The Dark Cry of the Moon (1986) by Charles L. Grant

Approaching Charles L. Grant

Readers unfamiliar with The Dark Cry of the Moon may wish to read my notes only after reading the novel.

August, 1862.

August, the waiting month: when the summer grows sullen and dampens the air, fills the lungs, dampens the spirit; when the trees are dimmed by veils of shifting haze, the leaves begin sagging, the bark is clammy and soft to the touch; when tempers are short and too weary to ignite, bodies are heavy no matter the weight, food is tasteless and drink is no redemption; when flesh is hot, cellars are dank, and the breeze is nothing more than a cruel jest of the sun.

August, the weary month: when those who must work do so in protest, taking out their frustrations on lathes and anvils, on counters and customers, on cloth and gold work and the arc of a chair that would have been fine had it been crafted in June; and those on the streets complain of the weather, looking back on July when the sun seemed less oppressive, looking forward to September when memory tells them there are genuine cool nights to enjoy on the porch.

In the valley just below the slope of Pointer Hill there were a half-dozen farms whose fields were graveyards: dead stalks of harvested corn brown and broken across the furrows, acres dark and rocky and waiting dully for spring. An occasional stand of oak to hold timid shadows, a creek gone dry, the bones of small fish scattered by hunting crows; a nighthawk sweeping out of the forest, a colony of bats, the hooded yellow eyes of an owl that waits.

A dog barks hysterically until its owner throws a rock.

A horse kicks at its stall until a plank splinters.

A footstep in the dark.