Sigil of the Full Moon

Often I dream of a cold night by the shore of a still lake, the moon clearer than ever reflected across its dark waters. At the water’s edge, there is a woman with a large snow-white witch’s hat and a white fur cloak. There is an ethereal quality to her as she stands draped in a pale blue, ombre dress that grows dark and sparkles like the night sky at its hem. She stares into the lake, bluish-black hair cascading down her back and her bare toes dipping into the water. 

Then she looks back at me with her crystal blue eyes, and raises her left hand, revealing a strange image—an orb representing the moon, surrounded with a ring, and from that ring are lines curving out to form a snowflake pattern.

It is the Sigil of the Full Moon, though I don’t know how I know that.

A slight smirk creeps across her frosty pale face.

I wake from my dream with my head in a fog, sitting up in my big, empty bed and looking around blankly, the dark blue comforter falling to my waist. It takes me a minute to register the irritating sound of ringing and beeping that make up my phone’s alarm.

I search the dark covers for the offending device until I finally feel the cool plastic of its galaxy-purple-patterned case against my fingertips. I pick it up and silence the blaring alarm, restoring my phone’s usual stock space background.

As always, waking from that dream leaves me exhausted and drained. The choice to either get up or fall back asleep makes itself for me as the weight of my head draws me back to my pillows. My eyes seal shut, and it takes two more alarms before I drag myself free of my bed’s warm, dark embrace.

I shower and dress for school, figuring jeans and a purple hoodie will be fashionable enough for a Monday morning. I run a brush through my long, black hair just to get the knots out, and I’m ready to go. It’s too early and I’m too tired to care about impressing anyone, anyways. My only concern is staying comfortable walking in the morning chill. My skinny frame is quite vulnerable to the cold.

The weather always changes so fast in September. At the start of the month, it feels warm enough to keep the air conditioning on, but by the last week, it would be cold enough for a winter coat if not for the sun’s warmth.

Still, I am one of those rare sorts who like the winter. My whole family likes it cold—my dad’s rough stubble develops into a small, soft beard, my mom pulls her long hair back into a ponytail and wears the most beautiful winter fashions, and I always find it more comfortable to be a little cold than a little hot.

As I meander through the cream-colored hall of my house, my black socks slippery against the hardwood floors, I can hear Dad downstairs humming some vaguely familiar song to himself. Whatever he listens to in the car invariably becomes the following morning’s performance.

I sigh as I drag myself down the creaky L-shaped staircase. I can predict what he will say verbatim, mouthing along the words as I cross the threshold between the stairs and the front door to slip on my black running shoes.

“Selena,” he calls as I silently mock in tandem, “you should eat something before you go, you’ll focus better in class with a full tummy!”

I keep his tall, pudgy frame in the corner of my vision and roll my eyes as I slip on my shoes without untying them, my weathered black backpack slung over my right shoulder. I definitely look more like mom than him, even if we do have the same eyes. 

“Bye, Selena!” he calls, the morning sun reflecting off of his glasses and obscuring his blue eyes. “I love you.”

As I open the door Dad calls again, playfully impatient this time: “I said I love you!”

“Oh my God, I love you too,” I whine  with a scowl, closing the door and walking around our plain, patchy lawn and our boring blue hatchback to the sidewalk.

I pay little attention to my surroundings as I navigate the sidewalks. I always found suburbia to be stifling, with endless arrays of the same houses arranged in neat little grids, broken up by the occasional park or plaza. Uniformity feels like the death of creativity to me, and, indeed, there is little imagination on display here. The most unique features to be found is an occasional flower bed or fancy glasswork on a front door. 

Finally, I find myself outside of a square-shaped, three-story building: my high school. It is almost perfectly symmetrical, except for the extended rectangle that made up the gymnasium jutting out from the right side and running the length of the building. Crowds of kids from fourteen to eighteen file into the building like a haphazard cloud of dread—I imagine very few are here because they want to be. 

Surrounding the property and separating the parking lot from the school grounds is an eight-foot-high white wall, and by the iron-wrought gates that lazily hang open stands Cara  with her long ginger curls and a verdant sweater, a white skirt hanging down to her knees with black leggings underneath.

She smiles at me and waves enthusiastically, eliciting my own meek one in return. “Selena!” 

Cara is always so expressive. She smiles wide with large dimples, flashing her white teeth every time, and her big green saucer-eyes twinkle behind her large, round glasses. She emits a radiating positivity that is hard to dislike, even if it does fill me with second-hand embarrassment. 

“Hey, sorry I didn’t make it to book club,” I say as we start to walk inside together. “I was really tired Friday.” 

“That’s okay! I’ll catch you up later. And, speaking of clubs, I joined a new one!” she says, practically bouncing on her heels as she waits for me to give her the chance to explain further. 

“Another one? You’re in so many, on top of your archery practice.” 

“This one is cool, it’s the anime club! Every year they make all these cool cosplay outfits, they’re going to teach me how to sew and stuff.” 

It seems like every week or so that Cara picks up a new interest. In some ways, it’s a little exhausting to keep up with her, but in other ways, I’m a little jealous. I’ve never felt that kind of passion for anything. 

I find myself drifting through the school day like always, mustering just enough attention to keep my grades up, but otherwise finding it all boring. I feel out of place, in a sense, like I’m here because I don’t know where I should be instead. 

We have gym class last period, and today the teacher has us out on the football field. Having forgotten my outdoor running shoes, I sit this class out after doing our warm-up stretches, retreating to the bleachers with several other forgetful classmates to watch Cara and the others run laps then play soccer. My mind wanders as they play. Though I don’t know much about sports, I have to assume that a football field would not pass as a FIFA-approved soccer field. Are soccer fields and football fields the same size? I look it up on my phone, and Google is quick to tell me that in fact, soccer fields are much wider. I suppose that must be nice for Cara and the others since they don’t have to run as much. 

I look up at the sky and notice the moon is visible today. It’s mesmerizing, and it becomes more and more clear as I stare at it, an enchanting crescent that I cannot look away from. 

I blink—

And now I’m alone in the dark.

It feels like the middle of the night. How long was I staring at the moon? A moment? Or hours? Am I asleep? 

A strange hypnotic compulsion drives me to climb down the bleachers, but when I reach the bottom, I am instead on the sidewalk at an intersection of two streets which stands at the border between suburbia and a dense, endless forest. There’s a chill in the air and the wind penetrates me to my very bones. 

My vision feels fuzzy, and I find myself struggling to focus on details, but the street signs stand out clear as can be. Owl Street and Fantasia Circle. 

Thoughtlessly, I step toward the woods that run the length of Owl Street, away from suburbia, and I am suddenly at the edge of a long driveway cutting through the woods. The leaves rustle loudly all around me as I follow the winding path, almost drowning out the echo of the gravel crunching beneath my feet. It’s like . . . the sleeping forest is waking up to announce my arrival. At the trail’s end I find a secluded, gothic-style black and white house on a hill with a pond and a large yew tree out front. 

I am unwittingly transported once more, this time to the library inside the house, a large two-story room with a big, open area in front of a massive bay window that overlooks a garden. A green moth flutters just outside. 

Painted on the floor in the library’s center, illuminated by moonlight, is the Sigil of the Full Moon. 

Outside the window, beyond the garden, is the lake from my dream, the moon looming large over it. The gentle sound of the water stirring against the shore fills my ears. Something about it calls to me, and everything else blurs from my vision. I step towards it, but as my foot touches the black paint I wake from my stupor, back on the bleachers, with the sun shining in my eyes.

I can feel my heart pounding as if trying to leap from my chest, and I struggle to find my breath. I look around and everything seems normal. When I look up the moon is no longer visible. 

Was that a dream? I feel an alien sense of motivation, as if something buried deep inside has just woken up. 

I check the skies for the moon once more, but it’s not there. Then a thought occurs to me. I check the maps app on my phone, and sure enough, the intersection I saw is real, and not far from my house. And just from scrolling around the map, I can see that Owl Street has a few large manors just beyond the trees, and one, the one with the longest driveway, looks like it might be the one I saw—and just beyond that house is a large lake called ‘Falling Star Lake’. 

“Hey, Selena!” Cara calls, alerting me to class coming to an end. “Are you ok?” 

“Yeah, I just had a weird moment, that’s all,” I say, faking a small smile. 

Her big eyes see right through me. She’s clearly skeptical, judging by her squinting and the way she scrunches up her nose. “What kind of a weird moment?”

“I don’t know, I guess I just felt something, that’s all. It’s probably just in my head.” 

“In your head is where you live! Talk to me, bestie.” 

I sigh, then show her my phone. “I had a daydream or a vision or something of this house … I feel like a crazy person, but I don’t know, maybe it means something?”

“Ok, well, first of all, we don’t say ‘crazy’ because that’s insensitive, and you are not allowed to put yourself down,” she lectures, eliciting an eye roll and a smile from me, both involuntary. “And second of all, if you think this means something, then let’s go there and see! What’s the harm?” 

“I guess?” 

We hear the bell ring in the distance, so I text my parents ‘Hanging out w/ Cara for a bit, be home for dinner, luv you’ and we go change and collect our things from our lockers. 

The path to Owl Street feels familiar as we walk—even without the help of the maps app, I feel like I know exactly where to go. Sure enough, I find myself approaching the intersection from my dream, passing it, and eventually coming to the long, winding driveway. 

I stop at the edge of the property, and, again, that familiar thumping in my chest returns. 

“What is it?” Cara asks. 

“It’s just like what I saw.” 

I walk up the path, just like before, but with Cara at my side this time. I see the yew tree from before, its branches hanging over the small, round pond. And at the foot of the tree stands a man, taller by a head than any other I’ve seen, with shaggy brown hair halfway down his back and a full beard. 

Upon his left hand is the Sigil of the Full Moon. 

He turns away from the tree and looks at us with apprehension on his worn, weathered face; his left eye is brown, almost amber, and his right is a pale, frosty blue. He reminds me of a wild old dog, yet, somehow, I know I don’t need to fear him. 

I take a step forward and take a deep breath. 

“Who are you?”