New Decameron Fifty-Six: Naomi Libicki (Patreon)

The Waxing Moon and the Waning Moon

by Naomi Libicki

In the old, old days, when the world was still wet with the waters of the flood as a newborn child is wet with the waters of the womb--before men left their footprints upon it--the earth bore the sky two daughters: Nilu, the waxing moon, and Linami, the waning moon. Their mother gave them each two mantles, one of light and one of darkness, so that they might wear one while they washed the other, and their father gave them each two weeks of every month to rule the night sky.

In those days Nilu and Linami played together in their mother’s garden, splashing each other while they beat their mantles clean against the rocks of the stream, climbing trees and eating their fruit, combing each others’ hair and piling it up in braids and curls.

But as month followed month, the feeling between them soured. At full moon, Nilu would say to herself: “Why should I give way to my sister?” And she would grow red with rage.

And at moon-dark, Linami would say to herself: “Why should I give way to my sister?” And she would hide her face in her mantle of darkness and weep.

Then came the days of men, the children of flint and fire. They danced and beat drums for the moon’s waxing and left bright stems of hollyhock on Nilu’s altars, and snake-speakers would tell their petitioners: “Begin a journey while the moon is waxing, and it will surely prosper, but if you begin it while the moon wanes, it will fail.”

And Linami said to herself in bitterness: “The men love Nilu best.”

But when the moon waned, the men played soft music on flutes and left garlands of poppies and lilies on Linami’s altars, and the snake-speakers told their petitioners: “Broach your amphora of wine while the moon is waning, and it will taste sweet, but if you broach it while the moon is waxing it will surely be sour.”

And Nilu said to herself in bitterness: “The men love Linami best.” So the love that had been between them turned to hatred.

In those later days, when the paths between the world of men and the world of gods were already beginning to be overgrown with disuse, a shepherd lived in the dark wild hills. The milk of his ewes was the richest, and their wool the thickest, and the meat of his lambs the sweetest, and every year his flock increased. And soon he had in trade not only grain and wine to see his family through the winter, but silver as well: first a little, and then much.

This shepherd had a son, whose name was Sulesh. Sulesh had followed his father’s flocks from the time he could walk until he was a youth almost grown--and a handsome youth, with long, strong arms and legs browned by the sun, and dark hair tumbling over his shoulders as a caper bush tumbles over a wall. He loved wandering the hills with the sun on his face and the wind at his back, and a cup of wine from a new-broached amphora, and the company of young men and women, but best of all he loved to sing. His voice was sweet and clear, and when he sat by his father’s flocks and accompanied himself on his lyre, anyone who passed would lay down their burdens and stop to hear him.

Sulesh’s father, seeing this, and having some silver, said to himself: “Why should I not send my son to the city, that he might learn to be a poet? Then I will have not only the finest flocks, and the best woolen embroidery, and wine and grain and silver beside, but also a name that will be heard from the hills to the farthest islands.”

So he gave Sulesh some of his silver, and sent him down to the city to learn to be a poet.

But in the city, Sulesh still loved a cup of wine from a new-broached amphora and the company of young men and women, and he learned to enjoy dice as well, but trying to memorize epic poems made his head hurt. And soon enough he returned to the hills with his father’s money spent, and nothing to show for it but a few new drinking-songs he’d learned.

His father was angry, but it was not Sulesh’s way to quarrel, and it was not his father’s way to let his son go hungry, whatever he had done. So Sulesh returned to following the flocks. And in his short time in the city, he had grown yet more handsome, and his voice had grown deep and rich, so that it was not just the young men and women who stopped to listen and to look, but even the waxing moon, Nilu, and the waning moon, Linami.

And one evening, after the sun had set but before full dark, as the new moon was rising over the hills, Nilu herself came to the grove where Sulesh was singing and playing his lyre.

Three nights they lay together in the grove, and Nilu loved Sulesh as only a goddess can love. Her hands and mouth were hot, and her hair was flames, and she drew him into her as one draws a partner into a wild dance. And on the third night Nilu said to Sulesh: “Tell me, O man, whom do you love best?”

Sulesh said: “You.” And Nilu was well pleased.

Some weeks later, while Sulesh was singing and playing his lyre in the grove, and the gibbous moon was rising over the hills, Linami herself came to listen to him, to look and to love. Her touch was like the cool breeze off the sea, and the taste of her skin was like wine. Three nights they lay together in the grove, and on the third night Linami said: “O child of flint and fire, whom do you love best?”

Sulseh said: “You.” Linami was well pleased, and Sulesh, too, was happy.

But his happiness could not last, for some months later, as the full moon was rising over the hills, Linami set out in search of her sister, for it was time for Nilu to give way in the night sky. And she found her lying in the grove with Sulesh, and she hid her face in her mantle of light and wept.

Nilu, seeing her sister’s tears and understanding the reason for them, grew red with rage, and she said: “O greedy man, you said you loved me best!”

Sulesh said: “I do. Your mouth and hands are hot, and your hair is fire; how could I love anyone any better?”

Linami wept all the more, and between her sobs she said: “Faithless child of flint and fire! You said you loved me best!”

And Sulesh said: “I do. Your touch is like the breeze off the ocean, and how could I love anyone better?”

Nilu stood, and shook out her flaming hair, and wrapped her mantle of light around herself, saying: “O Sulesh, from the day man first set his footprints upon the world until today, I have never known any as foolhardy as you. How dare you trifle with the affections of two goddesses, who could crush you beneath their heels as you would crush a grasshopper?”

And Sulesh said: “It has never been my way to refuse the blessings of the gods when they are given, but to accept them with an open hand and a grateful heart.”

Linami dried her eyes on the corner of her mantle, saying: “And never to count the consequences?”

Sulesh bowed his head and said nothing, for it was true.

Nilu, red with rage, said: “Then hear my judgment: for the deceitful flatteries your tongue has spoken, let it never speak again, but be still as stone.”

And Linami, white with grief, said: “And for the tears you have caused me, let your own tears flow unceasingly.”

And for once the sisters were united, not in play as they had once been in their mother’s garden long ago, but in bitterness against their lover who had proven false. And Nilu gave way, and Linami took her place as ruler of the night sky, but of Sulesh there was nothing left but a tumble of stones on the hillside by the grove, and a spring pouring unceasingly through them.

Now Sulesh could not go wandering through the hills, or drink wine, or spend time in the company of young men and women. Nor could he sing, and his lyre lay useless, broken among the stones and being worn away by the water. His father found it one day, as he went searching the hills for Sulesh, and he sat by the spring and wept, and regretted that his last words to his son had been words of anger.

And Sulesh could not embrace his father, and tell him that he, too, was sorry that he had squandered his father’s money and hopes, and that he loved him and always had. As often as Sulesh’s father came to the grove, Sulesh tried to speak words of comfort to him, but his tongue was still, and his only voice the tumble of water over stones.

Month followed month, and year followed year, and Sulesh’s father came no more to the grove, for he walked the dark paths of the underworld instead. And that was a mystery Sulesh would never learn, as he had failed to learn the epic poems when he had gone to the city. So the first songs he sang with his new voice were songs of grief and regret.

But his sorrow could not last, for he still felt the sun and the wind in the hills he had loved as a youth, and he loved them still. And what he should have regretted most of all he found he could not: the movements of Nilu, that were like a dance, and the taste of Linami, that was like wine. Indeed, as he sang of them, it seemed he felt them again.

And so he did, because the beauty of his song drew them to him as it had before. Linami heard, and remembered the days when she and her sister had played together in their mother’s garden, and how Nilu could climb the highest trees and bring back the sweetest figs, and pomegranates bursting with jeweled seeds. And Nilu heard, and remembered Linami’s gentle way with a comb, and the sleepy pleasure of her sister’s deft fingers weaving her hair.

And each of them began to think that while Sulesh had been greedy and foolish, he had been no more greedy and foolish than themselves, and yet he had not been false; rather, they had been false to each other when they had let their love turn to hatred, though they had each been born to be the other’s second half.

So one moondark, Nilu said to Linami: “Sister, it is your time to give way to me, and my time to rule the night sky, but give way to me willingly, and I will give way to you willingly at full moon, for I miss the days when the world was still wet with the waters of the flood, and we were friends.”

But Linami, who had always been slower to consider than her sister, said: “I will wait and see how it is at full moon.”

And at full moon, Linami said to Nilu: “Now will you give way to me willingly? For I, too, miss the days when we played in our mother’s garden, and were friends.”

Nilu said: “The night sky is yours.” And she embraced her sister, and Linami wept, not for sorrow, but for joy.

That all happened long ago. In these days, the gods no longer walk in the world of men. But still, the shepherds who follow their flocks in the dark wild hills say that there is a grove where, at full moon and moon dark, Nilu gives way to Linami and Linami gives way to Nilu with kisses and handclasps. They play together as they once played in their mother’s garden when the world was still wet with the waters of the flood, and Sulesh pours forth songs to his loves.

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"Figs! Pomegranates!" he says.

"Terrific story, too," she says, pulling apart a black fig and biting into the sweet meaty red flesh. "I liked the moon goddesses."

He is eating a pomegranate, carefully. "We need to save some of this fruit," he says, as Maya reaches for another fig. She eats it anyway.

"There's plenty. But I'll stop now and wash my hands." 

He looks at his, which are covered in pomegranate juice. "Good idea."

Maya takes the opportunity to run another circuit of the library. She looks down into the courtyard and wonders how you can get out into it. She'd like to feel the sun and the wind. But she goes back to the chairs, and he hands her a book.

"Malka Older, The Legacy," she reads. "Is this in her Centennial series?"

"It's a standalone story, and I don't think it's in that world," he says. "Let's read it and see."

And they read.