The Midwinter Moon is full at 4:01am this morning, so look for the Midwinter moonrise tonight. All full moons are lovely, but there is something magical about the light at Midwinter. Moonrise is usually colored warm yellow to orange by the thick atmosphere at the horizon. But in winter’s cold, the atmosphere can’t hold as much water and aerosols. Moonrise in cold weather is silvery, and in the weather lull that sometimes happens around the solstice the moonlight is shining brightly with few obstructions. Moonrise later in the winter is still silver, but we don’t get to see it as often because it is hidden behind the storms of late winter.
Though these days, storms happen year round, I suppose. New England is recovering from an atmospheric river that flowed over the region midweek and dumped many inches of mostly rain on the snowy landscape, adding meltwater to the precipitation. Flooding happened all around the region, particularly in coastal areas, but not here in my town. It wasn’t quite warm enough to melt all the snow. Instead, we had a slushy slurry on top of snow and ice. Not ideal, but also not going to fill the rivers to flood stage. Some basements in the lowest parts of town, places with perpetually paltry storm drain capacity, developed puddles around the sump pumps, but nothing dangerous or even destructive. My back yard, where most of the basement water drains from, remained frozen, sheltered as it is by the hedge. So in my house, the basement was not even damp. And because it was so warm, the drain in the garage did not freeze and water flowed out — for an interesting change.
Now, it is mostly clear and calm, though very cold, dipping into single digits (°F) overnight. This is perfect moonrise weather, as long as you bundle up — or watch through an east-facing window. It is also perfect meteor shower weather, though it is even colder when the Geminid radiant rises late in the evening. But between moonrise and meteor showers, there are also diamond bright planets — Venus to the west, Saturn to the south, and Jupiter to the east. All are in the sky around moonrise, shining brilliantly in the purple twilight. With all that to savor in the sky, I hope you have clear skies tonight. Hopefully, you’ll be able to catch moonrise, falling stars and bright planets all in one long night. Though… maybe you want stay indoors. There’s the cold in some places, but there are also fairies…
When she was a girl, Brigid ignored her mother’s sage advice and went out into the night as the full moon of midwinter dripped its silvery light onto the snow. She laughed and gathered moonbeams into the bowl of her upturned hands and splashed them about. It was a good night for mischief.
She knew she should not be waking and about, but she was young and restless and curious, and she was resolved to make at least as many mistakes as her mother had. Brigid was a creature of appetites. She pursued pleasure, always seeking out the choicest morsels. She wanted it all and she wanted it now while she was young. There would be time for slowing down when she became old and stiff. Then she would join her mother in the quiet circle. But for now she wanted to know what it was to be loud and in motion.
She was not entirely green. She packed her pockets with dried foxglove, may-haws and holly and slipped a sharp dart of elder into her boot. She’d heard such things were repellent to the folk. On the odd chance that she might need a quick escape, she also took her ragwort cane from beside the door as she tripped out into the night.
But she did not fear the night, much less the dimwitted, galumphing folk. She could hear them a mile off and get out of sight if need be. But mostly there was no need. If they saw her at all, they shortly forgot the encounter. She was cloaked in their prejudice and hidden in plain sight, a useful trait for pulling pranks and stealing trinkets and sweets. She pocketed a few coins just because she could and wove a path through the oblivious.
It was the scent of cinnamon that drew her. Brigid loved the strong southern tree-bark. She sometimes wished that she lived in a land without frost where sweet fruits dangled from branches all the year long, where clove buds and nutmegs littered the ground, where blossoms were never blighted. But then she remembered sunlight on snow, and she knew she could not live without the thrill of winter. Besides, here was cinnamon too, wafting its enticing aroma into the night market.
The scent led her to a sturdy, stolid door on a sturdy, stolid house, no doubt filled with sturdy, stolid folk. But she never found out what lumpish matron was baking buns under the midwinter moon.
As she was looking for a less obvious entry, a young man rushed toward her. She automatically stepped out of his path, so he could reach whatever goal lay beyond her person without knocking her into the dirt. Except he did not pass. He stopped in front of her, breathing raggedly, eyes wide and wild — and he was clearly seeing her. This was unprecedented. And not a little unnerving.
He drew a great, shuddering breath, thrust a dirty finger at her chest and rasped out “You!” Brigid was momentarily worried that one of her many victims had finally caught up with her. But then he growled, “I need your help.”
“Me, sir?” squeaked Brigid. “What kind of help can I give you?” She felt this was an important point, but he waved it away with the dirty finger and muttered “Just follow me.”
He turned and suddenly Brigid found herself in a dark room. No more cinnamon scent. No more snow. No more moonlight. The room smelled of blood and sweat and apprehension.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Brigid made out a pallet on one wall. On it, a woman of the folk lay writhing in the throes of childbirth. Suddenly, the woman let out a guttural howl. Brigid took an involuntary step backwards and knocked into the odd young man. She turned and stuck her hand in her pocket, preparing an escape, but then she looked into his eyes and saw all the raw fear and love and helplessness written there. “Please,” he said softly. Just that. No more. He needed no words. His eyes told her all she needed to know.
Well…
“Get water. Hot water,” she barked at him. “In a copper basin, if you please. With linen. Lots of clean linen. And a flint knife.”
Those all seemed sensible instructions, things she was fairly certain were necessary in times like this. He nodded once and left the room. “And lights!” she called after him. “Why is it always so dark?” she muttered distractedly.
Brigid forced her feet to cross the room, and she knelt down. After the last contraction, the woman had passed into a fitful doze of delirium, breathing shallowly through clenched teeth. Up close, Brigid could see that the woman was quite young. Likely the first pregnancy. Brigid reached out and gently pulled the woman’s damp hair away from her face. At Brigid’s touch, the woman’s eyes fluttered open, rolling around to stare at Brigid.
“Don’t worry,” murmured Brigid, “I’m here now.”
For some reason this calmed the woman. For a moment, she exhaled and relaxed. But not for long. Another wave of pain gripped her and she sucked in air and whimpered.
Brigid took the woman’s hand and placed her ragwort stalk against the woman’s sweaty palm. “Squeeze. As hard as you can. Think of cinnamon and warm sunshine and flowers. And squeeze. You’ll be there.”
Brigid hardly knew what she was saying, but she knew it was right. And miraculously, she saw that the woman was following her absurd instructions. Continuing to act on intuition, Brigid stood and looked around the room. It was so bare, but there was a chest against the opposite wall. Surely, being more upright would help. So Brigid dragged the chest over and lifted the woman onto it, rolling up the pallet to make a bolster.
Just as another contraction wracked the woman’s body, the young man came back carrying a large basin of water which he placed on the floor near his beloved. Then he pulled from his pockets a knife of flint and a large roll of soft linen of an unlikely whiteness in this dark hovel of a house. He handed over the things to Brigid and then started to back away.
“No!” commanded Brigid. “Sit there.” And she showed him how to support the woman’s back.
Brigid busied herself, cutting the linen into strips and then cutting off the bottom of her tunic to make a blanket. She carefully massaged the woman’s tight belly, running her hands along the taut flesh trying to gauge the infant’s position. She hoped it was facing the world, ready to come out. She didn’t know what she could do if the child was breech.
At the next contraction, Brigid chanced a look up the birth canal and saw the head.
“Push down! Now!” she shouted. “Hard as you can! Push this baby out!”
The woman screamed and bore down with all her strength, her entire torso rigid with the effort. The man had tears coursing down his cheeks, but he held firm against her straining body. Brigid reached for the baby and guided it out. And suddenly, a small slithery body fell into her hands.
Brigid found that she was laughing and crying and shaking violently, but she forced herself to cradle the child and deftly cut the cord. Then she blew sharply into the baby’s face, shocking the infant into taking its first breath. Wiping away the blood and fluids, Brigid quickly wrapped the tiny body in the swath of jacquard cut from her tunic.
Wordlessly, she presented the child to its father then set about tending to the mother. After another round of contractions it was over. Brigid briskly cleaned and tidied everything, as the new parents marveled at their child.
“Thank you!” the man croaked. Brigid held his eyes for a moment and nodded curtly. She brushed her hand over the woman’s brow, again pushing the sweaty curls away from her face.
“You’re welcome,” she replied. Then glancing at the baby curled against the woman’s breast, she murmured, “Yes, you’re well come, my little friend.”
Then she stood, wiped her hands, and picked up the discarded ragwort stalk. With a weak smile, she nodded at the mother and baby. And, turning, she vanished.
She found herself back in the boisterous midwinter moonlight market. But she was in no mood for it now. Even cinnamon buns were no enticement. Wearily, she made her way back home where she thought she might just want to sit quietly with her mother for a spell.
Many years later, a young man trudged through the midwinter snow to a low mound on the moor. The moon silvered the air and starlight glittered on ice, as he knelt down in the snow. From his coat pockets, he took a flint knife and a fine piece of jacquard with ragged edges. Holding them out like an offering, he muttered a few words over them. Then he laid them near the dolmen entrance, stood, and walked away.
He never saw the fae young girl who gave him his first breath, but he never forgot her.
©Elizabeth Anker 2024
By My Solitary Hearth 