The Festival At Which I Was Not

This is the fifth year in a row that I've tried to reach the Moler Festival and failed. It's starting to seem like some sort of geographical running joke. The one time I actually managed to get to Mount Moler at all, it was in the middle of the Summer (four months after the Festival), and I only stayed for three hours. I wouldn't have stayed even that long if the Train hadn't had to stop to restock the kitchen. When your cook is a seven-foot carnivorous spider thing, you stop when he says stop.

Incidentally, the Moler Festival was unusually late this year. It's always held on the first day in Spring when the moon is directly behind the grandmoon. That's when - according to the Moles - the symmetry of the heavens mirrors the symmetry of Mount Moler. They're very proud of their symmetry. The Lupine Astronomers' Guild (the mountain's clan of stargazing werewolves) keeps an eye (or nostril, I should say) on the moons all month long; it doesn't matter whether they can see them or not.

I still don't really know what goes on at the Moler Festival, because no one who's seen it seems to be able to describe it. It's rare to get a description that's even coherent, much less helpful. Most people end up speaking nonsense. Someday, I'll manage to actually get there and find out. I'll send a letter about it when I do.

Don't count on it making sense.