Aye, she was a pearl glow when she heard it. Her ghostly light radiated through the black birch branches, hanging in the cool moisten night air, at home in all of the dark places forgotten by Apollo. Her silvery rays gleamed brighter when she felt the sound. It was a beautiful thing when the Moonchild sung to her.

It was always a special moment of the night, this Lupine contribution to the nocturnal symphony playing out to her. There was the sanguine croaking of the contented frog, the cheerful chirp of the hapless cricket, the informative hooting of the knowing Owl, the roaring breath of the Tides, the haunting call of the mystical Elk, and then there was the noble melancholic howl of the Wolf as the Moonlight danced on the dark purple Aconite petals and the cold blue tips of the faraway pines.

O, but every month there came the great Songs of her Moonchild. Whither she wore the robes of Bloodmoon, Blue Moon, Worm, Sturgeon, Harvest, Hunter, or Wolf Moon, she came alive as he exploded into Operatic transformation, howling out of the emasculating month-long prison that was man-flesh. Soon his human refrain was torn asunder and hanging in tatters, not unlike the shredded societal garments of his which flapped in the night winds hanging about the rippling muscles and dark fur covering his naked and true body.

There were no prayers to say here save for the long and deep howl, he offered forth to her, his Goddess of the Hunt. She always granted him the hearty macabre bounty for his beastly cravings month after month. She glowed again at the sight of his happy blood spattered snout, sparkling crimson as he devoured the triumph she had permitted him in a glorious shaft of her lunar radiance. All she asked for was his haunting long croon and as if matching him in a chilling duet there came back to him a sweet howl on the night winds which ruffled through his thick and dark fur.

Tonight though, the mighty and patient Diana could hear something very different in the Song of this Moonchild. It was not the same hunter's request she was accustomed to. It was something else altogether. Something much more haunted than her beastly companion had ever sung. It was as though he were asking for a kind of... guidance. It was a different kind of delicious song, she mused. It was a wrenching lonely song of anguish...and longing.

“The poor lost beast. What was it that vexed his black hearted soul so? I do not think he craves the meat of a competitor. Nor the flesh of an overly human female who has learned his identity? Hmmmm nor does he seek to dine on the cold dish of vengence? Aye, He hadn't sounded this lost and confused since his first Full Moon.”

O, that always made her smile. She always remembered the first howl of her delightful Moonchildren as they shrugged off their burdensome humanity for the first time to experience running wild with the night.

“O and this dear one was especially confused then. What a vulnerable whimpering thing he was. He opted not to hunt and starved all through until morning!”

When he was exhausted in the rising sunlight, he had all but past out and she knelt to him and kissed away his tears. He never needed them again. Come the next moon he was a terrifying hunter, his fearsome heart beating with a bloodlust to be realized by those huge claws and long ripping teeth.The neighboring town still whispers of his chilling unexplainable aftermath.

Aye but now- now the tears had returned, Now she could see that heartbreaking glisten as these pearl tears of his streamed once more from his yellow eyes. 'Whatever is the matter my fierce hunter? What sadness irritates your empty stomach thus?', She wondered, listening to the hymn of his mysterious ache. Soon she learned that it was not his stomach needing to be filled. There was a clue clutched to that beating beastly heart encased deep within the Wolf's breast- and this clue were blood-red. Her radiance shone as bright as her curiosity with the notes of his keening pain…

And in the light- she saw her Moonchild had in his claws- a single solitary rose. Held to his beastly bossom by his two monstrous paws. His shoulders heaved heavenward to her nightly thrones as he poured fourth his winsome hunter's lament.
Alas, he was hunted and caught. I cannot give him this quarry he seeks. No. I can listen though. And the Moon listened as only the Moon can. 'Sing to me the song of your torment.' Aye, it was a torment but what a beautiful torment it was. That night the Moon wept for her poor afflicted Wolf.
The next morning the farmers noted an unusual amount of dew upon the leaves and grass...

Below you can hear me READ you the Story as I show you a time-lapse of the Painting. Click ‘PLAY’ if you feel so bold my friend…

Enjoy a Time-lapse Painting for the illustration of an older favourite of mine. I wanted to revisit the artwork for a story I wrote which has really stayed with me. In addition to having a better understanding of what I can do with inks and water-the new piece is over twice the size of the original. The story is pretty much untouched. This was a precursor to my recent story, "The Creature's Conversation". For thine information.