The Sacrifice

The Sacrifice

         Daithi makes his way to the appointed meeting place.  The grass brushes against his shoulders and face.  One strand scratches him just beneath his eye.  He flinches and nervously twitches his head.  The tickling sensation fades, and he pauses a moment before continuing.  Between his bare toes, the dirt is cool and soft.  All around, a pale morning sun gives everything a ghostly glow.  There were some who would say this otherworldly stillness is a bad omen.  They would declare the day’s Offering would be a loss.  Others would insist the clean sky and quiet grass show nature is at peace, and would predict an early and worthy Sacrifice.  Daithi gives the morning a long appraising look.  He predicts the day will go exactly as it should, whatever that may be.  With a nod, he turns and heads to the meeting place.
         Already a group of younger ones wait.  They are strong and healthy, and they boast among themselves.  Daithi settles a short distance away, curling his toes around a fallen branch.  The grass is shorter here, but still is enough to hide in completely.  Ahead it thins out and stops somewhat abruptly, leaving a narrow strip of rocky dirt.  The strip slopes up to the Path. 
         Several of the youths burst through the edge of the grass, pushing each other, laughing excitedly.  One stumbles, and they whirl up the slope, seemingly out of control.  Daithi rises, anxious.  They regain control just in time; one youth’s toe actually scrapes the Path itself.  Daithi lets out his breath and watches the foolish youths hop back down to the grass.  It would not do to offend the Gods, on this day more than any other.
         A small gust blows past, and Daithi shrugs his shoulders in tight as he crouches down again.  The cold unsettles him.  If the Gods do not choose a Sacrifice…he shakes his head…if their Offering is not worthy by sunset on this day, the upcoming season will destroy them. 
         “Last day,” one of the youths shouts, “Now or never!”  He turns to the Gods’ Path and reaches high, “I am ready!” 
         The others laugh and knock him down.  “Why should they want you?” 
         He jumps back and puffs out his chest.  “Why would they not?  I am healthy!  I am strong!  I am faster than any of you!”   
         One snaps, “Then why are you still here?” 
         The first has no answer. 
         Daithi turns his gaze to the Path.  Another gust races along his back and under his shoulders.  He shudders.  It worries him, these gusts.  It is as if the Ice Gods know the Offering will be futile and are already claiming their victims.  “Let it not happen again,” Daithi whispers.
         “It is good to see such faith in our young!” a voice rings out.
         As the youths scramble into some sort of order, Daithi calmly rises, turns, and nods humbly to the approaching priest.  The priest nods back, just as humbly, before continuing to the rocky slope.  Daithi waits until the priest is well past before slowly lifting his head.  He acknowledges the adults and old ones following the priest, noting their reluctance to meet his eye.
         Swaying a bit, the priest gazes up the rocky slope and begins singing.  Though he has heard the melody countless times before, Daithi is still moved.  He tips his head, eyes closed, listening.  Gradually he feels warmer, and he opens his eyes.  The clouds have parted enough to let the sun shine through unhindered.  It surrounds them, easing away the morning chill.  Colors become more vibrant, the grass casting greenish light on the backs of the others, the priest’s crown of red feathers tinting their own shadow.  Each little rock on the slope sparkles.  The Path itself brings a look of wonder to Daithi’s face.  Its whole length shimmers with hundreds of tiny points of light, growing brighter, many blending together to create a brilliant white glow.
         The stunning image fades with the last lines of the priest’s song.  Daithi realizes his mouth is open.  He closes it and blinks several times, bringing his focus to the priest’s sermon.
         “The Gods of the Path are compassionate.  They require only one!  Only one must die, and they will stand against the Gods of Ice.  They aid our travel to the winter homes, and they keep the Ice Gods from entering there.  With one worthy Sacrifice from our Offering they will protect our community from destruction.  For these past eight days our Offering has been refused.  Clear your minds!  Quiet your hearts!  If they are not pleased by sundown on this day, they will turn their backs and allow the Ice Gods to have their way.  I do not have to remind some of you how cruel and insatiable the Ice Gods are.  They will take dozens before the Path Gods drive them away.  What is one Sacrifice compared to that devastation?” The priest looks through his assembled flock, trying to meet each eye. “Remember the horror six years ago!  Think of how long it has taken to rebuild!  We have made great strides, this is true.  But we are still ill prepared to face the Ice Gods alone again.  Do not lose heart, though.  It is never the Path Gods’ wish to see us suffer.  Remember the Miracle!”
         Daithi lowers his eyes and stares at his toes.  He does not need to see to sense everyone stealing a glance at him.  Taking slow, even breaths, Daithi tries to not to think of anything.  After a brief pause, the priest invites them to join him in a song to remember those lost six years ago.  Daithi joins in, thankful for the new focus, though it is still a painful one.
         Six years ago something had offended the Path Gods, and the Offerings were rejected.  Panic swept through the community.  Several individuals had gone to the Path and thrown themselves to the Gods, but they were out of turn, and their desperate deaths were in vain.  The Ice Gods struck early, and stayed long.  Daithi remembers the first warm day, the relief he had felt when he realized he would live.  He had crept past his sleeping cousin and hurried to the edge of the village, and found a bit of food under some melting snow.  Elated, he had raced back to their small home and dropped it on the floor in front of his cousin.  She did not wake, not with the smell of food or with Daithi calling her name.  That season, only four of the forty-five individuals in Daithi’s community survived.  Broken remains of communities all across the fields joined together into loose groups.  Those groups began to gather into new communities.  It has taken these full six years for the new community to build itself back up. 
         The song ends, and the priest returns to the grass.  Already the youths are chasing each other about.  The older ones gather into small groups.  Daithi chuckles to himself.  He has always considered them the older ones, though in fact, they are not much older than he is—several are actually younger.  Perhaps it is their authority and demeanor, though more likely it is because Daithi hardly keeps track of his age.  Time means little to him.  He wonders idly if they consider him to be the old one.
         Daithi watches one of the groups, where most are indeed older than he is.  They are slower, more nervous.  Several obviously fear the Offering.  One of them glances about, to see if he is watched.  Daithi looks away for a moment.  Satisfied, that one moves close to the Path.  He paces the edge, finds sturdy footing, and marks the spot.  With a slight nod he steps back into the grass to join the others.  At least two others follow his actions, careful not to draw attention.  They all have a peculiar look in their eyes, as if they know beyond all doubt that they will die in the next Offering.  They stare intently at the grass, the distant trees, and the watery sun, as if they must get as much of this world into themselves as possible before they are taken. 
         As certainly as they know they will be chosen, they fear it.  They want to live, and damn the consequences.  Daithi knows what they will do, when the time comes for Offering.  These are the ones who will stay at the front of the group, jumping soonest and hardest, racing fastest, trying with every fiber of themselves to be ahead of the real Sacrifice.  Daithi shakes his head slightly.  They are selfish. 
         One of the young ones barrels into him and darts off, pursued by the others.  Daithi scrabbles to his feet.  These youths are laughing, boasting, bragging, racing.  They have the passion and the zeal, but not the acceptance or the reason.  For many this is the first Offering they have participated in.  Once they realize one of them is dead, they will calm down.  Daithi has seen it before.  He remembers going through it himself.  That first Offering, it had been his closest childhood friend that was taken. 
         It was ten years ago.  Daithi and his friend had been so excited to be able to participate in the same Offering.  They had both leapt as one, surging forward with the others, frantic and giddy with the thrill.  Then Daithi had landed alone.  It had happened so fast, even after months of poring over his memories, trying to recall every instant, he could not see his friend taken.  One moment they were side by side, the next he was alone.  He had not even seen the God. 
         Daithi tries to cover his memories by watching the young ones.  They are practicing.  They gather together and race across a path drawn in the dirt.  Each time a few hop off along the path, pretending to be the Sacrifice.  The others laugh, “The Gods only need one!”  The few sacrifices come back, shrugging. 
         “Let us try this one more time,” the largest says. 
         They gather again.  “Now!” one shouts. 
         They lunge forward.  This time only one chooses to leap off along their drawn path.  The reenactment finishes, and they all turn to the one standing a short distance away. 
         “Ahhh, it will be you this time!” they joke. 
         “Oh no!” he cries, feigning dismay before collapsing on the dirt.  He stays there a moment before jumping back to his feet and joining the group once more.  Daithi looks closely, trying to pick out that one’s best friend.  He imagines which one it is.  What will he say to that one, when his friend is truly gone?  Daithi’s heart flutters, and for a moment, he sees his own friend’s face on that eager youth. 
         That had been the darkest and bleakest season of Daithi’s life.  He had known the Offerings were meant to end in Sacrifice, and that each year one had to die.  He told that to himself every day of that winter, that easy winter, with the Ice Gods held far away thanks to his friend’s death.  But he took no joy in the food or warmth they had.  He could not make himself honor his friend.  By the following season, he was almost eager for the Offering.  He arrived first each day, and made himself as easy a target as he could.  He wanted to be taken. 
         The Gods had chosen his uncle.  He had not been close, but Daithi took it as an insult.  As the community landed, and realized who was missing, he had turned back to the Path and shrieked, “First my friend, now my family!  When will it be me?!  When?” 
         Everyone had done their best to comfort him.  He made himself inconsolable.  He flung every carefully worded reassurance back at them.  They were insults.  Everyone, from his tiny cousin, who with innocent wide eyes told him her daddy’s spirit would protect her now, to the very Gods themselves, was mocking him. 
         As if to prove Daithi’s point, that year the Ice Gods struck early anyway, despite his uncle’s Sacrifice.  There was chaos throughout the community.  They had not prepared; they were not ready.  Hard gusts and freezing rain prevented them from fleeing to their winter home.  Creeping chill began destroying what food was still available.  Before long, they knew the heavy snows would come, filling every corner of their homes, killing more each night.
         Daithi’s cousin was the only surviving member of his uncle’s family.  The community turned on her, for somehow spoiling her father’s Sacrifice.  Somehow, she must have caused the Path Gods to forsake them.  How?  Everyone in the community asked her, at every opportunity.  Little children would sing it when they saw her; adults would ask carefully, under the guise of making things right; older leaders would whisper it among themselves.  The few zealots in the community shouted and ranted, blaming her and her alone for the ruin they now had to face. 
         It was terrible, but what made it all the worse was Daithi’s cousin.  She believed them.  Each day, when the air was colder and the food scarcer, she would rush to Daithi and bury her head in his chest, shaking with more than chill.  She would plead that she had never meant any harm, that she did not even know what she had done.  She would beg Daithi to tell her what it was, so she could make it right and save the community.  One evening she asked if she should go to the Path and Offer herself.  That was too much for Daithi.  He looked her direct in the eyes, and told her that her father was indeed worthy, and even if she had wanted she could not have tainted that.  Then, with a certainty he was surprised to discover in himself, he told her the Path Gods would save them.
         From that moment on, whenever the other community members tried to taunt her, Daithi stood up for her.  Whenever he heard her name mentioned, he stepped in.  He told everyone of her innocence, of her father’s worthiness, and of the Path Gods’ faithfulness.  Most found it odd for the youth who last year had lost a friend and this year lost an uncle to suddenly be so passionate.  Indeed, at times, Daithi seemed much like the zealots, standing before their home, declaring the community’s salvation was near.  “The Path Gods do not take the Sacrifice lightly!” he caught himself saying, “No matter how hard it is to believe, to accept, they will do good with that one Sacrificed life!” 
         But the Ice Gods’ grip tightened.  The community had never felt such cold.  It was enough to freeze breath in the air, leaving the misty cloud suspended at eye level well into the next breath.  One morning Daithi discovered what little food he had gathered for himself and his cousin had been stolen.  He tried to reassure his panicked cousin, telling her the Path Gods were coming, and they would not have to last long.  Inwardly, he admitted miserably the cold would kill them long before the starvation would.
         The following morning was when it happened.  The Miracle. 
         Everyone huddled together in their homes; none so much as ventured to their stores for food.  They were almost as frozen as the floors of their homes.  So no one saw the great moment when the Path Gods left their Path.  They came across the fields, along a trail, and stopped a short distance from the community.  Daithi and his cousin listened to their deep, rumbling voices and the sharp, booming sounds of their tools.  He dared not move to see them, or speak their names, in fear they would vanish.  He and his cousin looked into each others’ eyes, sharing their disbelief and excitement.  The sounds grew softer and stopped altogether.  Confusion, or disappointment, flickered in his cousin’s face.  Curiosity must have shown on his.  What had they done?  Then, in an experience Daithi could not to this day describe, he was soaring through the air.  He did not feel as if he was flying; rather, it seemed something had lifted him, supporting him on all sides. 
         As abruptly as he had been lifted, Daithi was set down again in a new place.  It was a home, much nicer than any other he had ever seen.  The floor, walls, and ceiling were smooth and even, unlike the rough homes his community usually built.  More important, it was clean and warm.  Daithi had nearly forgotten what real warmth and comfort were.  He closed his eyes and let out a long, contented breath. 
         At that moment, his cousin was set beside him.  She was terrified, and huddled on the floor.  Slowly she realized she was safe, and slowly she saw where she was.  Daithi could not keep the sheer glee from his face as he helped her to her feet.  She beamed back.  As she glanced past him into this new home, her expression changed from wonder to relief.  Daithi spun around.  A great store of fresh food and clean water had been piled behind them.  It was more than enough to get through the winter.  The two of them leapt about the new home, singing at the top of their lungs.  They heard other community members singing from other homes.  After listening to their praise, the Path Gods turned and went back to their Path.  That winter, the Ice Gods did not claim anyone.
         Daithi’s community remained in the new homes for the following three years.  Gradually the homes became worn, as they were difficult to maintain.  Then, in the year of the failed Offering, the Ice Gods tore them down.  Their ruins remained, though, as a reminder of the faithfulness of the Path Gods.  Daithi left early on the first day of the Offering each year, to give himself time to stand beneath the ruins and be reassured. 
         Daithi has to hop back to avoid being knocked over as the rambunctious youths race past again.  He shakes his head and brings himself back to the present.  Most of these youths here never thought of the Miracle as a true event.  They have seen the ruins and heard the stories, but they can not believe them.  Most of the older ones come from distant communities, gathered together in the wake of the failed Offering; they remember the tales of the Miracle as it was happening, but they are detached.  It is like any other story to be analyzed and interpreted.
         As if on cue, an older leader raises his voice. “They would not have needed to go through the trouble if they had done their job!  If they had dealt with the Ice Gods, as they are supposed to, the Miracle would not have been necessary.”
          Another counters, “They knew what they were doing, from the start.  They accepted the Offering, took their Sacrifice.”
         “I think that community found the ruins and crafted the tale.  It is a good story, but it does not ring true.”
         “Did you see the ruins before the failed Offering?”
         “Did you?”
         The priest steps between them, “Have you forgotten there is a witness of the Miracle here?” He looks to where Daithi is crouching. “Daithi!  What do you have to say to this?”
         Daithi tries to shrink, but they are already staring.  He manages to ask, “Say to what?”
         The priest smiles, an expression somewhere between apologetic and encouraging, “If the Path Gods should have handled the Ice Gods sooner, and thus avoided the trouble of creating homes.”
         Another takes a breath as if to speak, but awkwardly catches it before saying anything.  This is the response Daithi usually sees when the Miracle is discussed near him. 
         He drops his eyes and thinks for a moment, settling his thoughts into as few words as possible.  “The Miracle was necessary.  Had they done as always, we would have begun to doubt.  Instead, they allowed the threat, and when we could no longer claim any good fortune for ourselves—be it from a sturdy home or ample stores—they rescued us.  Our faith was, and can always be, restored.”  He glances up, sees the priest nod in approval, and hurries away.          
         Daithi is the only one left who experienced the Miracle.  Of the three other survivors from his community, one had been a Sacrifice, one had died of disease, and the third died on the last trip to the winter homes.  With Daithi’s death, the Miracle will truly become myth.  He sighs.  It matters little to him how others see it, only that they remember and take strength from it.
         “Be ready!” someone calls. 
         The crowd gathers at the Path’s edge.  Daithi smiles to himself, seeing the fearful desperately searching for their prepared footholds.  He shakes his head and takes his place.           
         Every head turns to look up and down the Path.  No one speaks.  They hardly breathe.  The air settles down around them.  It is the infinite moment before the Gods arrive.
         The young grow serious, as they grasp the reality of an Offering.  The fearful quiver ever so slightly, their anxiety nearly unbearable.  Daithi quiets his mind, releasing his thoughts with a simple plea, “Let someone be worthy.”  If it is someone else, and Daithi is spared, he will make the absolute most of the upcoming year.  If he is chosen, it will be for the good of all, and he will not fear it.  This peace has followed him since the day of the Miracle.  He closes his eyes, reveling in it.
         They feel the rumbling feet of a God on the Path.  “Now!” someone shouts.  Daithi wonders for an instant if it was the one who had led the practice earlier. 
         Before he has a chance to complete that thought, he is rushing out.  He strains forward, neither hurrying to spare himself nor slowing to give himself up.  That moment, as they throw themselves before their God, becomes eternity.  Daithi feels his mind drift away, separate from this frenzied and peaceful and infinite act.  “Let someone be worthy,” it whispers. 
         Something happens then that Daithi has never experienced before.  It catches his eye and pulls his mind back to him.  The God.  Daithi never saw them, not when his friend had been taken from his side, not when they reached down to place him in his sanctuary.  Each Offering was a suspended moment, the feeling of becoming one mass, and then it was over.  But not this time.  Daithi sees the God, rushing toward him.  His rhythm falters, his eyes widen.  It is...  Daithi feels he must praise it, but every word is inadequate.  Glorious.  Magnificent.  Beautiful.  Breathtaking.  Awe-inspiring.  He apologizes from the pit of his soul for his pathetic unworthiness.  The God leans forward, ready to take him.  Daithi closes his tearful eyes, and relaxes into the God’s grasp.


         WHUMP!!
“Damn birds,” the pickup’s driver grumbles, “They suicidal or somethin’?”