The Blood Moon

The Blood Moon.



The first time i saw it, i was barely able to understand what it was, but i knew it was something to fear. Red and ominous, it floats high in the night sky, suspended by some magic. My family believes it's a face, watching us, judging. It wasn't until i was a man, at seventeen years that i was told the truth, why we cowered in the night, why, when, the moon seemed so far away did we shy away from it when the hue changed from opalescent white, to crimson.

           The year of our lord 1776, the Colonists across the sea continued to stir trouble, but those things rarely mattered to us. We were, like the noblemen said, just simple micks. Irishmen, farmers. Just a small community a days ride from Dublin. We sowed and tended our fields and sheep in the day, drank our malted beer in the evening. In all manners we were happy, except on those rare occasions, when the blood moon arrived. We hid ourselves, in basements, locked our children away in attic spaces. We cowered in fear until dawn. The next day someone was missing,  but we payed it no attention. Just carried on in our lives.
The day aft my seventeenth birthday, I was drinking' my first round with my Da' when the bell was rung. Amongst the normally happy faces, a melancholy settled over us. Each face, from jolly was swept deep into depression, almost visibly drooping.