Free Seeing Stars by Christina Jones Page A

wishes come true.’

Chapter Eight
    Bad Moon Rising
    The dusk hung heavily over Fiddlesticks in a lilac heat haze. The lights from the pub and surrounding cottages fanned out
     across the village green, causing leaping shadows to turn the willow trees and benches and rustic bridge into slumbering prehistoric
     beasts.
    The moon, the reason for the village’s excitement, was suspended in a perfect white-cold circle against a black sky, reflected
     in perfection in the darkly sluggish stream and adding a wide swathe of silver to the illuminations.
    Amber took one look at the apparently zillions of people gathered on the village green and almost turned tail up Moth Cottage’s
     path. If it hadn’t been for Gwyneth standing sturdily behind her, she might well have managed it.
    It wasn’t just the vast crowd of strangers, or the fact that they were actually going to be doing something really odd concerning
     the moon, not to mention an ancient myth, and worship someone who probably hadn’t ever existed – although all that smacked
     of acid-fuelled paganism in her book – it was the ocean of unrelenting
green
that was really scary.
    Everyone, absolutely everyone, was dressed in some verdant shade. It simply wasn’t normal.

    ‘OK, duck?’ Gwyneth whispered somewhere beneath Amber’s shoulder blade. ‘No need to be shy. I’ll introduce you to everyone.
     You stick close to me and you’ll be fine.’
    Gwyneth was wearing a green paisley shirtwaister – well, shirtwaister was a bit of a misnomer due to Gwyneth being box-shaped
     with no discernible ins or outs – a green beret and a pair of green leather gloves. None of the greens matched.
    ‘Um, what exactly do we have to do?’ Amber asked as Gwyneth shepherded her across the dusty road and into the middle of the
     crowd. ‘Is there a sort of programme?’
    ‘No, duck. Well, not really. Once the formalities is over it’s just a big free-for-all. A party, you know? Eating, drinking,
     chatting, meeting old friends.’
    OK, Amber thought, a party I can cope with. I think. ‘And the formalities?’
    ‘Well, Goff Briggs raises his glass of Emerald Elixir to the moon and does the usual thank yous to St Bedric for freeing us
     from fear for another year, then ’e throws it open to the floor so to speak. You can have a go if you like. Well, if there’s
     something you want sorted special like.’
    Amber blinked. ‘Sorry? You mean
talk?
Out loud? To the
moon?’
    ‘Ah now, you may scoff but you just wait. There’s a lot of people, people who live in the twenty-first century and hold down
     all manner of responsible jobs and that, who still aren’t averse to ’aving a big bite of Lucky Cake and making a green-cheese
     wish for summat they need on St Bedric’s Eve. Sometimes, when life ain’t going the way you want, there are
other methods,
if you gets my drift.’
    Amber nodded. Paganism and ritual sacrifice and all sorts of things she shouldn’t be dabbling in, as she’d thought. Green-cheese
     wish for pity’s sake!
    ‘And this Goff person? Is he your, um, vicar?’
    Gwyneth shook her head. ‘Churchwarden, duck. The vicar from Hazy Hassocks, he oversees us in Fiddlesticks and six other rural
     parishes and ’e always says ’e’s too busyto do St Bedric’s. Between you an’ me, I don’t think ’e approves.’
    And who could blame him?
    Much to Amber’s relief, there were several pockets of people on the green who looked as though they may be under pension age.
     And several who were definitely young. Sadly they all had rather old-fashioned hairstyles and the green outfits let them down
     badly, but it was reassuring to know she wasn’t the only person under thirty in the whole of Fiddlesticks. Maybe she’d meet
     some of them in the pub later. Maybe Lewis would be there.
    There was a sudden roar from the direction of The Weasel and Bucket followed by a thunder of applause.
    The first virgin meeting her doom?
    ‘Timmy and Zillah bringing young