Hunters Moon is a story that happily borrows NCIS characters. I do not own NCIS or the characters. I promise to leave them unharmed – physically anyway – for the next person to use. The legend of the Wild Hunt belongs to nobody and everybody, but I come from a land where such beliefs were strong. I found stuff about the hunt in the works of Jacob Grimm – yes, that family Grimm – and the philosophy of psychologist Carl Jung. The concept of a hunter's moon post dates the concept of a wild hunt but I decided that was OK. It fits. Sorry if my use of U.K. English confuses you – I know the spelling will seem strange; I always blame the Normans who added French to the interesting mix that was early English.
The leading hunter was a god, at first - Odin, Woden, and other related figures. Those who had been condemned to ride after a prey they could never catch for all eternity, could be bad men, dishonoured kings, dark elves or demons, The riders on the hunt rode horses snorting fire and with red eyes and steel hooves. Seeing the hunt was an omen of some coming disaster. The leaders changed over time becoming legendary kings and other powerful figures, among peoples of Germanic culture and language. In Austria the leader of the hunt was female. The hunt crossed the Atlantic and emerged in a song about Ghost Riders in the Sky. I don't own that either. I thank and respect all those who produced it. And the concept of a container for a soul – well, I owe J.K. Rowling for that.
Hunter's Moon.
Chapter 1 – Rude awakening
A long high, whistle split the night, invaded his dreams, awakened him; he tried to stand, found that he already was standing; but not in his bedroom in his apartment. He was in a primeval forest; red earth was scattered with large pale boulders and the widely spaced trees made a high, dark-green canopy. The sky above was alight with stars that were not dimmed by city lights below. A great, silvered moon dipped into the West. Tim McGee felt watched, but as he turned slowly, staring, the high whistle again rent the air and there was a baying of hounds. To the East the sky was silently becoming the rosy pink of dawn and a cool breeze ruffled his hair. The unseen hounds bayed more distantly and there was far away thunder, like the drumming of a hundred hoofs, unshod hoofs.
He was facing East, toward the dawn. Sky overhead was growing paler, translucent blue with drifting pink clouds. The great moon was gone, stars were dimmer.
Beneath a tree a mounted figure was watching him. The dark horse stood facing the sunrise, the long tail twitching. The rider was turned away from him, looking back over his shoulder, watching him.
Features were hard to make out at this distance, but he became aware of his nakedness; as he began to feel the familiar embarrassment, the sable horse reared, forelegs beating air, tale lashing, mane blown wild. Startled, he fell back,
His own bedding enclosed him, he saw the morning sky through his window as usual, and knew he must soon get up for work.
Tony DiNozzo woke up with a rough head and tongue. He was cold, he was out of doors, but he seemed to remember getting back to his apartment last night. He sat up and groaned, feeling beneath him the rough bark of a fallen tree. A tree wide enough for him to lie on, but where was he? There was dark red, sandy earth beneath his feet; his head was pounding and it took him a moment to understand the sound of horses; it was not what he'd been drinking that had caused the strange scene, the strange feelings. Suddenly, nearby and behind him, a horse snorted. He whipped around, reaching for his gun. There was no gun. There was no holster. He was in some crazy landscape he could not remember seeing before. And nearly naked from the waist down. He heard a baying of hounds, hungry, eager hounds. A large, frantic stag charged across the landscape before him, eyes bulging, terrified and he heard a thunder of hoofs beating the sandy plane – and ll at once he was falling backwards onto his sofa, in his apartment, where he had fallen asleep in his shirt and boxers. As he closed his weary eyes against the brightening dawn, his mind held a lasting impression of a red eyed horse with smoke rising from it's nostrils. He sensed there was a rider, watching him.
The earth was dark red. Huge, white boulders were randomly thrown, as if a giant child had scattered pebbles. Trees like giant redwoods held up the vaulted sky.
From a window where she had expected to gaze at the awakening city, she saw a great primeval forest. A whistle, high and chill, blew the clouds around; and a stampeding herd of cattle thundered by – and Ellie screamed, for the cattle had red eyes. As the last one ran past, her eye caught a glimpse of the riders, brief and chilling; they had blurred eyes, gaunt faces, sweat soaked shirts – and as the vision faded a voice of a singer came upon her dreaming senses –
"Their faces gaunt, their eyes were blurred, their shirts all soaked with sweat; they're riding hard to catch that herd but they ain't caught them yet ..."
But the voice of Johnny Cash faded and she was in her room, gazing at the city through her window.
Above the roofs and towers of the great city there was a cloudy landscape. A herd of red eyed cattle climbed a slope to higher cloudy levels and far away to the west, riding out of the darkness toward the rising sun came riders with gaunt faces and sweat soaked shirts and the wide brimmed hats of old wild west cowboys.
The leading Huntsman slowed his steed, a sable coated giant horse that snorted fire. Ellie backed away from her window.
He looked at her. He was tall, light of complexion, had one blue eye and long golden hair. He wore no hat. She found it hard not to stare at the space where his other eye should be; Odin, Woden, Wotan all had removed one of their eyes, so folklore and legend said, but she didn't believe in that stuff did she?
As his figure drew away, growing smaller and fading in the sunrise, Ellie also turned away; she needed breakfast and to get ready for work; the visions faded, the sun was rising; briefly, almost like a whisper, she heard the riders cry on the morning air – Yippee-yi-oh-oh, yippee-yi-aye-ay; she went to work.
In the Bull pen there was an unusual quietness. Tony was not annoying Tim, Tim was staring at his computer, frowning, Ellie was staring into the distance. Gibbs was with the director, but he had already noted his distracted agents.
Tim stared at his monitor, trying to concentrate. He could use the time until Gibbs arrived from wherever he was to catch up on paperwork; his mind would not obey him. He sighed and typed 'Hunter's Moon' into the web browser. He was not sure why, he knew there were 28 days in a moon cycle. He knew the moon this time of year in The British Isles and Northern Europe was the Hunter's moon. He had even heard of the Wild Hunt. He had hardly expected to see it.
Ellie was at her desk eating, her second or third breakfast. The more she had to think about the dawn, the hungrier she became and at this moment she was wondering if it was safe or sensible to ask if anybody else had seen the Wild Hunt. They probably hadn't, it was an ancient belief that had travelled across the Atlantic. She tucked into her toast, catching Tim's eyes and smiling 'Hello'. Her smile seemed to relax the atmosphere but then Gibbs appeared;
"Grab your gear. Dead naval officer in Rock Creek Park."
They grabbed gear and left, as if no strange illusions had disturbed anybody's sleep. As if this death could not be a disaster as the appearance of the hunt predicted.
In a clearing bordered by oak and birch, two park rangers stood waiting for the NCIS team.
"They won't believe us, nobody will believe us."
"Well, we still have to mention it." His companion replied. As they stood and watched and waited, a clear hoof print blurred and vanished from the ploughed up field, leaving clean, standing grass.
The ranger was correct; the MCRT did not believe in disappearing hoof prints, until ...
"Are you sure it was there in the first place, Mr Palmer?" Ducky sounded somewhat annoyed.
"That print disappeared as I watched." Jimmy insisted.
Before Ducky could say what he really thought Ellie came over to them. She had heard Jimmy and knew there had been more hoof prints in the area around the corpse when she had taken pictures than there were now.
"Look," she said, "You can see the difference."
She showed them the pictures she had taken. Where the victim lay with limbs thrown wide like a discarded marionette there were hundreds of prints from cattle and horses – but fewer on the ground than in pictures taken moments before.
"I honestly can't believe what I just saw." Ducky whispered, hoarsely.
"We saw it too, Ducky." McGees voice was a whisper.
"Ah – I'm with Ducky, don't believe I saw it."
Gibbs turned on his heel and headed for the van.
He needed coffee. Nobody had seen him standing near enough to hear. Ellie and Tim took as many pictures as they could. Tony wanted to interview rangers but they had fled. He helped Jimmy Palmer load the body onto the van and the MCRT headed back to the Navy Yard. When they had gone, the field returned to a grassy clearing, encircled with police crime scene tape but with every hoof print gone.
End Chapter 1.