Hunt beneath the moon

What Moon reveals, oh, Lord..
Hunter, game, all die on sword
Lord, what does the Moon say?
Hunter, game, all is prey...
Doamne, ce ne'arat Luna?
Vāntor, vānat sunt una...

We're in the old tavern, waiting for the hunter to finish his brandy and tell one of his stories. We must pump to his full if we want something out of him. For us, the brandy is cheap. As cheap as the air we breathe. And we have time to spend. Plenty of time.

Here, the hunter: slim, tall, odd looking face, covered with wrinkles, an ugly man with stained cloths and tangled whitish hair. So we sit to his table and offer him a pot with that yellow brandy, mixed with honey and kept in mulberry cask, with staves smoked in oak-leaves fume. He looks as if he sees through us, and asks:

- Who the hell are you?

We point the clay pot where the brandy is waiting. He drinks without taking the eyes off of us. Chokes, coughs, wipes off his muzzle with the filthy sleeve which, our senses say it, still carries blood stains. From somebody else, maybe another hind. Or maybe another game. One of the reasons we are here is to find out what sort of game does he hunt. And, it's well known, what else can make a man speak if not the brandy?

Another sip, another stare. And yet another question.

- D'you hear me ... Who the fuck are you?

We smile. What to tell? How to tell it?

- Do you want a name? I'm ... Klearinth.

- That's not a name, he said.

Not at all. He's not looking for a name. He's only sniffing, like beasts. He's sniffing us; he wants us, but who, in that pothouse, who wouldn't? Somewhere, somebody is playing a violin.

- You're one of the Master's whores?

- Would I have been allowed to stroll alone all around the town? We turn back the question.

- What do you want from me?

- It is said that you hunt...

- I do, he nodded.

- What do you hunt?

A sip from his clay pot, and then again, the filthy sleeve over the muzzle.

- Anything.

We close the eyes. His words are hurting us. Anything, means our sisters, too. So here we are, sitting at the same table with the hunter: hind-woman. Herds, smaller ones, bigger ones, harts leading us, harts defending us, harts loving us. We are happy, because we don't think of death. We think only of our pastures, our calves. We think of cooling rains and silky snows.