by
Jacquie Reaville
Not a sound, not a movement, disturbed her as she sat on the carpet of grass waiting. Illuminated by the moon, its light kissed her skin bleaching the colour from her, turning her to a carefully crafted statuette, still and cold and silent. Only the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. A glint of something more than the alabaster moon could transform.
The old church clock struck the hours, twelve doleful notes echoing across the hills and the figure stood gracefully, stretching her arms towards the moon as if she could hold it in a lovers embrace. Her eyes closed, her lips curved into a wry smile for a moment and then she began to sway.
At first her movements were slow and simple as if she did not really know what she was about, but then they became faster, more passionate, full of intricate designs and gestures. Her eyes flashed like diamonds. Her hair whipped across her face, hiding her features and her skirts flared as she whirled, revealing her bare feet in their elaborate steps. She danced, this moonlit figure, on the hills above the church, and as she danced she cried out to the moon.
Slowly the figure sank to her knees, her arms raised once more to the moon, the pleading expression on her face cracked as bitter tears ran down her cheeks. She cried again into the darkness, a long howl of despair and hunger.
The village below slept though not quietly. In their beds the women mumbled and uneasily they tossed and turned seeking a more comfortable place. Men shivered, pulling their quilts closer around their chins, not quite waking. Restless children called out in their sleep, whimpering softly. Small hands reaching for something safe and warm to comfort them.
The figure on the hill stared down at the village, her eyes wet with the tears she had shed. She searched but saw no movement. Sighing deeply she flicked back her hair, deftly tying it with a ribbon taken from her pocket. She sat again on the grass and feeling about with her fingers in the darkness she found a sharp stone knife. She pulled it to her and clutched it tight to her chest, as she surveyed the village again.
There! She sat forward and with a quick movement her eyes found the boy again. No she had not been mistaken. He was walking slowly through the village towards the hill on which she sat. A tall youth, muscular, quite handsome. A pink tongue flicked from her mouth, catching the thin trickle of saliva that had escaped her lips, and then it was gone again.
The moon began to hide its face behind a blanket of clouds. She rose to her feet, not quite so gracefully as before, stumbling slightly until she moved back into the moons light. It was growing weaker that light, and the darkness seemed to hurt her. Throwing desperate glances between the encroaching black and the one she had called, she backed away from the dark shadow fingers that sought to hold her.
The old church clock began to strike the quarter and the figure hissed her denial. As the darkness enveloped her the boy stopped his walk, and came back to wakefulness. He looked around and shivered, then turned and sped off back to his bed, away from the deserted place. Away from Witch Hill.
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