My hands trembled as I poured the kettle over the tea leaves from the garden. I swallowed hard trying to resist the urge to lose my supper. A cold dread always takes me this time of year. It does for the whole village. I picked up my mug and leaned against the cupboard, gazing out at the garden.

 

"For all I know this could be my last time standing in this kitchen...my last time on Earth!" I cried out. A sharp rap at the door startled me and echoed through the room. I lowered my eyes towards the shards of what was my favorite mug and sighed. The sharp rap from just a few moments ago echoed through the room again. I stepped over what was left of my mug. "I'll clean this up if I'm still alive come tomorrow evening".

​

I slowly walked to the door not wanting to know what was on the other side waiting for me but of course I already knew it was the constable coming to tell me the village meeting would be starting in an hour. Attendance and participation in the annual vote were mandatory. 

"Good evening, Constable" I said curtly with a nod. 

"Good evening, Mr. Courcy. The village meeting will begin in an hour; we all expect to see you there." 

​

We stood in silence for a brief moment, his piercing blue eyes penetrating my soul. He abruptly turned on his heels and mounted his rouncy and rode off to finish his rounds.

​​​​

I couldn't stop thinking about last year's sacrifice. It was Margary Atwood that was selected. I was one of the villagers selected to take her to the forest. The sound of her wailing has haunted me all year. I still have the scars from her digging her nails into my arm in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable. Every now and then a fighter is selected. Those types always go kicking and screaming. Most people just solemnly accept their fate. Afterall, their sacrifice is to protect the village! Our village hasn't seen one case of plague in years, ever since we started the sacrifices.  That's what we all tell ourselves after we silently sigh in relief at somebody else's name being called. The sacrifice is always necessary when it's not you that has to be dragged through the forest and left for the unknown god. 

​

I shuffled into one of the lines in the village square hoping to somehow become invisible. The knot in my stomach was back. I was behind Mrs. Agnes Barnes. I groaned softly, praying that she wouldn't turn around and see me. My prayer wasn't answered. She turned around to greet me. 

​

"Hello William!"

"Good evening Mrs. Barnes" I grimaced. 

"I haven't seen you at the alehouse in quite a while." She probed.

"I've been busy Mrs. Barnes."

​

She glanced at the tiny piece of paper in my hand. "Who did you vote for?"

"You." I said dryly. She gasped in disbelief and turned away from me. "I ought to vote for you" I heard her say under her breath. Mrs. Barnes wasn't actually who I voted for, but I wasn't in the mood to converse about such trivial matters. 

​

I finally reached the front of my line and placed my piece of paper in the metal box. I wiped my sweaty palms against my trousers and aimlessly walked away eventually ending up at the church entrance. I was greeted by the familiar gargoyle perched on the façade. It's supposed to protect us from evil, that's what the priest says. I often wonder though, aren't we all evil? Every year we vote for someone we know to die. Perhaps it is a necessary evil. To keep the village safe. We always gave the sacrifice a proper burial. The day after, we go back into the forest to collect their bones and bury them near the Saint Michael statue in the cemetery. It's always bones that remain. Ever since the morning we collected Margary's bones I've been brooding over what must have happened to her, to all the others...What does the unknown god do to them to reduce them to a mere skeleton? A shiver traveled down my spine at the realization that in less than 24 hours I could have the same fate.

​

I grudgingly trekked the short distance from my cottage to the village square. The air still smelled of morning dew. The priest was going to announce the sacrifice at high noon. I didn't bother making my morning meal or cleaning up the remains of my mug. In a matter of 30 minutes I would find out if I was going to die tonight. 

​

As I approached the perimeter of the village square I saw a sea of pale faces. Some gloomy, some resigned, some even indifferent. I pushed my way through the crowd towards the platform where the priest was standing. The sight of him looking down at all of us with pitiful eyes almost enraged me. It's all a pretense. He's exempt from the sacrifice. Something about being ordained and sent by God to ensure the protection of the village is preserved. Our eyes managed to lock on each other and I swear I saw a hint of a smile. He enjoys this. 

​

The constable guarding the platform stepped forward and announced the beginning of the sacrifice. A deafening silence crept over the village square as we all awaited our fates. The priest raised his arms and ushered us into our chant. 

​

O Keeper of Breath and Bone,
Take Thou the Mark'd, and spare Thine own.
Let blood be seed, let flesh be sign,
That pest and blight cross not the line.
One to the field, one to the flame,
One to the god who hath no name.
Bless'd be the hand that striketh still,
Bless'd the heart that bends to will.
O Keeper dread, O Devourer near,
The tithe is paid — no plague draws near.

​

After a moment of silence, the priest lowered his hands to his side and continued. 

"O Hidden Hand, whose will I keep,
Through sacrifice the village sleep.
Their peace I guard, their pain I bear—
Thy mercy blooms through my despair."

​

He bowed and mimed the Sign of the Cross. Without cue, the constable mounted the platform and held out the sacrifice chest. The priest carefully reached his gloved hand into the small opening and pulled out a piece of paper.

​

"Let us all bow our heads and say goodbye to..." he paused and unfolded the paper. "...Phillip Butler!" 

The constable tolled the bell nine times. Each time it rang, the ominous chime reverberated in my skull leaving me with relief that it wasn't me. This time.