of purple-pink.

Peter sits on his bed. Sighing, he crosses his arms over his knees.

Sarah sits on her bed across the room.

Neither of them speaks. The glow in the room fades farther and farther into black.

Sarah hugs her knees, resting her chin on them, and looks at Peter. “How were your fighting lessons? Fun?” She lets her legs dangle over the side of the bed and plays with a small hole in her skirts.

Peter shakes his head, standing up, and puts out his left hand with the other in his pants pocket. “It was nothing special. Actually, it’s a lot of work, fighting.” He scratches the back of his head, moving his fingers through his short curls with the last stroke. “You have to know where to be, what to do when you’re there.” He shrugs, letting his hand fall to his leg. “You have to think where the attack will fall and what to do to counter act it. It’s exhausting, really.” He cuts his eyes at her, betraying himself with a smile.

They lock eyes.

Sarah grins, grabbing her pillow, and throws it at him.

Peter puts his arm over his face but lets the pillow hit him. He chuckles, grabbing it off the floor, and hands it back to her.

Sarah takes the pillow, putting back at the head of her bed, and giggles to herself. “It looked fun to me.” She straightens the pillow, not looking at him.

The short-lived laughter fades along with her grin. Envy seeps into her tone as she imagines him out there with that sword. She crosses her arms, shrugging, and looks at her brown cotton blanket. The ever-darkening room turns it black. She grabs a sulfur stick from a box on her nightstand. Striking it along the wood of her nightstand, it ignites, and she puts it to her oil lamp. In seconds, the room lightens up a bit, but it doesn’t help her mood.

Sarah opens her window, throwing out the stick, and turns to Peter while pulling the window closed. “I almost feel bad you got hurt.” She picks at the blanket for a moment, then grins at him.

Peter stands tall, crossing his arms. “Almost?” A smile tugs at his lips, and he laughs. “Yea, it’s just a scratch.” He shrugs, sniffing, and wipes his mouth with a smirk.

Sarah watches Peter pull down on the collar of his tunic. He exposes half of his chest and arm. He looks at his left bicep. Turning his arm, a long red line from the edge of his shoulder to his tunic.

Sarah raises her eyebrows, grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “Just a scratch?” A laugh bursts from her mouth. “Peter, you had blood running from your shoulder down your arm.” She points from his shoulder and down, letting her hand hit her leg. “I thought Father had completely disabled your arm.” She picks at the hole in her skirts again.

Peter puts his fingers in his pockets, shrugging, and tilts his head to the right. “Yea, a pinky-long scratch, nothing over done.” He rocks on his heels, biting on his lower lip, and gives her his crooked grin.

Sarah rolls her eyes, shaking her head, and looks at the floor. “If you say so.” She leans back, propping herself up on her hands.

Putting her feet on the edge of the bed frame, she stares into his blue eyes and picks at the blanket behind her. The glow of the oil washes the room in a new glow of orange and gold. But his eyes remain just as blue as when they met. She licks her lips, looking at the floor.

Peter sits beside her. “So how was sewing or whatever your lessons are these days?” He leans his shoulder into hers, nudging with his elbow.

Sarah looks at him, eyebrow arched. “Looming, and it was just as much fun as your lessons were to you. If they were as exhausting as you say.” She teeters her shoulder into his, looking at the floor again. “Before that, though, we mended socks. I pricked so many fingers so many times, Mother had to give me all her thimbles. I looked like I had metal fingertips.” She looks down at her fingers. “And they still hurt.” They laugh, and she holds out her swollen and purple fingers.

Peter takes them in his hands, and all Sarah can think to do is watch. He looks them over. Each fingertip has about three or so dots each. He wraps his hands around her palms. One by one, he kisses each one of them.

Sarah’s face reddens. She just stares.

Peter lets go. Clearing his throat, he offers a quick grin before looking at the floor.

Neither of them really knows what words to say. So, they let silence fill the room as they look into each other’s eyes. Seconds later, Gloria calls them to supper, and they both jump, looking at the door, and let out soft laughs at being startled so easily.

A couple hours after supper, when they know Gloria and Luke are asleep, they climb over Sarah’s bed and out her window, making their way onto the roof.

Peter clears the snow away from the thatching. He takes the blanket from his shoulder and wraps it around Sarah. They sit next to each other, staring at the stars.

Sarah keeps her eyes on the night sky. “Peter, do you think you’ll actually participate in The Mounding?” She rests her chin on her left shoulder, looking at his face.

Peter shrugs, looking over at her. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s a tradition.” He adjusts himself, turning his body towards her. “Do you?” He picks at the top layer of thatching, waiting for her answer.

Sarah looks down. “Father expects me to.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know if I want to. Everything I’ve heard about it makes it seem so, so—”

Peter sniggers. “Frightening?” He stops picking at the thatching, looking her in the eyes.

Sarah nods. “This is all I’ve ever known. And what if no man wants me?” She pauses, eyes wide. “Or worse? What if a horrible man is the only one who wants me, and he wants me to do horrible things with him?” She starts to say something else.

Peter puts his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “Calm down.” He looks from one green eye to the other. “Don’t worry about no one wanting you. If they don’t, then they’re passing over a wonderful opportunity to get to know a wonderful woman.” He gives her a soft smile. “And as far as some horrible man trying to steal you away, I won’t let him. I’ll make sure you’re safe.” He rubs her shoulder with his thumb, leaning his face closer to her.

Sarah’s cheeks grow warm. She knows they’re red. Every time she thinks he can’t be a more typical boy, he goes and says something as sweet and wise as this. Just as Peter’s lips are close enough to kiss her cheek, she jerks her head to the sky, and he leans back. She cranes at the moon. It has risen quite a bit above the tree line since they climbed up.

Sarah shifts herself on the thatching. “The moon has risen another few inches. I think we should go back inside.” She gets a tighter hold on the blanket.

Peter eyes the moon. “Well, so it has.” He turns to her. “I’ll help you down.”

The two of them climb down from the roof. Peter holds Sarah’s hips as he helps her the last two feet from the edge of the thatching. Each of them climbs back through the window. Both being careful not to get anything on Sarah’s bed. Sarah watches Peter cross the room. He takes off his boots, never once turning around, and slides into bed.

Sarah puts her hand under her pillow, still looking at Peter. “Good night. Pleasant dreams.” She watches him, only a few feet away, and sighs.

Peter props up on his left elbow, looking at her. “Good night to you, and pleasant dreams as well.” He smiles, then rolls over, facing the wall.

Sarah rolls to face her window and counts the stars until she falls asleep.

The next morning, a crashing fills the cottage. Peter and Sarah both jump out of bed and run into the kitchen. Rounding the corner from the family room, they stop at the sight of Sarah’s mother standing on a chair holding her tan cotton skirts in one hand and the broom in the other.