The Moon & The Star BOOK ONE
written by Lizzie Scamander
Guinevere Moon is a girl in the medieval times, when wizards and witches were executed and burnt at the stake for simply being who they were. She is horrified and frightened when she realises that she is a witch, for if anyone finds out... If you like this, please message me, I'd like to know what you think of it!
Last Updated
05/31/21
Chapters
5
Reads
701
The Boy
Chapter 1
The sun beamed down at the countryside that was still mostly asleep. The cock had just crowed, and the birds had just started to sing their morning song. Everything was peaceful, wrapped in a pleasantly tranquil air that flowed freely with the natural atmosphere around it.
Down beside a flourishing forest, where birdsong was particularly distinctive, there stood a small, poorly cottage, with walls made of straw, mud, and animal dung, and a leaking roof that failed to provide enough shelter. Within the cottage a girl lay on a straw pallet, slumbering comfortably, her chestnut wavy hair strewn out and her ragged clothes as ragged as ever.
She turned upon the bed, and slowly, blearily, her grey, observant eyes opened. She sat up, trying not to slip back into the phantasmagorical world of sleep she had just left.
Yawning and stretching, she slipped off the pallet. Breakfast was announced tacitly by the relentless growling of her stomach.
Proceeding outside, she inhaled deeply, loving the crisp air that refreshed her. She approached her small garden and yanked out some carrots which she tucked under her arm before hurrying over to the well which she and the neighbors shared.
The neighbors. She frowned in disgust. The horrid people that remained unnecessarily suspicious and mean to her, because they despised the way abnormal happenings always seemed to tag along in her wake. Like the time when the woman of the family had accused her of stealing her supply of barley and had ended up with pink hair.
She recalled the woman’s harsh words:
“You Guinevere Moonbeam!” She had yelled. “You’re a witch and I know it! With your strange, unnatural habits, I just know you’re a witch!”
At first Guinevere has found it amusing but overtime had felt a certain uneasiness. She thought of how people found guilty of being wizards and witches were either burnt at the stake, executed or hanged, and shuddered. But she didn’t mean to be abnormal. She just couldn’t help it.
You’re not a witch, Guinevere thought for the hundredth time. You’re an ordinary person, for goodness’s sake. But despite her continual firm denials to herself she still wasn’t satisfied.
After washing the carrots in the well Guinevere bit into one, and before long had consumed both and persuaded her hunger to stop persisting. She was about to walk back toward her house when she noticed a boy some distance away, a cat-like creature in his arms. She was curiously distracted and interested by a smooth handle of a stick, was it, protruding from within his pocket.
He headed toward the neighbors cottage, scrutinising the area with a mild interest as he did so. As he came nearer his light brown hair and blue eyes could be observed, also his poorly clothes similar to Guinevere’s that indicated he was not of any higher rank than she.
He reached the neighbors’ door, and knocked. There was a pause. Guinevere found herself watching, glued on to the sight by a sudden curiosity.
The door opened. The man of the family stood there, George Gunther, as he was called, his squinting eyes mistrustful and his scruffy beard as greasy and dirty as ever.
“Whadda you want, eh?” He grunted, eyeing the boy suspiciously.
“I was wondering if you could spare a little food and shelter, sir,” the boy responded politely.
Mr. Gunther scowled. “I’ll have no beggars,” he growled. “Be off with you!”
“Please sir,” the boy began. “It’s -“
“I said be off!” Mr. Gunther yelled, and Guinevere realised the reason for his anger. He kept glancing at the stick in the boy’s pocket.
“Sir -“
With a sudden force Mr. Gunther struck out with his fist, and the boy fell backward, his face covered in blood.
“Stop!” Guinevere heard herself screaming.
Mr. Gunther looked up, and his face turned into a nasty glare. He turned back to the boy on the ground, and made to kick him. But then suddenly he fell over, and bruises started appearing on his cheeks and arms as some invisible hand punched him. The boy, taking advantage of this diversion jumped up and hastened toward Guinevere. Guinevere didn’t move. She was strangely frozen to the spot. The boy grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the forest, ignoring her physical and oral protests. He pulled her into the cover of the trees, before yanking her behind a thick oak trunk. Then he turned to her, his expression shocked. Then he spoke.
“You’re a witch?”
Down beside a flourishing forest, where birdsong was particularly distinctive, there stood a small, poorly cottage, with walls made of straw, mud, and animal dung, and a leaking roof that failed to provide enough shelter. Within the cottage a girl lay on a straw pallet, slumbering comfortably, her chestnut wavy hair strewn out and her ragged clothes as ragged as ever.
She turned upon the bed, and slowly, blearily, her grey, observant eyes opened. She sat up, trying not to slip back into the phantasmagorical world of sleep she had just left.
Yawning and stretching, she slipped off the pallet. Breakfast was announced tacitly by the relentless growling of her stomach.
Proceeding outside, she inhaled deeply, loving the crisp air that refreshed her. She approached her small garden and yanked out some carrots which she tucked under her arm before hurrying over to the well which she and the neighbors shared.
The neighbors. She frowned in disgust. The horrid people that remained unnecessarily suspicious and mean to her, because they despised the way abnormal happenings always seemed to tag along in her wake. Like the time when the woman of the family had accused her of stealing her supply of barley and had ended up with pink hair.
She recalled the woman’s harsh words:
“You Guinevere Moonbeam!” She had yelled. “You’re a witch and I know it! With your strange, unnatural habits, I just know you’re a witch!”
At first Guinevere has found it amusing but overtime had felt a certain uneasiness. She thought of how people found guilty of being wizards and witches were either burnt at the stake, executed or hanged, and shuddered. But she didn’t mean to be abnormal. She just couldn’t help it.
You’re not a witch, Guinevere thought for the hundredth time. You’re an ordinary person, for goodness’s sake. But despite her continual firm denials to herself she still wasn’t satisfied.
After washing the carrots in the well Guinevere bit into one, and before long had consumed both and persuaded her hunger to stop persisting. She was about to walk back toward her house when she noticed a boy some distance away, a cat-like creature in his arms. She was curiously distracted and interested by a smooth handle of a stick, was it, protruding from within his pocket.
He headed toward the neighbors cottage, scrutinising the area with a mild interest as he did so. As he came nearer his light brown hair and blue eyes could be observed, also his poorly clothes similar to Guinevere’s that indicated he was not of any higher rank than she.
He reached the neighbors’ door, and knocked. There was a pause. Guinevere found herself watching, glued on to the sight by a sudden curiosity.
The door opened. The man of the family stood there, George Gunther, as he was called, his squinting eyes mistrustful and his scruffy beard as greasy and dirty as ever.
“Whadda you want, eh?” He grunted, eyeing the boy suspiciously.
“I was wondering if you could spare a little food and shelter, sir,” the boy responded politely.
Mr. Gunther scowled. “I’ll have no beggars,” he growled. “Be off with you!”
“Please sir,” the boy began. “It’s -“
“I said be off!” Mr. Gunther yelled, and Guinevere realised the reason for his anger. He kept glancing at the stick in the boy’s pocket.
“Sir -“
With a sudden force Mr. Gunther struck out with his fist, and the boy fell backward, his face covered in blood.
“Stop!” Guinevere heard herself screaming.
Mr. Gunther looked up, and his face turned into a nasty glare. He turned back to the boy on the ground, and made to kick him. But then suddenly he fell over, and bruises started appearing on his cheeks and arms as some invisible hand punched him. The boy, taking advantage of this diversion jumped up and hastened toward Guinevere. Guinevere didn’t move. She was strangely frozen to the spot. The boy grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the forest, ignoring her physical and oral protests. He pulled her into the cover of the trees, before yanking her behind a thick oak trunk. Then he turned to her, his expression shocked. Then he spoke.
“You’re a witch?”
