The seventh moon of the year is the Flower Moon, or the Faerie Moon. It is new between 23 April and 21 May. It is full between 7 May and 4 June. This is the time of riotous blossom and rainbow color splashed everywhere. You can cut vases of fresh flowers every morning and still have plenty in the garden. Bees and butterflies are busy everywhere. Baby birds are fledging. And it finally feels warm in the north. (This year, it’s verging toward too warm.) There is asparagus and rhubarb, peas and all manner of greens, cabbages and radishes and many of the roots. Usually sometime in this month, the ice cream stands will open their doors. This is the best time to clean out the freezer and pantry to prepare for the summer’s harvest.
The closest full moon of 2021 happens at 7:14 am on May 26th. The moon will be large in the sky; it’s a super-moon. Along the Pacific Coast, it will also be in eclipse as it sets, with totality lasting from 4:11 am to 4:26 am Pacific time. This is the Blood Moon. The full moon is the only time when it is possible for the moon to be in the earth’s shadow, but it is not normally in the earth’s shadow. That perfect alignment to throw blood on the moon is unusual.
As this is a huge, bloody moon, I felt a story about the Washwoman at the Fords was in order.
The Morrígan
They will be coming to cross the river soon.
Slap.
I have nothing to tell them.
Slap.
I have nothing to give them.
Slap.
I have nothing to do with them.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
She scrubbed the stubborn bloodstain between basalt and pumice, grumbling to herself. The stain wasn’t budging. Still as deep red and enormous as when she began. Covering nearly half of the shirt.
Always the same.
Slap.
Never listen.
Slap.
Always more and more and more.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Don’t they ever get tired of it? Isn’t repetition boring? Shouldn’t they find some other way to leave a mark on the world? Less about blood maybe?
She does not understand. Ages she has been at this. Go to the fords. Kneel at the river’s edge. Soak and slap and scrub the bloody garments until skin is wrinkled and red, muscle is seized up in pain. Deep bone ache in the hands and back.
Slap.
But the blood never comes out. Never even lessens. Bright red and pulsing, it flows into the garment as fast as she can force it out. River water is carmine with lifeblood, drawing all the foul creatures who would feast on warm-blood flesh if they could.
But she is not warm-blooded.
Slap.
Nothing I do has any impact.
Slap.
Why do I bother?
Slap.
Who cares?
Slap.
She wrings the river-water from the shirt, watching the red droplets swirl into the stream. She can wring this garment for days and the blood will still flow into the river. Because they just won’t stop.
Slap. Slap.
Stupid! (Slap.) Bloody! (Slap.) Humans!
Slap.
Nothing ever comes of all this blood. Nothing ever changes. Nobody ever wins. There is grief. Pain. Suffering. Loss. Death. And they never seem to notice that there are no benefits, never mind any good of a scale that might balance out all the evil damages.
Slap.
So some tiny king can feel more powerful than his neighbor!
Slap.
When they all bloody well die in the end!
Slap.
And are utterly forgotten.
Slap.
This discord and strife over who has more cows. Or the prettiest concubine. Or the largest pile of worthless metal. All useless.
She grinds the bloodstain into the rock, scraping her knuckles and adding her own bright blood to the flow.
Why do they want to hurt each other at all?
Slap.
No other animal is so stupid.
Slap.
What is wrong with these creatures!
Slap. Slap. Slap.
And it’s all the time now!
Slap.
Used to be I’d have winters off. Most weekends. Almost always got to sleep at night.
Slap.
There would be a skirmish.
Slap.
A few dead foot soldiers.
Slap.
Maybe a dead hero.
Slap.
And then off to the pub.
Slap.
But now they push buttons and dozens of people on the other side of the world die horribly in seconds.
Slap.
And the dead aren’t even combatants! It’s women (slap), children (slap), elders (slap). And all the millions of non-humans caught in the wrong place.
She sees her teardrops on the stain.
At least someone is mourning.
Slap.
But no one is remembering.
Slap.
Nobody even knows his name.
Slap.
Nameless Soldier is the most common gravestone.
Slap.
And all the nameless dead who have no weapons.
Slap.
They are who I should be warning. They are the ones who die. They are the future bereft of a new generation. All so this squawking male can preen and thump his own chest.
Slap.
As if he had any hand in it.
Slap.
Rubs her raw hands.
Even I have more skin in the game.
Slap.
I’m tired of it. I want to quit. I want this to not be. Now.
She rocks back onto her heels and stares vacantly at the bloody mess she’d made.
What if I just didn’t? What if I just up and walked away? What would happen if nobody warns them of their folly?
At least I could be spared this madness.
After all, nobody ever told me to do this. And nobody ever listens to my warnings anyway! How can my presence possibly matter!
She shakes her head and goes back to cleaning.
The stain was growing. Now, nearly twice as big as it was when she began washing.
Fine!
She flings the shirt aside.
Fine!
She gets to her feet.
Fine!
She walks off. Still muttering.
They don’t need a war warning. They can just assume there is war. Everywhere. All the time.
They don’t need me to tell them that people will die. People are dying. Everywhere. All the time.
And they don’t need me to tell them that nothing will change.
And that there will be a new war tomorrow. Even while this one rages on with no prospect for conclusion.
They can’t even finish one thing before moving on to the next.
It’s all perpetual and self-reinforcing and never — bloody — ending.
Well, I’ll have no part of it.
They can wash their own bloody laundry.
WANTED: Washerwoman at the fords for light cleaning, keening and prognostication. No experience necessary. Fast-paced office. Flexible hours. Must have own transportation.
©Elizabeth Anker 2021
By My Solitary Hearth 