The evening, covered in a veil of frost, settled into tranquility as the fifth hour of darkness approached. Bare tree limbs, jagged, with a few dangling leaves, glistened in the moonlight. An intermittent hoot of an owl and the occasional rustling leaves, stirred by an animal making its way through the dark, broke the night’s silence. Teepees, illuminated by their central fires, sent puffs of smoke billowing from their tops, vanishing into the night. The small, glowing conical structures paled in comparison to the radiant full October moon. Its brilliance and magnitude gave it a regal aura as it floated amongst the sparkling stars and distant planets, commanding reverence from all those fortunate enough to be in its presence. As though their song of praise, the howling of a small pack of wolves reverberated throughout the forest.
The week of festivities celebrating the return of the earth’s nightly companion had come to an end. Held every October, it was especially significant this year, for it marked the 200th anniversary of the moon’s return. The jubilant ceremonies, feasts, dancing, and athletic contests, tired the people of the village, who lay slumbering beneath the big, round, glowing guest of honor.
Only one stirred – Running Wolf. She had been to fourteen Return of the Moon celebrations, although she had no recollection of the first few. With energy still zapping through body and mind, she tossed restlessly. Unanswered questions about the disturbing details of the festival’s origins circulated relentlessly in her mind. Overtaken by the taunting queries, Running Wolf slipped into her moccasins, wrapped herself snugly in a red woolen blanket, and pushed through the front flaps of the teepee, entering the cold night. Her lean figure, running effortlessly, was silhouetted by the brilliant moonbeam. Inhaling deeply, she puffed out small clouds of breath that lingered before her.
Reaching the northern-most teepee in the village, a place of honor reserved for the oldest, wisest tribal elder, Running Wolf paused, crouching next to the teepee. A few intermittent, staccato snores, came from Singing Owl, who lay tucked inside with vivid, prognostic dreams floating through her slumbering mind. A very long life and an inquisitive nature gave her the insight and wisdom she now possesses.
Running Wolf knelt beside the protective flap that served as the teepee’s door. Mimicking the howl of a wolf to announce her presence, she awakened the elder. Singing Owl sat straight up, immediately recognizing the call of her young friend, and quickly pushed the flap open. A single long braid, mostly gray with sparse evidence of her once black hair, draped over one shoulder. Her body, wiry and thin, and sparkling eyes gave Singing Owl the appearance of being much younger than her advanced 132 years. Although her mind was still as active and curious as in her youth, her body exhibited signs of aging. Nonetheless, Singing Owl greeted each new day with a prayer, followed by a slow run through the surrounding forest to a nearby stream. There she shed her clothes, submerging herself in the current that bubbled and swirled, licking and tingling her body. A ritual since childhood, Singing Owl occasionally shares the routine with young Running Wolf.
“What are you doing up this late?” Singing Owl asked her friend, glancing at the sky to check the time. “Ah. Something is bothering you.” Singing Owl nodded before Running Wolf uttered a word.
“It’s the Return of the Moon Festival,” blurted Running Wolf. “I want to know what it really means. I understand it’s to honor our magnificent moon’s reappearance, but why,” she pleaded, “why did it disappear for so long?” Read more