The wisewoman grimaced at the sight of the gore covered little thing. It was bald like an egg. Her shifty dark eyes open wide, as if she had figured out the meaning of existence.
“A perky one,” the wisewoman said, handing the babe to the tight-lipped father.
The mother studied the babe and smirked at the father. No words passed between the couple, but the silence spoke the father’s feelings into the wisewoman’s head: You’ve spawned another of your kind, witch. There are seven of you now, and only one of me.
The wisewoman didn’t like the look on the father’s face. The shine in his eyes could have been the dawning of tears, but his kind didn’t cry much—it was probably dammed viciousness. She stood in front of the trio, extending her arms for the babe. “I’ll wash her off for ye,” she said.
The witch’s spawn snarled at the wisewoman, and let out a howl.
The father pulled the little beast closer to his chest, faced the moonlight that beamed through the window, and accompanied his blood in a midnight Spring howl.
How does a village get ready for a moonchild? the wisewoman thought, leaving the room.
“Moonlight through the Window”