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Short Stories & Other fiction

Sacrifice

I swear I had a smile on my face the moment I woke up. Today was the day of The Sacrifice, and I bounded out of bed with excitement. I dragged my sleepy younger brothers out of the bed covers and we tip-toed, quiet as mice, past the hanging animal skin that hid the bed where our parents slept, and out of the hut. “Stop that awful noise,” bellowed Dad.

We ran round and round, chasing the chickens, the dogs chasing us, getting ourselves in the mood for the fun to come. We didn’t have many holidays. “All right, Hannah” called Dad, “if you’re up you might as well come and help Mum with breakfast.” I dragged myself back into the gloomy hut where Mum had already started making bread, while my brothers went on playing outside. Mum was like all the other women in the village, she prepared food, tended the animals and the crops, but Dad had a special job. He was the Cycler. Some people looked down on him, but the Priestess said it was the most important job in the village. Everybody brought their bones and shells, anything that wouldn’t compost, and Dad ground them into fertiliser for the fields. He fed them into the gap between the two grinding stones, and they broke into little pieces, slipping ever closer to the middle of the stones where the gap was smaller, until they fell through a ring of little holes like grains of sand. Of course, he had to break up some of the bigger stuff by hand before he could feed it in, and sometimes when the stream dried up and the water-wheel didn’t turn he had to move the grinding stones by hand. It was hard physical work, and keeping the stones perfectly aligned was skilful. I’m sure no-one else could do it as well as Dad.

When we had all eaten, and Mum and I had cleared up, I went next door for Simon, my best friend. He is a year older than me, and works with his dad. Even though it was a holiday, I knew they would both have to work today, and he was subdued when he came out of his hut. “Never mind,” I said, trying to cheer him up, “you’ll still get to eat with everybody after the ceremony.”

“It’s not that,” he said, “I think my Dad is in trouble.” My jaw dropped. It was a small village, we all worked together, and no-one ever got into trouble.

“What’s he done?” I asked, my imagination running wild.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “I’ll see you at the feast. I’ll try to sit next to you.” He went back inside.

Simon’s dad has a special job as well. He is the Roller. He cuts up fallen trees so that the logs can be used to move things around the village. He would be in charge of the logs at the ceremony tonight.

We all assembled on The Green at midday and started preparing the feast, but it didn’t seem like work. We sang, and kept breaking off to dance, and the musicians drank ale as they warmed to their task. There was a buzz from the whole village, except Simon and his dad. They worked silently with their logs, making sure there were no stubs of branches left to stop them rolling in a straight line, and sweeping the track clear of small stones all the way down to the sea. If The Sacrifice didn’t roll smoothly into the water the Gods might be displeased again.

Eventually the preparations were finished and we children played games while the grown-ups talked.   By dusk we were getting tired, and one by one we flopped down with our parents and watched the Priestess and her acolytes getting ready for the ceremony. They stuck burning torches in the ground, forming a complete circle round The Green, except for a small gap for The Sacrifice. The rushes had been intertwined with sage and other herbs, and the smell wafted around us, making us giddy. The acolytes, all girls, older than me, gave everyone cups with clear green liquid, and we settled down to wait for the Priestess to speak.

She walked slowly three times round the circle. As she went past each torch, it seemed to flare up and we could see her wrinkled old face as she went deeper and deeper into her trance. By the time she had completed three circles her face looked younger, almost beautiful. Each time she got to The Sacrifice she sprinkled it with green liquid, and hit it with her staff, and we all gasped, involuntarily. Then she stood in the middle, body swaying, eyes closed.

“I am the Priestess of The Green,” she said in a clear voice that reached beyond the burning torches and empty huts. “As we come together tonight we remember that we are all of The Green.”   We all shouted “The Green” and drank from our cups, and the liquid caught at the back of my throat, then spread a warm glow through my body.

“The Green is not just this grassy clearing in our village, it is the earth itself.” We murmured in assent.

“We are assembled in humility to remind ourselves of the Commandments by which we live. It is now 97 generations since the Gods destroyed the dwellings of the Old People, and we must never make the same mistakes.” She recited the Commandments. I heard these words every year, but for the first time I began to wonder about the Old People and their mistakes. I only had a very hazy idea of the Catastrophe, and I tried to imagine their lives without The Green. Suddenly, I nearly jumped out of my skin. The Priestess had spoken my name.

“This year I will take a new acolyte. I have chosen Hannah, daughter of David the Cycler. Hannah, it is time to leave your parents and come to me.” I rose, and looked down at my family. I was confused. My brothers hooted with laughter at the thought of their big sister becoming an acolyte. Mum & Dad looked proud, and yet they were crying. My Mum urged me forward, and. I felt that all eyes were on me as I walked to the Priestess. The other acolytes formed a circle round me, removed my clothes and slipped a green robe, like theirs, over my head. They included me in the circle and we held hands while the Priestess continued.

“This year I also have some sad news. Last night, Joshua the Roller broke the twelfth commandment.” There was a collective groan. We all knew this was one of the mistakes of the Old People. How could Joshua have endangered us? “I have spoken with Joshua, and he admits to cutting down a tree. In his defence, he says that the tree was leaning badly and would have fallen in the next few years. He also says his best logs are getting worn and he wanted new rollers to be sure that the ceremony would go well tonight.” There was silence, whilst we contemplated Joshua’s terrible dilemma. Should he risk bringing about the end of the world by cutting down a tree, or should he risk bringing about the end of the world by failing to launch The Sacrifice?

“I do not condone it, but the deed has been done,” went on the Priestess, “and so we will use the rollers from the murdered tree for the ceremony. The tree will not have died in vain, and the Gods will decide whether we deserve to be destroyed like the Old People. But after tonight, Joshua will no longer be the Roller. Tomorrow, his son Simon will be our new Roller. I could hardly take it in. I was an acolyte, Joshua had killed a tree, and Simon was the new Roller. I felt a sudden stabbing in my heart. Simon and I would not sit together at the feast after the ceremony. Simon and I would never marry.

I tried to stop the tears from flowing as we acolytes went to The Sacrifice. By the light from the flickering torches it seemed huge, and even more alien than it had during the afternoon.   The women had been working on it for weeks, making small corn dollies, then fastening them together to the instructions of the Priestess in a shape that must once have had meaning to the Old People. Now the monster sat on a platform, balanced on the four newly-cut rollers. The Priestess took out a dagger, and one by one the acolytes cut a finger and let the blood drop on to The Sacrifice. When it was my turn I didn’t even notice the pain, such was my grief for the husband I would never marry, the children I would never bear.

Now the Priestess raised her voice to the heavens: “My daughters and I dedicate our lives to preserving The Green. We accept the task of instructing your people how to care for you. We will not hurt you, like the Old People did. We have built this monster not for our pleasure, but to sacrifice to you as a symbol that we have relinquished the old ways.”

Joshua stepped forward, head bowed, and with Simon’s help he removed the blocks from the first roller. They had done their job well. The platform with its precious load started to move slowly forward. Before it became unbalanced, Simon and his Dad had moved the last roller to the front, rushed to the back again with the next roller, and The Sacrifice moved to the top of the small cliff on its four rollers without so much as a wobble.

When the blocks were removed the villagers began to chant, and as The Sacrifice got closer and closer to the sea the chant got louder and louder. As it toppled down into the water, the Priestess joined in.

“Mota Car! Mota Car! Mota Car!”

Surely the Gods would be appeased for another year.