I woke up to a beautiful thin layer of snow and a timely reminder that it’s still winter and it’s ok to be slow and be on the croft dreaming! We’ve done a lot of sewing and knitting this winter in our house – I’ve loved making this cloth binding for a new story inspired by an old one and the first full moon of the year. Enjoy!
How Qwait Moon won her name
This is the story of how Qwait Moon won her name. It’s a re-imagining of Red Riding Hood as a stripling. It’s a story to be told out loud.
Lets begin.
Once upon a time in a land much like our own, there sits a wooden hut at the edge of an old growth forest. Every branch is clothed in a mossy green mantle. Underfoot, miles of silky white mycelia ranges. A while down hill at the edge of the fell-land lies an ancient village, grown up quite modern now, busy, dazzling in places.
This is red riding hoods haunt, minus the wolves – or so it’s supposed.
The hawff in the deep dark wood, now exposed
an edge dwelling for this waterkeeper, grief tender, night walker
for this rebel.
~
With nothing to hold against her for comfort, for joy, she goes out.
The night is bound-less, winter crunches under foot.
By the time she’s been round the traps, her fingers are red raw.
She clasps the shiny door knob, squeezes through the gap, warms her lungs in hot air.
This outhouse is the size of small hut –
they dry their clothes in here.
With steps that seem to float above the pile, Red slips a yellow jumper from the pulley
and is out the door swishing her prints as she goes.
At the night bakers she pays for two rolls – just out the oven
and pockets a handful more.
The sheriffs bit is the last of the big houses – so vast he uses a golf buggy to get around.
She palms some dross from the doukit, jumps the fence and follows the river back to the old town.
Warm yellow jumper and a black bun package tied to one door.
Two brown butteries and a few folded coins left under a bucket for another.
Bone chilling wind chases her home
she wraps grannies songs aboon her heart to keep her warm.
~
Polite and persistent knocking intrudes on sleep.
Who keeps chapping at an open door?
The top dog or the top dogs people.
Outlawed shouts the sheriff – no trial
Outlawed shouts his people – no hearing
Outlawed for a year and day
~
And so, she tends her fire, sleeps in a borrowed tent, eats army surplus mush
all the while wondering – who’s tending the traps.
In the beginning all sorts of fungus, trees, birds, driving easterlies, early morning sun and all night stars keep her company, keep her going – and yet, after six weeks she feels likes she’s dying of boredom and lonliness.
Not for the first time she stomps around the edge of the firelight, incredulous, snarling, howling, throwing great shadows across the moonlit snow – her heart wailing, clamoring for help.
More shadows join in, on all fours, snarling, howling – Red snarls back
What big teeth you have, comes a voice
All the better to eat you with, she growls.
Four circling wolves become three leading a giant of a woman into the light.
She offers her hand.
Qwait Moon, aye, we’ll caw ye Qwait Moon
fur that’s when your were gallus enough to ask for help.
~
Winter passes playing cards and getting fat on wolf’s milk
Spring work puts muscle in her swing
Summers graft bears gifts
Autumn seeds a bumper crop of new ideas
Mid winter she crosses the thresh hold home
~
With a small banner to hold against her for comfort, for joy, she goes out.
By the time she’s been round the traps and made it to the sheriffs house, her fingers are red raw.
The outside light jumps on as the first snowball lands on the door mat.
He’s sure he sees her there, red hood flapping, four wolves circling and a crowd of all the extinct, endangered, outlawed and glamorous cratures the world iver aw playing, singing and chanting.
(Lil pig, lil pig, we know your in
and we’ll huff and we’ll puff and we’ll blow your house in
A great roar of laughter and merry making is heard up and down the village that night as Qwait Moon is welcomed home.
Next day hundreds of playful, wanton grotesque snow sculptures run amok through the streets and the banner flies high on the sheriffs lawn.
Thank you for listening.