A globe of one's own

At a time when I was arguably quite happily settled and—as my parents would say—in for the night, I decided to go for a wander to try to spot the lunar eclipse. I dressed quickly, stepped out and locked the door behind me. The key-turn echoed in the sleepy close. Everyone else's lights were already off: Witney is a quiet town. I happen to live near the edge of it, though, because it's all edge, and so it didn't take me long to reach to one strip of the cobbled-together ring-road and head towards near-black countryside.

The streetlights gave out a malnourishing, yellow glow. It stuck to the mist as it rose reluctantly from the fields and the river, all of these camped out around the village in the valley nearby. There was no chance of seeing the sky clearly through that murk, so I carried on walking. The rain-damp grass had been brylcreemed to a slick finish by the same light, the light I had to escape; the tarmac of the path was the same colour as the grass, to within a fraction of a shade of living, earthy brown.

I reached the end of the paved road, and turned onto a muddy verge. Its bank led along the side of a narrow country road, both vanishing together in the distance as the unnatural light petered out, moonlight too weak to fill the gap. As I continued my eyes began to adjust, slightly. But eventually the walk became a trudge as dampness crept into my shoes, and the late hour, unsupported by alcohol or coffee, started to weigh heavy on my shoulders.

Finally I thought, far enough, and turned to look at the moon. Oh.

This wasn't some clean astronomical event. The face of the satellite was dirty with a red-black smut, covering all but a thin white chord towards the top, the north. Against the white stars, the wisps of pale-grey clouds, the moon was the chimney-sweep at the wedding. Either that or it had been in some sort of fight, and was now tatty, bloody, grubby and set at a rakish angle to the horizon. Away from the influence of the streetlights, the clarity of the view made nearby constellations look wide-eyed with consternation at this mud-coloured interloper. I put my arm out, blanking out the remaining glow from the town with my forearm and hand, and looked as though just watching was in itself a conversation.

Ten, fifteen minutes passed, and one or two stray cars trolled past me. I hoped that the drivers might follow my example and just look up. Finally, imagining a farewell, I turned my eyes back to the verge in front of me and headed home. Something told me I shouldn't look back up: it was unlucky, or maybe presumptuous, like the moon might now be changing from one set of clothes to the other, and I oughtn't to catch it in empyrean undress. Like all my best friends I'd see it again anyway, some other time.

On the way back home I passed by the tennis courts of the sports complex. With my eyes still towards the ground I spotted something by my feet, off-white in the sump-oil grass. I reached down and picked it up: a ball. Tentatively I sniffed at it from a distance, held between finger and thumb. I could only smell new rubber, school sports and wet vegetation.

It looked clean, pure and untouched, and was the palest thing I could see away from the stars. Like it had fallen straight out of the sky.

Thinking of what I had seen a few minutes earlier, I gingerly put this tiny globe in my pocket. After all, if night were to pass, and the moon could still not find its other, its virginal fraction, I would love to be the one to oblige.