Moonfall, Part 1

Being a fisherman on the lake meant every day was very much the same: awake at dawn, breakfast of
dried fish and root vegetables, mending the lines and nets, on the water shortly after sunup, back at
high noon for a meal and to set the fish out to dry, back on the lake in evening, dinner, sleep. With his
house on a sandbar that protruded into the lake, his was a quite solitary existence, even with the village
nearby.
 
He didn’t mind. He had the lake and the birds and, yes, even the fish for company. And for a few days
each year, near the summer solstice, the sun would line up perfectly with the lake’s western horizon
line, and he could watch it set over the water. Those were special occasions for him: when the wind was
calm, the lake would be a perfect mirror, reflecting crimsons and vermillions and golds in both
directions. It never failed to stir his soul.
 
One year, after a particularly poor day’s catch and a few broken lines, that sight was his only solace.
When he went to bed that evening, he slept fitfully. Perhaps it was the day’s frustrations. Perhaps it was
the heat, which lingered like a damp blanket. Perhaps it was something else. But he awoke in a sweat
partway through the night. He took a few moments to strain some of the evening’s herbal tea into an
earthenware cup, then took the cold drink out to the lakeside.
 
What greeted him was a mirror to the wondrous sunset that he had partaken of earlier: a full moon,
rapidly descending toward the lake’s clear horizon. The water’s surface was utterly becalmed, and he
could see a silvery orb reflected perfectly therein. He’d never given much thought to moonset before,
and he reflected on that oversight as he watched: it was probably rare to be in the right place at the
right time, with the moon in the right phase, to see what he was seeing. So he focused on it, gave it his
attention, knowing that he would be one of the few to ever see such a sight in his long life.
 
As predictably as time itself, the moon silently settled in over the smooth waters, then began to dip
beneath them. The light from the moon and the light reflected off the lake seemed brighter, somehow,
than either would have been alone. At the exact moment when the moon was halfway beneath the
horizon--with its top half perfectly mirrored to once again form a circle--he found that he had a hard
time looking directly at it, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. Indeed, to his memory, all of
nature stopped in that moment: no sound of waves, no sound of bugs or bats or frogs.
 
Then... The sound of splashing.
 
He frowned and squinted, leaning forward to peer at the source of the sound. There, in the distance,
where the moon met the horizon to form a circle, something seemed to be in the water. It was small,
but it was struggling. It might have been a person, but it didn’t matter. Without a moment’s hesitation,
he pushed his boat out into the water and began to paddle.
 
The currents of the river that fed the lake pushed the splashing speck toward him. Within a minute, he
could make out that it was the size of an animal. Within another minute, it was a medium-sized bird.
One minute more, he was lifting it into his boat. He knew its type well: his people called it the faelluwyn
or the glossog, the sparrow-of-the-water. He’d heard that humans called it a “singing goose” or “singing
crane,” but it was smaller than a goose or crane, with a much more pleasant song. Like him, it made its
living fishing, diving beneath the water to come up with minnows in its small beak.
 
Unlike some of the dun-colored water-sparrows, this one was silvery white. He quickly examined it,
making only passing note of how readily it accepted his ministrations. The reasons for its struggle in the
water became obvious to him: one of its legs was bent at a painful-looking angle, and swollen. He wasn’t
sure how the injury had arisen, but it seemed obvious to him that it could not right itself well enough to
take wing. Clearly, there was only one thing he could do. “I’m sorry,” he said to the beast, his voice thick
with regret.
 
“I’m sorry, but you may be stuck with me for a while. And it’s probably going to hurt when I reset that
leg.”
 
----
 
If his newfound companion experienced any pain when he wrenched its leg back into proper alignment,
he couldn’t tell. He bound the limb with reeds and twine. For the first day or so, he kept it tied to a stake
near the door of his hut. He tried to explain to his guest that he didn’t intend to keep it prisoner, but he
was concerned it might try to fly away before its injury had healed. It watched him with one of its eyes.
He didn’t know if the glossog heard him, but he felt better after he’d explained his position just the
same. He fed it small fish and watergrass, its usual diet. When he removed the splint and the leash, the
creature still seemed to favor the sore leg.
 
Much to his surprise, though, it didn’t try to fly away. Instead, it hopped and glided after him as best it
could, keeping a close watch on him as he went about his routine. Soon, it would hop into the front of
his boat in the morning and circle overhead, singing the song that caused his people to name it as they
had. Despite its limited ability to swim, the glossog was a songbird, not a true waterfowl; it thus had a
clear, high, and complex song that was said to bring good fortune to anyone that heard it.
 
He wanted to believe that. It certainly lifted his spirits.
 
So his new friend became a part of his life, and surprisingly quickly. He was glad to have the companion,
even if he couldn’t tell if it understood his words. Regardless, he told it about his hopes for his people,
his fears for the future. Sometimes, when it sang, he sang along with some of the old folk songs that he
knew. He chose songs about people living in harmony with the beasts of the world, just in case.
 
The glossog was more-or-less completely healed within a fortnight. “You know you don’t have to stay,”
he told it one day. It just looked at him as he spoke. “But I’m thankful for your company.”
 
It chirped a single note in response to that. He wasn’t sure what it meant, or if it meant anything at all.
 
----
 
By the next full moon, it was gone. He found its nest near the shoreline in front of his hut, abandoned.
 
“Well,” he said with a sad smile, “That’s the way of things.” He carefully collected the silver-white
feathers it had left for him, a memorial of their brief and beautiful time together.