Gazing 'pon the Moon-Runes

A fine Monday—Monan-dæg—Moon-day—to ye, mortals! I chanced to luxuriate alone ‘neath the recent Full Moon, & felt inspired to dig into some of mine old codices.

Around the time when that rotten VVillem set his sights upon the muddy crowns of the Angles & Saxons, I were away on emerald Ériu, attempting to smash my scribe’s block with a stay in a stony coastal cottage. ‘Twere a stormy Summer—the sort I enjoy still—& ye must picture it several degrees cooler than now. Mortal-kind still lacked the dread power to ruin the planet entire, or scatter refuse so widely that the life-bearing seas became as poison.

I could see that sickening future rushing onward, when I dared to look, but it felt too horrid to bear, so I kept my gaze Earth-ward. Then, one night in the Weodmonath—the “weeds-month,” which ye term “August” to honor that vile villain Cæsar—the clouds parted, revealing a Full Moon. The brightest night in weeks sent the locals into rejoicing; they knew not yet the uisce beatha, nor fine stouts, but their festivals were unlike any other in that age of the world.

I sat on the roof of my cottage, observing the festivities, & gazing upon Selene’s bright face. I saw not only her natural beauty—the curve of her craters, those battle-scars gained in defence of the Earth & the mortals thereupon—but I saw also visions of what would come. Of her surface treated like a dung-heap & trash-mound, of billionaire mad-men hurling their spare rockets unto her, of the whirling eyes of greed-mongers as they plot to drill her for profit. My quill sprang to my hand, inspired! I usually attempted to avoid controlling mortal-kind’s future, for in so doing, it oft brought the very ruin which were fore-seen (just ask Pyrrhus of Epirus, whom I tried to warn by tossing a roof-tile). But, I thought, could a book of Moon-Runes & Luna-Verse indirectly alter the dark course I saw? By planting soft ideas of the Moon’s sanctity into mortal cultures, could I avert the litter & exploitation?

It were not a bad idea, exactly. But, sadly, after I deposited the manuscript with a near-by monastery for duplication & dissemination…they were razed to the ground by Wicingas. I retained only the title page, which ye see reproduced above. I took sorely the loss of the manuscript & my monk-friends, & wrote naught else for a decade.

I recall now, though, one of the riddle-poems I penned, as a naïf. I have translated it here to the modern tongue, which I hope ye may enjoy, as the mortals of the 11th Century were ne’er able:

A twin am I, though dimmer-seeming,
& I observe thee, when thou art dreaming.
But unlike my brother dear,
During his shift I may still appear.

Grey I am, though silver-seeming,
& ye may observe me, when I am a-gleaming.
Mark the marks upon my face,
With which I saved thy little race.

Would ye add to my scars & woe?
Would ye treat me as a foe?
I grant ye sight when ye need it most,
& ask for naught, as I stand my post.

When ye come visit, leave nothing with me.
Let me be, & I still shall love thee.
But should ye press, & should ye strike,
Some-day ye may come to miss my light.

Who am I?

Thank ye for reading! & we humbly thank that growing clan of mortals who can & do support our works here with coin! GRATIAS!

I shall write ye come Wednesday with news of our next episode! Til then: be safe, be well, & please stop littering upon the Moon…

Cheers,
Amœnus Franco
Wizard, Writer, Selenite