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Martin Reynolds was not crazy. The moon only spoke to him the one time and that ,admittedly, had been under the power of some pretty strong hallucinogens. I didn’t tell him to commit suicide, or go off on a vigilante killing spree. Those thoughts were reserved for the other voices in his head.
The Moon told him to stand in Old Johnson’s clearing at exactly 2:17 am. He was told to wear a hat and wind breaker. He was told to face northwest, fall to his knees, and try to touch the moon.
Now Martin was not an exceptional fellow. Aside from the head voices, and this one time with the moon. He led a pretty normal life as a small town accountant. he was the assistant coach of the little league, He went to church every sunday, listened to classic rock, but only on vinyl and he was married to a beautiful, non-pregnant waitress and was currently trying to make her less waitress and more pregnant.
Regarding the head voices: They were pretty timid. Martin always obeyed them religiously. They told him to finish college, to become an accountant instead of an air traffic controller. The voices told him to ask Justine, the waitress, to marry him instead of running off with Margeaux the Stripper.
Some folks would call it common sense or a conscience, Psychoanalytical professionals claim that everyone has an inner voice that keeps them from being incredibly stupid. Martin was sure that his inner voice lived in a secluded villa and spoke with a vaguely italian accent.
All that, was irrelevant as Martin, with his hat and wind breaker, on his knees and facing northeast, raised his hand and tried to touch the Blood Moon.
Martin felt vaguely stupid as the rain began. He would not be dissuaded, He would not break his “Elvis at the end of a Vegas show” pose. He was wet and cold and that’s when the drums started. Big rhythmic tribal drums pounding in his head.
The big red moon stared down at him.
“You are of the faithful, Martin Reynolds.” The moon whispered in the voice of an old Japanese woman. “Be wise and become who you are’”
There was a brilliant flash of red light and Martin’s body fell to a the ground like an unstrung puppet. Face down and covered in grass and dirt. Martin could hear the chirping of birds and the smell of wild flowers and then nothing.
When he awoke in the hospital 4 months later bewildered and missing his right hand, Martin muttered over and over “perché è la mia mano sul fuoco?”
Justine finally found a translator three towns away. It was a small man with the moon tattooed on the back of his neck. He was quiet, odd, and possibly abusing some sort of muscle relaxer.
Martin pointed at his missing hand. “perché è la mia mano sul fuoco?” Martin repeated it over and over, louder each time as he pointed to the stump at the end of his arm. “perché è la mia mano sul fuoco?!!!”
“What is it?” Justine screamed.
The small man turned. “perché è la mia mano sul fuoco?”, the man repeated. “It means, “Why is my hand on fire?”
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