THE BLOOD MOON

Light streaming through the kitchen window woke Fat Cat early. He jumped up onto the window ledge and looked out. It was another bright sunshiny day. Fat Cat surveyed the scene. A round yellow sun shone in a clear blue sky directly above the old lady's rose bushes. What was more surprising, however, was that at the opposite end of the garden, directly above the rosemary bush, a pale silvery moon also shone. Fat Cat didn't know if it was day or night. All the things he had always taken for granted seemed to be getting muddled up together - first of all the summer flowers growing as the leaves fell - and now this. Fat Cat decided to ask the old lady what was going on, she always seemed to know the answer to tricky questions.

He found her at the top of the stairs, gazing intently into a dark mirror and as she turned to face him he saw that the expression on her face was as puzzled as he knew his own must be. Fat Cat had never noticed the mirror before. Maybe, he thought, there were lots of things he'd never noticed before and the sun and moon both shining at the same time was just another of them.
"As regards the moon and sun," the old lady said, "you are right. The moon reflects the sun's rays, it does not shine of itself. At this time of year when the earth is growing closer to the sun, the angle at which the sun's rays hit means that more of the moon's surface is visible to us for a longer period of time. The fact that you have noticed this now, is a sign that you are growing more observant - which is a good thing. However, the other things that you have noticed are possibly not and I myself have no idea as to why they are happening now.
And turning back to the mirror she peered once more into it.

Fat Cat stood on tiptoe and looked over the old lady's shoulder. Framed liked a picture in the silver mirror, he saw a small tree growing on a grassy lawn in front of a small grey chapel.
"It is a hawthorn." said the old lady. "A common hawthorn or monogyna praecox to give it its latin name - and I don't see why we shouldn't" she added almost to herself, "for there is nothing common about this tree. It is a magical tree that grows in a magical place, a place once surrounded by water and mists and known as the ancient Isle of Avalon. Many are the myths and legends that surround this place but it is only this one that concerns us for now."
And as a far away look came into her eyes, the old lady began her tale.

The legend of the Glastonbury thorn
Many, many years ago, so the story tells a traveller arrived on the shores of Avalon. His name was Joseph of Arimethea and it is said that he was the uncle of Jesus and that the staff that he carried once belonged to Christ himself. His journey had been long and after climbing Wearyall Hill, he lay down to rest, striking his staff into the soft ground to be ready when he awoke.
The staff sprouted and grew into a beautiful tree with beautiful blossoms. But this was not the last of its wonders for not only did it bloom in springtime but also on Christmas Day, the birthday of Christ.

Fat Cat pricked up his ears. There was something familiar about this story of flowers blooming at the wrong time.
The old lady nodded and carried on with her story.

"The place where the thorn grew became the site of a great Abbey and as news of the miraculous blossoming of the thorn spread, many came on pilgrimages to visit it. However, a time of trouble fell upon the land. There was a great war with families fighting one against the other and at this time, the tree was destroyed. But this was not the end of it. For secretly cuttings had been taken from it and it is said that the tree which we now see before us grew from a cutting of one of these plants."

The old lady's voice faded away. Fat Cat had enjoyed listening to the story. There was something about the place that she was describing that rang a kind of bell in his mind - a faint memory of damp mists and the scent of apples - but he couldn't see why she was telling it to him now. It was the kind of story that might have been better saved for later, he thought, a Christmas tale to be told around the fire on Christmas Day.
The old lady nodded. "And that is the whole point." she said. "Look closely into the mirror and tell me what you see."
Fat Cat looked closer. And now he saw. For amongst the red haws on the bare branches of the tree was a froth of delicate white flowers.
"And it is not yet Samhain." the old lady said. "Strange enough that the tree should flower when it does. Yet to flower now is strange beyond strange.

And Fat Cat thought that it was. However, as he glanced once more into the magic mirror, something even stranger caught his eye. Walking past the tree was a girl. She had her back to him but the tangle of red curls that hung over her shoulder and her confident stride - not to mention the green cloak she wore slung over her shoulder and the sun-bleached staff she held in her left hand - made her unmistakable. No Fat Cat had no doubt about who it was. He just wondered what she was doing there.