FULL MOON NIGHT 

Donca Vianu

I was chatting with Michelle, my British friend who had flown over from London to spend a couple of days with us. We were sitting on the balcony of our apartment in old Amsterdam, next to the Beatrixpark, famous for its ancient trees.

The cool air of the late summer night was delicious to breathe. The park was sunk in darkness.

Michelle — a great lover of cats and poetry, and a dancer of her own choreographies, the last performed in an installation by Edmond Kavanagh at the Chisenhale Dance Space in London — never fails to endear me with her disarming candour. Her visit was a treat.

From behind the trees at the entrance of the park — suddenly, magically — the moon appeared, round and bright. The scenery was flooded with silver-blue light.

Our conversation changed course. For whatever reason, we were whispering.

“Do you know that all life on Earth depends on the Moon?” I asked.

“No! How come?”

“It protects the Earth from asteroids, rocks, and comets — without the Moon, they would crash incessantly on our planet.”

“The Moon as a guardian angel for the Earth?”

I had forgotten: Michelle loves angels too.

“Yes, and much more. It rotates in the opposite direction to the Earth, slowing our spinning rate around the Sun. Without it, we would spin much faster — a day would last perhaps three or four hours. And we would wobble, as Mars does; the poles would be at the equator from time to time.”

“Wow!”

“Yes, with quite some consequences. Perhaps we would not even be here. She reigns over all rhythms on Earth — the length of days, the seasons, the tides. The waters of the oceans rise and fall because of her attraction.”

“Wow, what a power!”

“Right. Besides, the distance between the Earth and the Moon is absolutely precise, to the metre. Any other distance would lead to catastrophe. Every few days the temperature would swing from arctic cold to searing heat, or floods would drown the Earth.”

“Wow!”

“Yes, there are many moons in our solar system, but none like ours!” I said proudly, as if I had contributed to this cosmic perfection.

Actually, perhaps I had — in case the universe came into being because of life, rather than the other way around. This, by the way, would explain quite a lot: Avogadro’s number, Boltzmann’s constant, the wavelength of the deuteron, the speed of light in a vacuum — not to mention the total quantum weirdness.

But I digress.

I saw Michelle looking at the celestial body with new respect — its bright and eerie light simultaneously illuminating and concealing the contours of the trees, their texture, Michelle’s face.

Silently we looked at the moon’s perfect roundness and pale glimmer. She gazed back at us, pervasive and indifferent.

“What about the werewolves, the increased madness and crime rates on nights with a full moon?” asked Michelle. And she added: “The climax of all morbid and macabre attributions to the Moon is surely Pierrot Lunaire, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Pierrot Lunaire — gruesome. Seductively gruesome. Especially with Schoenberg’s music. Haunting. Have you danced it? Lunacy’s fatal attraction. It must feel liberating to give in — at least at the beginning. What a temptation.”

“The wine that one drinks with the eyes The Moon spills nights into the waves And a Springtide overflows Desires, visible and sweet Countless swim across the flood. The wine that one drinks with the eyes The Moon spills nights into the waves,”

recited Michelle, in her upper-class British accent.

I was impressed, though I had experienced her capacity for memorising poetry before. She looked at me contentedly, like a cat that has swallowed cream. We fell silent again. Michelle picked up the thread:

“Does not everybody have forbidden dark desires? Who knows what we carry buried in our minds? Or what all the nice people we meet — the ones who help us in the supermarket, or at the bank, or at the airport, or the ones we only see on the street, or in trams and buses, or on holiday — what they all carry deep in their minds?”

She continued, after a pause:

“Do you remember the story of the Austrian man — two or three years ago it made the front pages of every newspaper — who had kidnapped one of his daughters and kept her prisoner in the cellar of his house for twenty-four years and fathered seven children with her?”

Yes, I remembered. It occurred to me that he had made of the cellar in his house a perfect replica of the cellar in his mind. I shared the thought with Michelle.

“There was a Belgian couple who did the same. Besides, torture chambers are often in cellars — those of the military, or the secret police,” added Michelle, pointedly.

“Yet I think these deeds are more related to the Earth — to be precise, to mankind — than to the Moon,” I ventured, hesitantly.

I sensed Michelle’s surprise. “Why? In what way?”

I didn’t quite know, and felt a little confused.

“When the Moon is full, as now, or new, she is least connected to the Earth — she is more under the gravitational force of the Sun.”

And I heard myself continue, valiantly:

“So all the evils attributed to the Moon when she is full cannot be her doing. If insanity and crimes increase on full Moon nights, it is because she leaves us to our own devices — she no longer guards us.”

“Guards us against…?”

“Against our phantasms. With our celestial guardian far away, minds full of evil commit hellish deeds.”

“Then insanity and crimes would increase on nights of New Moon as well,” retorted Michelle, with her usual perspicacity.

And without waiting for an answer, she whispered pensively and rhetorically:

“Evil — where does it come from? How do we explain it?”

We shivered and kept quiet. The moon bathed us in what now seemed a spooky light. We searched for a lighter tone. Michelle’s long arms went suddenly up like wings and descended gracefully.

“Witches — they live according to the lunar calendar, not the solar,” she said, tentatively.

“And they perform their rituals by the full Moon,” I joined in, offering my knowledge on the subject. “So right now, in many places in the world, witches have drawn a magic circle, are saying incantations, and are celebrating the full Moon. I had a friend who was a witch in the Wicca tradition. She told me that all magic runs through the Moon.”

“Meaning?”

“Witches use magic to fulfil their desires, and it is the Moon who first receives their petitions. The Moon is the celestial judge — she passes or rejects the pleas.”

“Passes them to whom?” I asked, puzzled.

We were whispering.

“To whoever it concerns — to whose jurisdiction the plea belongs. The governing spirit of Venus, or Jupiter, or Saturn, or even Uranus, though Uranus’s acquiescence hits like a thunderbolt,” answered Michelle, slightly amused. She carried on: “The Moon is their guiding force.”

We had found our way back to an airy, jaunty mood. I mused.

“Not surprising, though, given that she is involved in all cosmic aspects of our existence. Even the tilt of the Earth is related to the Moon — something to do with the time when the Moon tore herself free of the Earth,” I added, and continued:

“It was at the beginning of the Milky Way, when the Earth was still a magma ocean. A huge asteroid, Theia, as large as Mars, collided with the Earth — obliquely, hence the tilt — with tremendous force. It sank deep into the Earth, blasted magma into orbit, then bounced back into space, pulling all the scattered rubble around it. This is our Moon: Theia after meeting the Earth. She was arrested in her flight by the gravitational force of both Earth and Sun. Since then she has turned around the Earth and protected us.”

“How did the Earth come into being, and the Sun, and the galaxies, and the vast expanse of the universe? Into what does the Universe expand? Out of what did it erupt? The mystery is still so…. overwhelming.”

Our whispers were disturbed by male voices, obviously tipsy, if not drunk. The men settled precisely on the bench on our side of the water channel marking the edge of the park. Gone was our intimate, quiet conversation against the backdrop of silver light and its mysteries. We looked at the moon somewhat accusingly — with her magic, surely she could have prevented this!

Three unsteady men of indeterminate age, dressed in rags, disrupting the quiet with their laughter. We considered going inside but could not bring ourselves to do so. Judging by the explosions of hilarity following each muffled remark, they were very much enjoying themselves. To our surprise and delight, they seemed about to leave.

They stood on wobbling feet, looking at the moon as if noticing it for the first time.

“The moon, like a flower In heaven’s high bower, With silent delight, Sits and smiles on the night,”

recited one of them.

We were stunned.

“Blake — William Blake,” whispered Michelle, incredulously.

The second followed, leaving us no time to think:

“And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea — What are all these kisses worth If thou kiss not me?”

“Good God — Shelley!” whispered Michelle, bewildered.

The third followed suit:

“I see the moon, The moon sees me, God bless the moon, And God bless me.”

I looked inquiringly at Michelle. “Oh, that’s a nursery rhyme,” she declared, with confidence.

The first one continued:

“The Moon was but a Chin of Gold A Night or two ago — And now she turns Her perfect Face Upon the World below.”

“Dickinson — Emily Dickinson,” muttered Michelle.

Then the first one, with a deep bow before the Moon, continued as all three of them moved off in the direction of the brightly lit WTC in the distance:

“Long walks at night — that’s what’s good for the soul: peeking into windows watching tired housewives trying to fight off their beer-maddened husbands.”

And he roared with laughter.

“Charles Bukowski,” muttered Michelle, who had not studied English and American literature for nothing. And gone they were.

 

The next morning we were sitting on the same balcony, having breakfast. Exceptional for Amsterdam, the day was warm and sunny.

We told my husband — who had slept soundly through all the magic of the full moon night and the mystery of the three declaiming beggars — what had happened.

“Who were these men?!” asked Michelle rhetorically, a large question mark on her face.

“You don’t know?” asked my husband, surprised.

“No — do you?” said Michelle.

“Of course,” retorted my husband.

“Well?!”

“Angels. They were angels.”

“Angels?!” Michelle and I exclaimed in chorus.

“Yes, of course — who else?”

“In rags? Drunk on beer?”

“How do you know it was beer? Perhaps it was God they were drunk on. Do you expect angels to appear as dazzling lights with wings?” answered my husband.

“At least,” said Michelle.

“And demons with horns and a grin on their face?” asked my husband.

“They were angels in disguise?” I asked.

“Yes. They always appear in disguise. Demons too, as a matter of fact.”

Michelle and I looked at each other. Tears appeared in Michelle’s eyes.

“We… we met angels?!” she stammered.

The thought sank into my heart.

I looked up at the sky for the Moon, now eclipsed by the sun. I glanced at the bench where the three… angels had sat — no trace of them. My heart ached: for them, for the Moon, for the mystery of the cosmos and of life.

“Moon, månen, Mond, maan, luna, lua, lluna — who are you?” I murmured.

“Who are you?” asked my husband.

 

Later, after lunch, my husband took Michelle to the airport to catch her flight back to London.

I stacked the dishes in the dishwasher. The bed linen Michelle had used I deposited in the dirty linen bin. She had forgotten: her earrings, a lipstick, a Tarot card — the Charioteer — and her purse (with all her credit cards in it). They all went into a drawer. I tried to make sure I would remember which one.

I hid what remained of the chocolates in another drawer, hoping to forget which one. I changed the water in the vase of blue irises and in the vase of yellow roses. I watered the Platycodon grandifloras — a grand name for such delicate violet bell-shaped petals.

The sun was moving toward the west, its light reaching the far end of the living room. I wrapped myself in a blanket, covered my eyes, and lay down on the sofa. I fell into a deep sleep.

 

In my dream it was a night with a full moon. The landscape was rough. The peaks of mountains on both sides of a rugged path gleamed white. Some patches of the way were covered with snow, through which I waded in only my slippers. I felt no cold. The atmosphere was eerie. I could not take my gaze from the moon. I was not sure whether I was walking on the moon or on earth.

Suddenly I felt my body tremble. A cloud covered the moon, then passed. From the whiteness of the moon a white figure emerged. In a split second an exquisitely beautiful woman materialised before my eyes.

“You asked me who I am. Well, I have come to answer you.”

I was speechless.

“Listen. I am the Mother of the Earth. I am the Mother of everything that moves on Earth. I am the Mother of everything that does not move on Earth.

Not only do I stir the tides of the seas on Earth, but also the ebb and flow of earthly existence and beyond.

Who am I, you want to know?

I am the Mirror of the Light of Consciousness.”

She paused, as if in a reverie. Her face was white, but her hair raven black, and so were her eyes.

She continued, slowly. Her voice sounded low, electric, and lingering.

“The tides of earthly existence…. The Kalpas, the Yugas, the megannums, the years and the lightyears…. And beyond the Earth…

Who am I?

I am Timelessness and Void. I am the planets and the stars and the Black Holes moving through time and space. I am everything and I rule over everything I am. I move everything, I move with everything. Everything moves and changes relative to everything else. Only I am still.”

“You are not the Moon? You are all this?”

“I am the Moon. I am the child of the Moon and the Moon is my child, born and unborn.”

“What about the misery you cause on this planet?”

The question slipped from my lips without warning.

She seemed to smile.

“Yes, the Earth is a hard place. But consider: there are billions of worlds, some resembling the Earth, most of them not at all.”

“So?” I asked.

“So, on your next journey, do not come to Earth.”

“How? How can I escape the Earth?”

Abruptly the landscape changed. I was at the edge of an abyss. The bottomless pit gaping directly beneath me made me shiver. Slowly, cautiously, I prepared to crawl backwards — when I noticed a light on the other side.

A golden light. The sweetness of it I cannot describe.

I stretched my arms and cried out:

“How can I reach you? How can I reach you?”

An answer came:

“You have to leave behind everything human.”

“How can I leave behind what I am? How can I jump out of my own skin?” I felt urgency and despair.

Abruptly the scene changed again. I was in a grand and very busy railway station of a metropolis. I boarded an old-fashioned train of only one carriage. The noise outside fell silent and the glare of the lamps dimmed to the natural light of a grey and rainy day. The atmosphere was quiet.

Four other passengers were seated, each alone. One stood, holding the rail above his head.

I sat down. I understood that this train would stop at every village and hamlet, and that the journey ahead would be long.

And I understood that this journey I would have to make alone. It would not be lonely — I had fellow travellers — but I would be on my own.

My attention was caught by the train on the opposite platform. It was very long and very shiny. Its lights were all on, the engine ignited and breathing power. I was impressed. Hundreds of passengers were streaming in haste toward its open doors — some orderly, others sprinting and running. Its lights grew in intensity, and so did the power of the engine’s breath. I expected the train to move at any moment.

I thought that only after this powerful train departed could I hope that our sluggish carriage, with its six passengers, would come into motion.

To my astonishment, slowly but unmistakably, I felt our carriage move beneath my feet. The opposite train stood still.

I was shaken. Tears sprang into my eyes.

Suddenly the train, the railway station, the people — all disappeared.

I was back in the rugged landscape. The serene, now slightly dreamy-looking beautiful woman — the Moon, the Empress of the Universe, or whoever she was — stood before me once more.

A new question formed in my mind:

“Who is the Sun? What is your relationship with one another?”

“The Sun is the Light of Consciousness. I am His Mirror. Yet we are One.”

She laughed — a light, electric laugh. To my surprise, she began to dance. She sang:

“Ocean of Existence Ocean of Light Ocean of Knowledge Ocean of Might Ocean of Bliss Ocean of Eternity Ocean of Infinity Ocean of Immortality…..”

Her voice was… moony. Electric, lingering, low, slightly flat. She swayed her arms, turned her head, made small rhythmic movements with her feet. The aquamarine gown she wore flowed gracefully around her silhouette.

She came toward me, arms outstretched. Her face grew larger and larger. I could not take my gaze from it. Her face became huge, round, pale. I felt her cool arms around me, drawing me toward her.

Suddenly I left my body and merged into her.

 

I was on my sofa, in my apartment in south Amsterdam, looking at the balcony and, behind it, at the oaks in the park.

I was dazzled.

My husband came back from the airport.

While drinking coffee, I told him:

“I know the answer to your question.”

“Which question? Oh — you mean, you know who you are?”

“Yes.”

“So, who are you?”

“The Moon.”