Hunter's Moon by John Townsend

ONE
    Neil was scared – but he didn’t know why. Not at first. The dark had never bothered him … until now.
    As the trees reached up around him and the wind stirred the bare twigs, he sensed something was there. Something alive. It wasn’t far away and it was watching him.
    The beam from his torch swept across thedarkness and seeped into the woods. The deep blackness inside soaked up the light. He could see nothing, but he knew something was moving. Dead leaves crunched. Something was there. An icy shiver ran down the back of Neil’s neck.
    He went back to the pile of timber and took a box of matches from his pocket. He would feel safer once the bonfire was burning. A warm glow of orange light might melt the fear. The matchbox shook in his clumsy fingers.
    As he bent down to strike a match, he heard scraping behind him. The match snapped and the spark died. His heart pounded and his dry throat tightened. His fingers fumbled for another match – anything to kill the choking darkness.
    Neil felt so stupid. He knew every inch of those woods. He’d lit bonfires after dark
many times. It was his job to burn the dead wood when all was quiet. He was used to being alone. That’s what he liked about being a gamekeeper. He loved the woods and being out in all weathers. He loved the quiet when no one was about. But now he knew he wasn’t alone.
    The eyes blinked. They flashed tiny sparks of light as flames licked the paper and curled round the dry twigs. The pile of branches was soon alight; hissing, crackling and sparking in the darkness. As the breeze fanned the flames, the whole pile was a blaze of dancing light. Smoke rolled upwards into orange branches and roosting pheasants.
    Neil hurled dead leaves into the flames and watched them flare. He turned to peer into the wood – just as the eyes hid behind a tree. Thick smoke swirled into the nightand drifted across the moon.
    An owl screeched above him and flapped away into the blackness. He turned suddenly – sure the eyes were following his every move. Sure the deep growl was just a few steps away. He spun round in the mud, stumbled and ran in a spray of matches.
    The fire fizzed and spat in a final flurry. It soon shrank to a small, red puddle of light before dying once and for all, when feet kicked smoking embers into the damp grass. The same feet that prowled each night through silent woods. And the same eyes … staring upwards – always upwards – to greet the Hunter’s Moon.

TWO
    Neil had always wanted to work in the countryside. He’d helped his uncle most weekends at one of the shoots nearby. They paid him to be a beater but he had soon shown real skills for looking after the young birds. He had a sharp eye for any danger to the chicks. If buzzards were nearby or if a fox was in the woods, he knew straightaway. If a stoat or mink got through the fence, Neil was there like a shot. Nothing escaped his eyes and ears.
    Jeff Barnard, the head gamekeeper, was keen to give Neil a job. Jeff was one of those wise old country men who’d worked on the land all his life. He, too, used his eyes and never missed a trick as to what was going on. He was full of old sayings that made Neil laugh.
    ‘You mark my words, lad,’ Jeff would say, ‘I can tell just what the weather’s up to. They always get it wrong on TV. Not me. I use these.’ He’d tap his ears and eyes. He was always right, too.
    ‘See the water on the tip of that elder leaf? Tomorrow will be a fine day.’
    ‘
Dew in the night, next day will be bright. Grey mist at dawn, the day will be warm.
’

    It was a fine summer day when Jeff said, ‘No sunbathing this afternoon if I were you, Neil my lad.’
    Neil laughed.
    ‘Fat chance – with all those fence posts to put in. Look at that bright blue sky. This hot weather’s set to last, Jeff!’
    Jeff shook his head and brushed the wasps from his can of beer.
    ‘Robin knows best. Look at him chirping down on that log. He sang a different tune in that tree