It was the fourteenth of March, Thursday. A whole week had passed since the incident. And still, she doesn’t wake, I thought while guiding myself towards the dreary place that had seen the bloodbath. It was night, and we were to gather there. I admired the whispers from the woods and the low-hanging, full moon. And if only it were any other, I would’ve felt no terror. A red moon. It tinted the world in a faint reddish hue. It was huge and clear. I could spot the blemishes on its surface. They were very conspicuous, and I was not the kind to ignore the ugliness in front of me, in others. I should be cautious, I thought while walking towards a familiar back among the crowd of black-uniformed men.
‘Good evening, Ms Olsberg,’ I said, feeling the antique nature of a world bathed in red.
The woman turned to me. Her green eyes seemed hazel in this unfamiliar world. ‘Good evening, Professor,’ she said to me with a polite smile. Her pale skin had a rare tint of red. Courtesy of the moon. ‘Visited your student, I suppose?’ Her eyelids fluttered, and I thought she could do well with a little more practice at tying her hair. But who am I to speak? I could not do it properly when I had two hands. With one? I scoffed. I will have to rely on Ms Parkinson’s services for the rest of this life.
‘Yes,’ I replied belatedly. ‘Came after seeing her.’
‘Still not awake?’ she asked. When I shook my head in disappointment, ‘She may yet,’ she said. I tried not to think of it. The professors had encouraged me at breakfast and dinner. I recalled that. I recalled good things.
‘Be careful, Lile,’ Ms Orchard had said. The scent of lilac wafted from her. Those flowers had adorned her little braids. It was very intricate, and I admired that craft. ‘Happy hunting,’ Mr Bones had said. Mr Canary warned me not to hurt any birds. Ms Oak said to be cautious while Ms Lore simply stared at me. She baffles me. At dinner, many topics worthy of chatter had been brought up. And now that I was discharged from the dreary hospital, I felt a little settled in the warmth of the pavilion and my house. I recalled Mrs Parkinson’s joyed face when I had returned. ‘Here, Mr Dew,’ she had said while handing me a raspberry pie. ‘I have baked it myself,’ she said. That was a gesture much appreciated. I ate that pie without sharing even a little. None deserved it but me, I selfishly thought. If it were not so delicious, I was sure, my thoughts would not be the same.
I recalled a conversation we, professors, had at the dinner while a soothing gust fluttered my ponytail. ‘You do know why the academy is called Royal, right Mr Dew?’ Mr Canary had asked, and I nodded.
‘Of course, I do.’ You think me a country bumpkin of less intellect, birdman? ‘We are funded by the Royal Family.’
‘Yes,’ said the bird-lover. ‘It is a historical place, our academy. The Royalty rules us no more, but they do continue to support our efforts. They are not alone, of course. There is the Duke of Heles and many rich ones that I shan’t name. My tongue may tire.’
I agreed with his sentiments. Heles. I had their daughter in my class. I knew it well, the significance of her presence. But I shan’t be biased, I told myself, afraid of the possibility that the task may be beyond me. The birdman continued his talk about the Royalty. Royalty, huh? They were rich and had authority. But nothing compared to the past glory. Only in name, they served the nation. Their greatest creed these days was to fund their lavish lives with collect taxes they do not work for. The rich become richer, while the poor may only fall further into the abyss, Vici Morse says. And I believed him. Humanity is such a callous beauty, I thought. Baffling. Truly baffling. But then again, the nation did not support us. The government did not fund the institution. I could neither blame nor praise them. There was no wit in ignoring a prestigious, educational institution so, and providing for our lavish lives would be an effort worthy of a fool’s crown.
‘That is why capable professors like yourself must do more than teaching,’ I heard the birdman speak. ‘I feel conflicted about it. Why must an educator go into the woods to clean the mess? But then, I think, why not? Capable, aren’t they?’ He exaggerated a sigh, and I did not reply. I recalled one of the papers I had signed at the Planning Offices. Duties. There were several of those, but one of them stood out. ‘Mr Dew, we may not be affected much by that particular page — we are not warriors — but you, on the other hand, must provide for our defences. That is one thing that discourages many a number of instructors who wish to join the academy as swordsmen, gunmen, archers, and whatnot.’ Mr Bones agreed.
‘True,’ I said. ‘Very few would come to the academy if they knew risking life was part of the curriculum.’ I chuckled. That was funny. ‘There are benefits too, so I do not mind. There are letters I received from a number of organisations — The Society of Mages, a number of publications, and some others. Such is the privilege of a professor.’ The fish on my plate must have agreed. Very few had the pleasure of being prepared so graciously. ‘One of the letters was of private nature. It asked for my help. I am wondering if its contents were simply false, folly, or a farce.’
‘And what if they are true?’ asked Ms Oak teasingly, but my smile faded.
‘Then,’ I said, with a tightened jaw and a solemn face, ‘I may have to leave right away.’
‘Professor,’ I heard a voice, and I was jerked awake from my reverie. ‘Were you daydreaming?’ Ms Olsberg asked.
‘No, I was simply lost in memories.’
‘Happens after a full tummy,’ she said, and we sniggered.
‘When will we begin?’ I asked, knowing sleep was not a part of the itinerary.
‘Soon,’ said the black-haired woman. That was something we had in common. ‘Have you prepared plenty, Professor?’ Her eyes were stuck to my ponytail that fluttered. Many thought of me as queer because of my long hair. It was something I had become numb to. But this woman had envy in her eyes. Mine are thin, yours aren’t. Mine fluttered, hers didn’t.
‘Sufficiently,’ I said, and she nodded in approval.
We were speaking about this and that, when I noticed a figure walking towards us. It was a man in his late thirties with hair that had begun to turn silver. He greeted me, his wide eyes searching me. ‘Hello, Professor,’ he said. ‘I am Theodore Harris. I will be leading the Hunt.’ I greeted him back in the hopes of continuing the conversation. I felt that was only polite, but the man left right away. That was sudden.
‘Mr Harris is a quiet man, Professor,’ Ms Olsberg explained, looking at him disappear into the crowd. ‘He speaks only when necessary. He means no harm.’ I nodded along, assuring her that I was not offended.
I looked at my watch, struggling through its blinding silver rays. It was twelve o’clock. Exact. The chained, hunting hounds that were prepared for us suddenly became vigilant. Their ears stood, and their eyes gleamed as they watched the silent forest. The few clouds that had been lurking around were no more in sight. And to the shouts of ‘The hunt begins,’ ‘The damned await,’ ‘The red moon is high,’ we began our journey into the forests and woods. The monthly expedition had begun with the shouts of two dozen men and women bearing arms. Blood was soon to be spilt; the Full-Moon Hunt had begun.
***
We were traversing the dark forest lit by the scarlet light in the sky. Divided into groups of four, the surroundings felt eerie and forlorn. There were scouts ahead, who travelled in pairs or alone, and we — the main force — would retreat or regroup if a signal of emergency is spotted. But I was a stranger to all this; Ms Olsberg was my only source and the two others that walked along. One was a burly man named Heis Kolm, and the other was one Mr Peter Mason.
So, Mr Mason, Mr Kolm, Ms Olsberg, and I walked along the narrow path taken over by the overgrown bushes and vines. The night was chilly and our adventures were sure to follow the same path. I did not mention my thoughts, grim or not, as I walked along the way that my colleagues had carved. There was not much hesitation in my feet; my hands were steady. And under my vest that was left naked without a suit to cover it, were items I had procured, hidden in a lavender shirt with suspenders. I had worn my black shoes. A man of books should dress as such, but I wondered if the attire suited the surroundings. In that manner, I was no better than a foreigner, struggling to find himself in a new culture.
‘Careful, Professor,’ whispered Mr Kolm, and I gave him a nod. A hunter is silent lest he scares the prey. That was the truth of any hunt, but ask these men now and I know they will scoff, for the hunter, the prey, and the hunt were all unique when it came to the Full-Moon Hunt. A hunter is silent lest he becomes the hunted. I thought it was a rather taboo of a saying, but I did not object. We were not hunting foxes and hares.
It was quarter past twelve. In terms, it was the next day, but we felt the same night — dreary and inviting. The forest was coloured in a scarlet hue, but not all was visible. As we went deeper, the dark fell. And no more did I understand the meaning of Full Moon. Now it was a hunt — a dark and scary one. If something were to happen, it would take a great amount of time for us to be found. We were spread out for the sake of efficiency. We were strong and capable, but what is capability when we had entered an unknown territory? ‘Do not worry,’ Mr Mason said. ‘I know this place well. I’ve been on these hunts often.’ I nodded.
We were sitting on a rock — Ms Olsberg and I — while the two men kept guard. It was necessary to take breaks and observe the surroundings. A walking man may not see what a still one might, Mr Kolm had said. Five minutes passed and we continued our endeavour.
So far, nothing had prickled our senses, and I preferred it that way. But my colleagues had concerned faces. The hound leading us, leashed by Mr Kolm, was alert. ‘Nothing,’ said Mr Kolm, narrowing his eyes. A number of broken branches and leaves were stuck to his attire and hair. The disasters of a big body. ‘So far nothing.’
‘Is that not good?’ I asked, thinking they were simply bloodthirsty.
‘No,’ answered Mr Kolm.
And Mr Mason explained, ‘The full moon brings them out.’ It looked around, alert. ‘They are drawn to us — to blood.’ The forest was dark, and we hadn’t lighted our torches. ‘They are so frenzied that we do not even turn the lights on. It does not scare them anymore; rather it further turns them mindless. That is why this culling.’ The wind was neither stormy nor calm; it was simply perfect if not a little cold.
‘The wind should have spread our scent,’ said Mr Kolm, frowning. ‘And yet, nothing.’
‘What is it then?’ I asked, out of my wits, looking around. ‘Are they hiding from us?’
‘No, could not be,’ said Ms Olsberg. Her green eyes were shining like emeralds. ‘Those beasts do not hide. Something is wrong.’
Her words concerned me, and I was not the only one apprehensive. So, we stood there, unable to make sense of our quandary. ‘What shall we do?’ I asked, preparing a flask filled with water. Is it the same for everyone? Each team? I wondered. But soon, my thoughts were broken. I heard barks. The dog, our hunting hound, was barking furiously. My three colleagues prepared their weapons. Ms Olsberg loaded her revolver, while Mr Kolm and Mr Mason unsheathed their swords. Each of these pieces had carvings of black. Ormosphite, I thought. And as the wind blew, and the hound became louder, we saw a pair of glowing eyes emerge from beyond the bushes in front of us. Yet I thought I was mistaken, for there were more that followed from behind.
It was the fourteenth of March, Thursday. A whole week had passed since the incident. And still, she doesn’t wake, I thought while guiding myself towards the dreary place that had seen the bloodbath. It was night, and we were to gather there. I admired the whispers from the woods and the low-hanging, full moon. And if only it were any other, I would’ve felt no terror. A red moon. It tinted the world in a faint reddish hue. It was huge and clear. I could spot the blemishes on its surface. They were very conspicuous, and I was not the kind to ignore the ugliness in front of me, in others. I should be cautious, I thought while walking towards a familiar back among the crowd of black-uniformed men.
‘Good evening, Ms Olsberg,’ I said, feeling the antique nature of a world bathed in red.
The woman turned to me. Her green eyes seemed hazel in this unfamiliar world. ‘Good evening, Professor,’ she said to me with a polite smile. Her pale skin had a rare tint of red. Courtesy of the moon. ‘Visited your student, I suppose?’ Her eyelids fluttered, and I thought she could do well with a little more practice at tying her hair. But who am I to speak? I could not do it properly when I had two hands. With one? I scoffed. I will have to rely on Ms Parkinson’s services for the rest of this life.
‘Yes,’ I replied belatedly. ‘Came after seeing her.’
‘Still not awake?’ she asked. When I shook my head in disappointment, ‘She may yet,’ she said. I tried not to think of it. The professors had encouraged me at breakfast and dinner. I recalled that. I recalled good things.
‘Be careful, Lile,’ Ms Orchard had said. The scent of lilac wafted from her. Those flowers had adorned her little braids. It was very intricate, and I admired that craft. ‘Happy hunting,’ Mr Bones had said. Mr Canary warned me not to hurt any birds. Ms Oak said to be cautious while Ms Lore simply stared at me. She baffles me. At dinner, many topics worthy of chatter had been brought up. And now that I was discharged from the dreary hospital, I felt a little settled in the warmth of the pavilion and my house. I recalled Mrs Parkinson’s joyed face when I had returned. ‘Here, Mr Dew,’ she had said while handing me a raspberry pie. ‘I have baked it myself,’ she said. That was a gesture much appreciated. I ate that pie without sharing even a little. None deserved it but me, I selfishly thought. If it were not so delicious, I was sure, my thoughts would not be the same.
I recalled a conversation we, professors, had at the dinner while a soothing gust fluttered my ponytail. ‘You do know why the academy is called Royal, right Mr Dew?’ Mr Canary had asked, and I nodded.
‘Of course, I do.’ You think me a country bumpkin of less intellect, birdman? ‘We are funded by the Royal Family.’
‘Yes,’ said the bird-lover. ‘It is a historical place, our academy. The Royalty rules us no more, but they do continue to support our efforts. They are not alone, of course. There is the Duke of Heles and many rich ones that I shan’t name. My tongue may tire.’
I agreed with his sentiments. Heles. I had their daughter in my class. I knew it well, the significance of her presence. But I shan’t be biased, I told myself, afraid of the possibility that the task may be beyond me. The birdman continued his talk about the Royalty. Royalty, huh? They were rich and had authority. But nothing compared to the past glory. Only in name, they served the nation. Their greatest creed these days was to fund their lavish lives with collect taxes they do not work for. The rich become richer, while the poor may only fall further into the abyss, Vici Morse says. And I believed him. Humanity is such a callous beauty, I thought. Baffling. Truly baffling. But then again, the nation did not support us. The government did not fund the institution. I could neither blame nor praise them. There was no wit in ignoring a prestigious, educational institution so, and providing for our lavish lives would be an effort worthy of a fool’s crown.
‘That is why capable professors like yourself must do more than teaching,’ I heard the birdman speak. ‘I feel conflicted about it. Why must an educator go into the woods to clean the mess? But then, I think, why not? Capable, aren’t they?’ He exaggerated a sigh, and I did not reply. I recalled one of the papers I had signed at the Planning Offices. Duties. There were several of those, but one of them stood out. ‘Mr Dew, we may not be affected much by that particular page — we are not warriors — but you, on the other hand, must provide for our defences. That is one thing that discourages many a number of instructors who wish to join the academy as swordsmen, gunmen, archers, and whatnot.’ Mr Bones agreed.
‘True,’ I said. ‘Very few would come to the academy if they knew risking life was part of the curriculum.’ I chuckled. That was funny. ‘There are benefits too, so I do not mind. There are letters I received from a number of organisations — The Society of Mages, a number of publications, and some others. Such is the privilege of a professor.’ The fish on my plate must have agreed. Very few had the pleasure of being prepared so graciously. ‘One of the letters was of private nature. It asked for my help. I am wondering if its contents were simply false, folly, or a farce.’
‘And what if they are true?’ asked Ms Oak teasingly, but my smile faded.
‘Then,’ I said, with a tightened jaw and a solemn face, ‘I may have to leave right away.’
‘Professor,’ I heard a voice, and I was jerked awake from my reverie. ‘Were you daydreaming?’ Ms Olsberg asked.
‘No, I was simply lost in memories.’
‘Happens after a full tummy,’ she said, and we sniggered.
‘When will we begin?’ I asked, knowing sleep was not a part of the itinerary.
‘Soon,’ said the black-haired woman. That was something we had in common. ‘Have you prepared plenty, Professor?’ Her eyes were stuck to my ponytail that fluttered. Many thought of me as queer because of my long hair. It was something I had become numb to. But this woman had envy in her eyes. Mine are thin, yours aren’t. Mine fluttered, hers didn’t.
‘Sufficiently,’ I said, and she nodded in approval.
We were speaking about this and that, when I noticed a figure walking towards us. It was a man in his late thirties with hair that had begun to turn silver. He greeted me, his wide eyes searching me. ‘Hello, Professor,’ he said. ‘I am Theodore Harris. I will be leading the Hunt.’ I greeted him back in the hopes of continuing the conversation. I felt that was only polite, but the man left right away. That was sudden.
‘Mr Harris is a quiet man, Professor,’ Ms Olsberg explained, looking at him disappear into the crowd. ‘He speaks only when necessary. He means no harm.’ I nodded along, assuring her that I was not offended.
I looked at my watch, struggling through its blinding silver rays. It was twelve o’clock. Exact. The chained, hunting hounds that were prepared for us suddenly became vigilant. Their ears stood, and their eyes gleamed as they watched the silent forest. The few clouds that had been lurking around were no more in sight. And to the shouts of ‘The hunt begins,’ ‘The damned await,’ ‘The red moon is high,’ we began our journey into the forests and woods. The monthly expedition had begun with the shouts of two dozen men and women bearing arms. Blood was soon to be spilt; the Full-Moon Hunt had begun.
***
We were traversing the dark forest lit by the scarlet light in the sky. Divided into groups of four, the surroundings felt eerie and forlorn. There were scouts ahead, who travelled in pairs or alone, and we — the main force — would retreat or regroup if a signal of emergency is spotted. But I was a stranger to all this; Ms Olsberg was my only source and the two others that walked along. One was a burly man named Heis Kolm, and the other was one Mr Peter Mason.
So, Mr Mason, Mr Kolm, Ms Olsberg, and I walked along the narrow path taken over by the overgrown bushes and vines. The night was chilly and our adventures were sure to follow the same path. I did not mention my thoughts, grim or not, as I walked along the way that my colleagues had carved. There was not much hesitation in my feet; my hands were steady. And under my vest that was left naked without a suit to cover it, were items I had procured, hidden in a lavender shirt with suspenders. I had worn my black shoes. A man of books should dress as such, but I wondered if the attire suited the surroundings. In that manner, I was no better than a foreigner, struggling to find himself in a new culture.
‘Careful, Professor,’ whispered Mr Kolm, and I gave him a nod. A hunter is silent lest he scares the prey. That was the truth of any hunt, but ask these men now and I know they will scoff, for the hunter, the prey, and the hunt were all unique when it came to the Full-Moon Hunt. A hunter is silent lest he becomes the hunted. I thought it was a rather taboo of a saying, but I did not object. We were not hunting foxes and hares.
It was quarter past twelve. In terms, it was the next day, but we felt the same night — dreary and inviting. The forest was coloured in a scarlet hue, but not all was visible. As we went deeper, the dark fell. And no more did I understand the meaning of Full Moon. Now it was a hunt — a dark and scary one. If something were to happen, it would take a great amount of time for us to be found. We were spread out for the sake of efficiency. We were strong and capable, but what is capability when we had entered an unknown territory? ‘Do not worry,’ Mr Mason said. ‘I know this place well. I’ve been on these hunts often.’ I nodded.
We were sitting on a rock — Ms Olsberg and I — while the two men kept guard. It was necessary to take breaks and observe the surroundings. A walking man may not see what a still one might, Mr Kolm had said. Five minutes passed and we continued our endeavour.
So far, nothing had prickled our senses, and I preferred it that way. But my colleagues had concerned faces. The hound leading us, leashed by Mr Kolm, was alert. ‘Nothing,’ said Mr Kolm, narrowing his eyes. A number of broken branches and leaves were stuck to his attire and hair. The disasters of a big body. ‘So far nothing.’
‘Is that not good?’ I asked, thinking they were simply bloodthirsty.
‘No,’ answered Mr Kolm.
And Mr Mason explained, ‘The full moon brings them out.’ It looked around, alert. ‘They are drawn to us — to blood.’ The forest was dark, and we hadn’t lighted our torches. ‘They are so frenzied that we do not even turn the lights on. It does not scare them anymore; rather it further turns them mindless. That is why this culling.’ The wind was neither stormy nor calm; it was simply perfect if not a little cold.
‘The wind should have spread our scent,’ said Mr Kolm, frowning. ‘And yet, nothing.’
‘What is it then?’ I asked, out of my wits, looking around. ‘Are they hiding from us?’
‘No, could not be,’ said Ms Olsberg. Her green eyes were shining like emeralds. ‘Those beasts do not hide. Something is wrong.’
Her words concerned me, and I was not the only one apprehensive. So, we stood there, unable to make sense of our quandary. ‘What shall we do?’ I asked, preparing a flask filled with water. Is it the same for everyone? Each team? I wondered. But soon, my thoughts were broken. I heard barks. The dog, our hunting hound, was barking furiously. My three colleagues prepared their weapons. Ms Olsberg loaded her revolver, while Mr Kolm and Mr Mason unsheathed their swords. Each of these pieces had carvings of black. Ormosphite, I thought. And as the wind blew, and the hound became louder, we saw a pair of glowing eyes emerge from beyond the bushes in front of us. Yet I thought I was mistaken, for there were more that followed from behind.
