MOON STRUCK

 THE MOON 

 by Richard Banks

No one can quite explain why the moon is so important to Simon, why it fascinates and troubles him in equal measure. His mother will tell you that it started on a stiflingly hot summer’s evening in the early years of the First Republic when he was put to bed in a Moses Basket on the verandah of grandfather’s Highgate villa. The sun had set and, in the gathering darkness, a west wind gently stirred the Florida palms at the bottom of the garden. While this was greeted with weary sighs of relief from the fifteen adults and children there gathered, the most recent addition to the family Caine was still too hot to be consoled. Bent on tearful protest the child had no intention of stopping until he saw a rising moon, larger and brighter than any moon had a right to be. And, while no one knew why this should be, there was no doubting the evidence of many eyes. 

         What Simon saw and thought that evening we may never know; at fourteen months he was unable to say. Many years later he thinks he remembers but having been told the story of the big moon so many times he can not be sure whether his memories belong to himself or the story tellers. His subsequent recollections, however, are definitely his. There are many, too many to count. They are the consequence, indeed the reward of over forty years of moon gazing. 

         Each image he carries in his head. Every feature of every image is as precise as the moment he saw it. He could download them into a Mindstore but there is an intimacy about his seeing which he feels should go no further than himself. There are mysteries in its light, secrets that one day will be known only to himself. He must look and learn, look and learn, but unexpectedly his learning came in the listening. 

         In the silence of a long winter’s night, he received the revelation that gave voice to what he had previously only seen. At first, he was unsure whether he had heard anything at all, the sound was faint, scarcely audible, fading into silence before returning for a few moments more. Instinctively he knew that the moon was speaking, this was what he wanted to believe but that the scientist within him could only accept if there was proof. There must, he reasoned, be a correlation between the shimmering variations in the moon’s radiance and the sounds he was hearing. Would one give clarity to the other or would their interaction only give rise to an additional level of complexity? He wasn’t sure. Who could be? He only knew that his own memory bank was unequal to the task ahead. He needed the help of technology to survey sound and vision, to process the data passing through it and find the correlations, if not the meanings, of what was being said. The machines, however, would only take him so far, only he possessed the empathy that could transform knowledge into understanding. For now that empathy told him only that something was wrong, that the message he was receiving was a desperate cry for help. Was the Moon in danger, about to tumble from the sky?  

         There were men on the moon, mainly miners drilling deeper and deeper into its cratered surface. Were they also to perish? If so, they had only themselves to blame. What right had they to be there, to defile and exploit what should be honoured and revered! 

         The first men on the moon gave hope of better things. They came in awe as if to hallowed ground. Had they, on landing, found a collection box they would gladly have paid for the few bags of rock and soil they departed with. They came to learn, not exploit. The miners, however, had no altruism, no souls to fill, no motive for being there but to dig deeper and deeper for the minerals that made them wealthy and their employers more powerful than any nation state. Free from the tiresome regulation of life on earth they dug ever closer to the beating heart of the moon, suspecting nothing, knowing nothing, hearing only the relentless progress of their drills. 

         But Simon did hear the Moon and, one day, would understand everything it said. For now, the machines he had purchased were processing the data that flowed through them every moment of the day. Far from being an endlessly repeated SOS the message being transmitted was complex and structured in a way that suggested its purpose was to inform and direct.

         Was he the only recipient? If so he dare not fail.

         The first word was deciphered in less than a month, ten more in the following week, simple words, a few less so, then the first sentence, short and cryptic referring to an action hidden in a complexity of bewildering detail. This was no ‘message in a bottle’ cry for help to be answered by whoever intercepted it, this was one side of a long conversation between Moon and planet Earth. While the Earth’s transmissions could neither be heard or seen they could sometimes be inferred from the Moon’s own signals. Otherwise the Earth’s contribution to the great matter being discussed was received and understood solely by the entity to which it had been sent. Only the miners might have heard the Earth, but, as the Earth well knew, they were too busy drilling. 

         The unexpected discovery that the Moon was not seeking the help of himself or any other member of the human race undermined every good intention with which Simon had armed himself. It transformed him from a potential saviour to an eavesdropper afraid of what he might hear. The Moon and Earth had secrets to share, secrets that neither party had sought to make known to mankind. If Simon continued to listen what would be his function? If this was a game of sides could he be loyal to both? Paralysed by indecision he allowed the machines to continue their work, slowly but steadily deciphering the Moon’s transmissions, revealing frequent references to air and earth and the changing of both. Was this the solution to global warming? In time everything would be clear and he would know what to do. Until then he must keep a watching brief. He must look and learn, look and learn.                                                                 

                                            *****

The Moon, tired, and irritated at the incessant drilling of the miners, puts aside its primary task to examine an oscillation in its signal that is traced to a listening device on a part of the planet’s surface much settled by the dominant species. The knowledge that mankind is listening and might already be aware of the intentions of Moon and Earth raises serious concerns that would be more serious had the detection of other receivers indicated the involvement of national Governments. As of now only one, or a few human beings, have been listening, and not for long. Even so, this is a situation that can not be allowed to continue. Mankind is dangerous and surprisingly able. None of them must know of what is to come.

         The Moon considers its options and selects one painful to itself. Tearing from its body a boulder the size of a space truck it is tossed clear of the Moon’s atmosphere and aimed at Earth where, on impact, it destroys not only the receiving station but most of London. The rest of the world will be left untouched until the designated day when the co-ordinated onslaught of fire, earthquake and volcano will render the planet devoid of life for many millions of years. 

         This will be the fourth epoch of living beings to perish. It has lasted longer than the others, too long. It will be followed by a closed down world, a time for Moon and Earth to rest in fallow sleep before waking to nurture the beginning of new life. 

         Will the age that follows be better than those preceding it? The Moon thinks not, but knows that it will be different, fascinatingly different, unpredictable and imperfect like those before. In time it too will promise much, achieve much, before becoming unfit for any good purpose. When hope has vanished and there is only despair it too will be destroyed so that the Planet can live. 

         But that is yet to come. For now, it is the living things presently on Earth that must be swept away, along with the few thousand men on the Moon who without supplies from Earth will perish within months. There can be no sympathy for man, for what he has become. Touched by genius each one is tainted by demons that burrow deep within.     

         The Moon looks down, sees all, knows all, and says a sad goodbye to those who gently moon gaze. They, at least, deserve a better fate.

 

The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks