new moon

There's an old story that the moon was put in the night's sky to guide us during the long dark of the night; there are dozens of folk stories with various morals derived from that, of course, but it was always a beloved icon of the church, a reminder that the Creator was watching over us. It shouldn't be a surprise, then, that as society began to shift its focus away from the works of the divine and onto the works of humankind, the night of the new moon took on a special significance: this is our night. The night when the protection of the divine has been withdrawn, and we poor citizens of the world are left to fend for ourselves--and look, we say, look at all we have done. And so the Festival of Night was born. The priests don't like it, especially the conservative ones, but for so much of the festival's existence, it was deeply religious, a night of thanks to the Creator for trusting their children to fend for themselves, for letting them live and think and reason and build great cities and mighty empires. In recent years, the tone has shifted, of course, as the works of the church and religion have come under scrutiny as the ranks of skeptics and nonbelievers swelled to numbers that would have been unfathomable a mere century ago. So the festival has taken on a defiant stance: look, we say, look at what we can do.

I write this now because it was the Festival of Night last night, and the Prince was assassinated in front of a crowd. And the festival, a time both sacred and profane--I can't help but wonder why it was chosen. Superstition, perhaps--perhaps the Divine won't punish regicide committed on the night where they have left creation to its own devices--or perhaps it was political, a message that the Prince's tame participation in his city's ancient festival would not be tolerated. (But if so, by whom? Have the priests ceded the ceremony to its enemies so soon?)

Nevena--the new Princess, I suppose--had the misfortune of having me as her companion on this night. Just hours ago she was talking about how she always felt hopeful on the eve of the new moon, that it represented so much unrealized potential, and now she is numbly staring out from her balcony at the moonless sky, while I sit at her desk and write my thoughts on her father's death. It feels important to chronicle these moments.

It also feels important to offer her a shoulder to cry on, to offer some words, to focus not on the historical magnitude of the moment but on the grief and horror she is feeling, right now. I did my best. I sat with her for a while, staring at the moonless sky, and though we didn't speak, she still turned to me with a thin smile and said thank you. Kind of her to let this poor historian feel like she had any use in situations like these.

And so I returned here, to this little desk, using her lamp and her pen and her paper. And while I will be called upon to answer all of the questions about the implications of this later, right now, while I try to make myself useful as a friend, I'm thinking about the new moon. I hope, for her sake, that she is still able to look at the empty sky and feel that there are bright days to come.