By the Light of the Moon

We figured it like this:  The moon would be full and it'd be risky to try and walk all the way around the square and up to Lovers Lane.  We'd be discovered, sure as shootin'.  So Ruthie and I packed ourselves box lunches and went around The Point, past Old Hat's, over and through the tidepools, all the way to Beautiful Cove then down Lovers Lane from the opposite direction.  Remy's old farmhouse was the last on the right, almost directly across from the Baptist Church and his old barn overlooked the small island cemetery.  It was a Saturday night and most folks would be gathered in and around the square, waiting for the show to start or for the dance hall to open.  Even so, island eyes were sharp, so inch by silent inch, we crawled across the barnyard on our bellies, slipped through the double doors of the barn past the sleepy cows, and one creaky rung at a time, climbed the ladder to the dusty hayloft.  It made us both a little dizzy to be up so high and we jumped every time the barn owl ruffled his feathers but it was Ruthie's muffled sneezes we worried about the most. If we were heard, we'd be discovered and it'd be the woodshed for sure but then Ruthie remembered she'd brought a bandanna.  She wound it over her nose and mouth and tied it in the back - like a Jimmy Cagney bank robber, we giggled - and we stretched out to look at the stars, watch the clouds drift across the moon, and wait.

Island life, where rumors sprouted like weeds, could be idle and sleepy on nights like this and looking back, I don't suppose we really expected to see much of anything - least of all, two ragged old women dancing on the graves - but we were children and we hoped.  Then I think we must've both nodded off because I woke to the barn owl hooting softly but persistently.  I heard him rustle his wings and then felt a gentle rush of wind on my face as he swooped down from the dark eaves and flew directly over our heads and out into the night. I was breathing hard and wondering if you really could die of fright when Ruthie gave me a sharp poke in the ribs.

Look down! she hissed in my ear, Listen!

Still a little worried about the wicked thudding in my chest, I brushed a handful of straw away from my face and peered out at the cemetery,

It's Hattie!  Ruthie whispered wonderingly, and oh, my Jesus, there's Aunt Glad!

Aw, you're seein' things......I started to say but then I looked again, more closely.  

Oh, kee-rist, I heard myself say - a pale echo of my grandmother - it's true!

It was a sight to behold.  Both women were dressed in their usual long, dark skirts and high button shoes and were prancing around the graves like deranged witches.  Hattie wore her usual battered top hat on her mane of white hair and carried her shotgun tucked under one scrawny arm.  Aunt Glad seemed to be singing and clutching a jug as she two-stepped around the headstones.  Ruthie and I watched in fascination and horror as they linked arms and crookedly hop-scotched between the graves then Old Hat produced a penny whistle from her skirt pocket, perched herself on one of the gravestones and began to play.  The sound was dreadful and eerie and it made us shiver.

Think God's watching this? Ruthie asked.

More likely the devil! I said sharply, Let's get out of here 'fore they wake up the minister!

We scrambled down the ladder, past the cows and out into the empty barnyard just as the lights in the parsonage went on.  A door slammed ferociously and we could hear - as could the whole island, I imagined - the minister shouting.

HATTIE!  GLAD! he thundered, HOW MANY TIMES MUST I TELL YOU I WON'T HAVE THIS PAGAN NONSENSE IN MY CHURCH YARD!  I'M TIRED OF PRAYING FOR YOUR DAMN SOULS!  OUT WITH YOU!  OUT, I SAY!

Crouched and trembling behind one wheel of Remy's hay wagon, Ruthie and I shut our eyes, frozen with fear and wishing that for just once, we'd had better sense.  When the lights came on in the farmhouse behind us and we heard Remy gruffly calling out to the minister, we ran as if the devil himself was at our heels.  Remy was cussing, the minister was still shouting and suddenly neither the moonlight or the woodshed seemed so risky.  We flew down Lovers Lane like wild things, on fire with terror and panic and didn't slow down a single step until we reached the quiet and sanity of Beautiful Cove.

What's pagan? Ruthie asked as we sat watching the moonlight on the ocean.

How in hell do I know, I snapped, Don't make no difference 'cause even if'n we could tell, which we can't, ain't nobody gon' believe us.

'Spose so, she shrugged, a shame, that.

You reckon it's a sin for a pastor to cuss?  I wondered out loud.

'Damn' ain't much of cuss word, Ruthie said a little impatiently, I bet he knows a bunch worse bein' as much as he reads the Bible every day.  Mama says the Bible's jist full up with cuss words.

Nana often said the very same thing after reading her Bible, I reflected.  It was reasonable but not much comfort.  I'd once repeated something I'd read in the Good Book and gotten my mouth thoroughly washed out with soap.

You'll not take the name of the Lord in vain under my roof, my girl!  she'd said and drug me by my hair to the kitchen sink.  The memory still gave a chill.

Tide's comin' in, I told Ruthie, We best be gettin' on home. 

We started back toward The Point, picking our way along the path in the moonlight then carefully navigating across Cow Ledge until the breakwater and Old Hat's shack were in sight.

Hold up! she whispered suddenly, stopping abruptly and so unexpectedly that I ran smack into her, lost my footing and came within an inch of knocking us both down.  Dammit, Ruthie! I protested, You might give me a little warning the next time...but I never finished the thought because by then she'd whirled around and was frantically shushing me.  You hear that? she demanded.  I took a breath, held it and listened, at first hearing nothing but the crickets and the tide.  And then the music, the scratchy sound of a penny whistle - faint but unmistakable - followed by a high pitched, cackling screech of witchy, drunken laughter.  Without another word, we flattened ourselves and crawled off the path and over the ledge like a pair of awkward crabs.  From behind the relative safety of the rocks, we could see the dilapidated shack's porch, the two old rocking chairs in their usual places, and Hattie and Aunt Glad, shrieking and quarreling like two foul-mouthed old sailors.

We couldn't make out the words but Hattie had Aunt Glad pinned up by her hair against the door of the shack and was shaking her like a ragdoll.  Aunt Glad flailed and pummeled back, finally delivering one well placed, strategic kick and sending Hattie sprawling down the steps and onto the grass.  Hattie sprang up like a jack in the box, let out an unearthly howl and charged headfirst back up the steps but Aunt Glad saw it coming and dodged at the last minute.  Hattie hit the door with a crash, picked herself up, reached for the barrel end of her shotgun and swung it like a club.  Aunt Glad ducked and threw herself at Hattie's ankles and both women went down in a tangle of skirts, dusty shoes and a fine spray of dirt and gravel but then both came up snarling and cussing like spitfires.  All I could think of was the way stray cats hissed and yowled and bared their teeth before tearing into each other.  Ruthie said it reminded her roosters she'd seen fighting in a barnyard.

Move yer ass 'fore she thinks 'bout snatchin' up that old scattergun right side up! she snapped and gave me a rude shove.

I didn't have to be told twice.  Trapped between the incoming tide and Hattie's shotgun, we hunched over and made a run for the wharf, climbed up the seaweed slicked pilings and came out safe and sound on the other side.  We emerged well past Hattie and Aunt Glad and their shared madness, well past the shotgun and the ominous music.

Nothing solidifies childhood friendships like high adventure, narrow escapes, and secrets.  Once we were up and running, out of range of the sisters and their demented antics, we laughed all the way home.