Book: Moonlight Book Club
Author: StarlightBookClub

Topic: "Write about a person telling a campfire story to a group of children aged nine to twelve, in no less than 250 words.

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"C'mon, you lot. Camping is rough business."

A withered log of wood hissed into the crackling fire, annoyed in anticipation of this nightly routine at Camp Sunshine.

A sluggish army of blanket-wrapped children, all in their pre-teens (or as Rahel called it, 'preteens'), could be seen sauntering around the source of light, before flopping down on the warm, scented grass. Rahel, the youngest, nine; Vikram, the eldest and the most protective, twelve; and everyone else- Vismaya, Siddesh, and Avanti- ten; all huddled in a tight, preteen crescent.

Their leader was an imposing creature- at a glorious seven feet, the stranger reminded each of the children of that universal cult of men who ducked below doorframes and cast welcome barricades against scalding afternoon suns. He was playing with a marshmallow pinned to the end of a rusting poker, acquired through earnest pleas from the nearby village folk. His voice had initially been a source of amusement; it was ridiculously high-pitched, like he were perpetually speaking through a strangled neck. A smallish, old-man hat bathed his head in a sudden, homely aura, but his tanned, athletic upper arms screamed Rough Business.

"Y'must be tired." He spoke just like one of them, barring the strange habit to blur the 'you's. A few eyebrows creeped up. "Let me tell you a story."

"You know stories?" Rahel prompted, her pupils a shining a warm golden from the fire.

"More than you do, beti," replied his cracked, gravelly smile; the Hindi word for 'daughter' banished their fears all at once. Tall Leader Man had instantaneously crossed No-Candy territory, and could be trusted with audience.

"Well, let's begin then," insinuated Vikram with a light frown. Adolescent skepticism. The old man slid a swift betel nut into his mouth, and noticed the children count his teeth. He smiled in reminiscence. Nostalgia lay bundled in these unfinished men and women. Nostalgia that was about to come unspooled.

"Far, far away from anywhere a human could call home, stayed a witch who took pride in writing tragic poetry."

"Was she crazy?" Avanti whispered.

"She lacked the slightest brains never. What she did lack, was kindly lover. Someone that held through choppy roads; someone that mopped and scrubbed her floors; someone that sang to her a' night; and stuck through woe and sweet delight.

And every night and every morn; she asked the crow atop her sill, 'Oh, tell me sweetest of them all, when I receive a lover will?'

'Be patient, witch,' he used to say, and fly toward his favorite hill.

And months and days, she stared and gazed, beyond her town, for sign or sound; but neither did she see her man, nor hear his horses ride adown."

"Wait, is this a poem?" Vismaya asked. Vismay. Sanskrit for bewilderment. The old man's smile widened. "Yes, my dear, for I have found, a tale that sells so well with sound.

"The witch turned old and grew in fame; her hair grew grey, her eyes grew faint, and yet, she saw her lover not, nor heard the crackle of his rein.

And people, fat and thin and young, they flocked to hear her painful poems; and she recited them with tears, awaiting him for who she longed.

And every morn, the crow she met; she asked if she would find her love; for how much longer could she live?

The crow was blunt in saying 'Not yet- you would when heaven wills above,' and flying to his favorite hill.

Today? Today? She mused and prayed,
And cried a bucket when she failed; for decades did she wait for him, and decades turned her old and grave.

They loved the loss behind her smile, they loved her broken, pleading eyes; they loved her hapless love for one who met her not throughout her life."

The man stopped speaking for a sip of water. What he hadn't realised was, water was all over the campsite. Rahel was sniffling back a tear, Vismaya's throat was sporting a clear lump, and even Vikram looked depressed. The ancient man clapped his hands together, startling the melancholic company. "Hey, chin up, fellas- this isn't a sad story! It's got a happy ending; that I can say with a cross on my heart."

"You're so sure?" Siddesh spoke for the first time in the night. His voice teetered in the salty moonshine. "Did she find the man she was waiting for?"

"No, the man did not arrive."

"Then I don't see how this can have ended happily."

"Remain so negative do not! The heavens bowed before her will, and let her marry her true love, the tiny creature on her sill!"

Siddesh was staring with slowly narrowing eyes. "You don't...surely- "

"Of course I do, you sluggish head! She wed the lovely crow instead!"

"WHAT?"

The fire blew out at once.

"This is crazy!" Rahel whined. "This is wrong!" Vismaya quipped.

"Where did you get this stupid tale?" Avanti shouted.

"I can't believe we wasted our night on this crap," Vikram grumbled before getting up to head back into his tent.

"Now, wait a second there, kids- argh!"

The company whirled back around to find their leader on all fours. He'd stumbled and fallen over the pyramid of burnt-out logs while trying to woo his listeners back. It was a piteous sight; an old figure helplessly attempting to win over his own rickety legs.

Except, the children weren't really watching the figure.

They were watching his head.

The head that, under the force of his stumble, no longer sported its homely hat. What it sported, and showed off all the way down to the waist, was hair- long, grey, wispy hair.

The hair of an ancient woman.

She straightened up on her knees, and regarded the children with crackling, contemptuous amusement. A crow flew out of the nearby shrubbery and perched upon her left shoulder, cawing lowly.

"I suppose you believe me now," said the ancient witch from across the hill, as she stood up and played with the rust-eaten poker. Her crow, her love, pecked a stray worm out of her overcoat.

Five preteens blinked.