A Night of Stories

The Violet Moon

Legend says once every one thousand years, a violet moon appears in the sky. It purples the navy midnight into the color of plums ripe for the picking. Though the villagers have changed by the time the violet moon returns, their reactions remain consistent. They fear the purple wash of the moon, believing it to be a sign of ill fortune. Mothers hurry to hide their children from the bad omen, and if a weary traveler were to make his way into a village after dark on this unfortunate night, all the inns would be locked tight. Not even a pot of gold out in the street could tempt anyone outside.

Only one girl was not scared of the violet moon, and such people tend to be remembered in legend. Her name was Sage, and from an early age, her mother taught her about only the strangest of oddities. She would sit Sage down by the window on a rainy day, a cup of cocoa in each of their hands, and would point out the mist that rose from the lake across their cottage. 

“Those are the remnants of ghosts,” she whispered to her daughter. “Lost souls who have drowned in that lake and only drift up when the land around is wet like the lake they reside in.”

Sage was never scared of her mother’s stories, though she took care not to wander too close to the edge of the lake, sticking close to the sturdy trunks of the weeping willows guarding it instead.  In the evening, their curtained leaves turned all shades of purple—not plum like the sky or violet like the rare moon, but somewhere in between. Sage would wait until the leaves changed to the color of pitch before she lit her lantern, bringing back the bright green of the day. Purple leaves, she soon came to realize, were a gift only to be experienced at dusk. As were fairies, another one of her mother’s oddities.

“See those lights flitting about the tree branches?” her mother asked one twilight. “Those are fairies, with wings that glow to light their way through the night.”

Sage craned her head back to look, and saw the lights that flickered and danced among the purple leaves. Later she would find out from the townspeople that they were simply fireflies, bugs like the vermin that sometimes infested the bakery where Sage and her mother sold their specialty pies. But to her, they would always be her mother’s fairies. 

Sometimes, after a hard day of work in the village, Sage’s mother would come home to bake a pie for just the two of them, a treat for dinner that was as rare as the violet moon itself. It was on one of these nights that the legend came to the baker’s mind, and she decided to pass it on to her daughter.

“Do you see the way the blueberries stain the cream?” she asked Sage, pointing with her fork to the pie filling. “How the blue mixes with the white to make a beautiful shade of purple?”

Sage nodded, her little girl cheeks puffed out even further with cream and blueberries. She had stained the collar of her sweater, which her mother had knitted for her that past winter out of  plum-colored wool.

Her mother smiled and gently reached over to rub the stain away. When it was clear the color was there to stay, barely noticeable against the deeper color of the sweater, she gave up. 

“Once every one thousand years, a moon of this very color appears in the sky,” she continued on to explain, scooping up the lavender filling. “It is said that on the night of the violet moon, wishes have a much higher chance of coming true.”

Sage’s dark eyes grew wide. “Any wish?”

“Any wish.”

“So I could wish for a unicorn who lays golden eggs, or for Father to come home?”

“You could wish for anything, pudding.”

Sage thought for a moment, her feet kicking at the table and rattling the candles on top. The room swayed between dark and light as the flames bounced wildly in their wicks, dripping candle wax onto their holders. In the flicker, Sage’s mother noticed that her daughter’s hair ribbons had come undone from the day’s activities. Violet, with a white stripe down the center, the color of blueberry pie filling. 

“I would wish for a lantern,” Sage finally said, “a new one that isn’t chipping white paint all over the place.” She paused. Her mother waited, a knowing smile on her face.

“It would also be a jinn’s lantern, the kind enchanters carry, where the light never goes out and the flame has the power to reveal secret messages or the entrances to secret passages.”

Her mother beamed, standing to walk around the table and hug her daughter. “That’s my girl. Turning the  ordinary into extraordinary.”

The only question that remains is whether or not the legend of the violet moon is real. Most stories say it is a nightmarish event, and none ever dare to explore the night further than a fearful glance out the window. But some say that during that swift peek out at the deep purple night, there was a girl, standing beneath the strange moon drenched in lavender, peace upon her face and a wish on her lips.