This is a story about the moon, but it is also about idiots. We will begin with the latter.

  A flock of pale robes encircle the pool, sallow hoods peering down at the night’s reflection. As their hidden faces contemplate the spiral of stars in still water, a figure takes his place at the front of the procession. Dressed like his brethren, the man is distinguished by only the dark beard expanding from beneath his hood, and the staff in his hand that ends in a crescent. He extends his arms to either side in a commanding pose, raising the staff towards the black sky.

  “Brothers, hear my words!” His voice is coarse but emphatic. Heads turn to heed his call. In this moment, with his staff in the air and his crazed expression peering into the night, he could command the power of the entire universe. The group before him is but a wisp of the flock that would follow at his command.

  “Ahem.” A cough from beneath a hood towards the back of the circle. A new face peeks from behind the white veil.

  “Right, yes.” The man shifts his lunar staff uncomfortably, air of confidence slipping away. “Brothers and sisters. And whoever else. Whatever. Can’t say anything these days. Fine, it’s fine.”

  A robed figure beside him leans forward to whisper something in his ear, and he sighs, nodding.

  “Good now. Hear my words! Know them to be true!” Their leader jabs his crescent staff towards the heavens once more, raising his voice to its previous powerful cadence. “Our work has never been more important. The time is nearly upon us.”

  Murmurs from beneath the hoods, rising in crescendo as his excitement spreads to the rest of the group.

  “The people of this land, they thought us to be mad!” The man shouts, a demented look in his eyes. “They said we knew not of what we spoke, that we were chasing only delusion. And for our faithfulness, they drove us into the shadows. But look at us now!”

  Heads bob back and forth as they look at each other, nodding as he speaks. The frigid midnight air cutting through the trees can do nothing to stem the atmosphere of mutual self-assurance.

  “Our power is manifest with every night that passes,” the man declares. “Thanks to our nightly rituals, the cycle of the moon has continued without fail every month, rising and falling in the sky. There is literally no other explanation for why this happens!”

  “Huzzah!” The robed figures cry out and raise their fists in the air.

  “Through our power, we have brought forth the tides and conducted the movement of the planets!”

  “Huzzah!”

  “We are the chosen people! Upon us alone has the great Skarann, lord of the moon and our celestial savior, granted his heavenly powers!” The man points to a wooden statue that has been placed at the edge of the clearing. A mighty warrior stands atop the moon, raising a spear in the air.

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  “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”

  “And now brothers—and sisters—we begin preparation for the pale jubilee as the planets begin their journey towards alignment in accordance with the 338 year cycle. Soon Skarann will awaken once more, and none will be able to deny the fruits of our devotion. As we head into this most blessed of seasons, join me in the first of many celebrations.” He extends his arms outwards in a t-pose. “We begin by giving thanks to the great crow, herald of Skarann. Come on everyone, give thanks to the great crow. Caw! Caw!”

  The leader flaps his arms in imitation of a bird, and the group follows in ritual. “Caw! Caw!”

  “Now we give thanks to the mighty wolf, our brother of the forest and the most devoted of Skarann’s servants. Join me in giving thanks to the great wolf. ahh-wOOOOOOOOOO!”

  “ahh-wOOOOOOOOOO!” The voices rise in awkward symphony.

  The man tilts his head towards the moon, the great ball of light returning with its sickly gaze. He points his staff at the ghostly craters above. “And finally, the source of Skarann’s powers, we give thanks to the center of the universe. The mighty moon. Join me! Moon! Moon! Moon! Moon!”

  The crowd follows, rising in excitement as they reach the climax of the ritual. “Moon! Moon! Moon! Moon!”

  In that moment, as comrades stand together and hearts beat as one, something starts to happen in the sky.

  At first only a few streaks of light, disappearing as quickly as they materialize. A trickle turns into a cascade, which twists and contorts until the stars are swirling around the edges of the moon. The swirling gains in momentum until the moon is the center of a mesmerizing spiral.

  Then, all at once, it stops.

  A tableau of dumbfounded faces radiates from the shadows of their hoods. None of them expected anything to actually happen. That wasn’t how it worked. Their intrepid leader takes a moment to regain himself before returning to his authoritative demeanor.

  “Ah, yes! Our lord Skarann has given us a sign! We are truly his most honored servants, and we will soon be rewarded! Let us—”

  A howling cuts through the brisk autumn air. Real. Cold. Ravenous. Not a voice from a gaggle of vacuous cultists, but the call of a wild animal. The words disappear from the man’s throat like stolen breath. He shivers.

  “Yes, well, it seems like our brothers the wolves have joined us in our ritual. Soon all will be united under the power of the moon!”

  Another howl rises from the treetops. It is joined by another, then another, until the entire pack has joined in song. Their calls grow louder, and they grow closer.

  Then come the eyes.

  Glowing irises peer through the branches from all sides. The sickly glare of the moon reflects along the edge of their predatory gaze. The wolves slink out of forest, deranged grins revealing rows of yellowing teeth.

  “Uh, brother wolves, we weren’t expecting y—… Surely you know we are your friends.” The leader wavers as the creatures draw closer. “We are all scions of the moon. Surely—”

  The nearest wolf snaps its mouth onto the hand of one of the cultists. The woman cries out in pain, then freezes in place, unsure what to do. The wolf sits there for a moment, staring up at her with its cold, luminescent eyes. There is an almost playful expression on its face. Then it rips away, and dark fluid runs down her white sleeves. The howling turns into a frenzied barking as the rest of the pack moves in.

  The cloaked figures scatter, ripped apart by the ravenous beasts. The high priest bats his staff against one of the encroaching canines and stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over his robes. Left alone for a brief moment, he watches as his flock is devoured around him. Helpless, he looks up at the moon in despair. What was once a symbol of warmth and assurance is now a cold, pale void.

  “Great Skarann, why have you forsaken us?”

  A sudden chill passes through the man’s body as he begins to notice something. Slowly, he looks down to the surface of the pool. A glowing face is looking up at him. Its mouth widens into a crooked grin.

  “My lord…?”

  There is a deep, booming laughter as the wolves bite into the man’s side.