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Sometimes, when the world sleeps, I come, up out of the wet dark fen, travel up the sloughs, and sit with my back against Old Mother, and look at the moon and ponder my poor wicked soul.
Sometimes I climb Old Mother, to her very top, and scream and shriek and curse the poor old moon over my fate. I shake my fist at her and say things that make me wonder about my sanity. But she does not care. She is not moved by my words and shrieks…poor old moon. I do not think she hears. Poor old fen-creeper.
What use to shriek and stamp my feet and shout at the moon? I recreate the whole of the universe blink by each blink, but yet I am forever cursed! I shall take it out on Man instead! I shall curse him who caused me to be cursed, and drag him to my watery nightmare, and fill my larder with his bones. I laugh, and shiver at my own dreadful thoughts.
I wish a shinny thing too! Come seek my moist bank. Sit a while, look for MY trinket. It is small but not hard to find… nor well hidden. Nothing clever. Come if you dare in the light of the waning moon. Or better yet, some moonless night when she can not see happens. Come, sit with your back against Old Mother, among Old Mother's little children growing there. Call out for me if you can not find my trinket. I will come at your call and show you the truth of this wretched world.
