I hope the bonfires do keep evil spirits at bay if there are such things.
The Sanctuary
THORA PLACES THE LAST EGG INTO my basket and squeals, sending the hens into a clucking frenzy.
“You didn’t drop any. That’s a sign of good luck,” I say with a sigh of relief as we exit the coop.
Every egg is now a precious commodity, and I almost didn’t let my sister help. I pat her head, still adorned with her adorable floral crown, and she skips her way to the back door of the house. In our matching brown work dresses, we pack our rusted wagon for the market. Mama steps onto the back porch with a heaping armful of cheeses.
“These are ready to take, my darlings,” Mama says and peers at the darkening sky. “Oh dear, it looks like rain. After the market, you two will want to hurry to the Sanctuary and get seats inside.”
“Or you could go early and save us seats,” I goad her, knowing well she won’t leave the house, even for the May Day Jubilee.
Mama sighs and pouts as she dumps the cheese into the wagon. Without a word, she returns to the kitchen and works on a tart using the leftover wild strawberries. Her thin frame hunches over the countertop as she kneads the dough and plucks the greens from the little red fruits. She then places the greens in a wooden bowl to eat as a salad for dinner. Nothing can go to waste.
Thora and I are about to set out for the square when there’s a light knock on the front door. After checking to make sure my boots aren’t too muddy, I stride from the back of the house to the front and open the door. All the blood rushes from my head.
A veiled priestess of Bergot flanked by two patrolmen stands before me. She is shrouded in layers of black muslin blowing in the wind. My heart races at her appearance.
No. No. No.
The veil cloaking her face is a matte black, absorbing the colors all around. The thin, sweeping layers appear to have been spun by cursed black-silk spiders and drape from her head to her feet. She extends her thin arm with a dark rectangle of paper clutched in her impossibly long fingers.
I take the Black Letter and stare at my fate. The textured cardstock is heavy in my hands as the silvery-white ink of the calligraphy glistens, mocking me with every minuscule change of the light. I can barely read the message through the tears puddling in my eyes.
Blessed Day
It is with great honor that you, Gisela Sauer,
on this May Day Jubilee
have been chosen as an Offering
to the noble and generous Goddess Bergot.
The Priestess of Bergot will escort you to the Sanctuary
to prepare for the Offering Ceremony.
Members of the Sauer household:
This letter is your reservation for seats inside the Sanctuary.
Warm regards,
High Priest Schulze and the Priestesses of Bergot
Time stands still, and everything beckons my attention at once. My temples pound from drinking too much wine last night. Mama drops to my side, wailing into the hem of my dress and making unintelligible shrieks. Thora follows suit, clutching my dress and twisting her face to copy Mama. The sun-bleached wood of our tiny house matches the stormy color of the sky above the high mountains. The front porch swing squeaks as it glides to and fro with the wind. My breaths grow shallow and erratic. My hands begin shaking as the reality of the situation sets in.
It’s the letter I’ve dreaded for years, but here it is gripped in my bony fingers. I was supposed to worry about how to support my family after losing my job. What color dress I would make for Thora’s upcoming sixteenth birthday. If I would ever find time for romance or even find time to reconnect with old school friends. But here I am, standing on the front porch, with a Black Letter of Death in my hand.
The priestess stares at me through her layers of gauze and gestures to her shiny black steed tied to a post near the dirt road. “Gisela Sauer, you have one hour to say your goodbyes before we leave.”
Heavy footsteps creak through the house and make their way to my side. Papa glances at the Black Letter in my hand with a drooping face and puffy, red-rimmed eyes. Stepping over Mama’s shaking body, he looks up with a tear slipping down his freckled cheek.
“No. Please, Priestess. Not her,” he says in a weak whisper. “We can’t lose another child. Choose someone else.”
“That I cannot. I am very sorry.” The priestess takes a step closer to Papa. “You know what the high priest can do.”
Brushing past the priestess and patrolmen, Papa walks around the house and returns with an ax. Cursing and grunting with every chop, Papa takes his aggression out on a stack of logs in our front yard. The three black horses snort and buck in fear. The patrolmen rush toward them, but the priestess turns and raises her palm. It glows with a burning white light until the animals settle.
I’ve heard rumors that the priestesses possessed the magic of Bergot but have never seen it with my own eyes. I’d be more impressed if I weren’t in shock over my impending death.
Papa drops the heavy tool at his side after hacking through four or five logs and collapses to his knees. I can’t watch him lose another child. Ripping my dress from Mama’s grasp, I pat Thora’s pretty little head and go inside.
This home has been haunted by Wil’s memories for years. Now my absence too will hang thick in the air no matter how many seasons pass.
I drop the Black Letter on the table and tiptoe out the back door. Our wagon full of milk, cheese, and eggs will go unsold today and most likely rot in place—like my family. My legs twitch, and a burning sensation flows to my feet.
I burst into a sprint.
I run through our yard. I run through the fields of Schulze Farm. I run through the woods, not caring if the branches scrape my arms with every stride. I run until I reach the edge of Schulze Lake. Screaming, I fall to my knees on the pebbly shore, shaky and weak with despair.
The glassy body of water is too still. The reflection of the mountain is too serene and permanent. The view is too calm for the turmoil I feel inside. Thunder roars from above and matches the heat searing through my cheeks and chest. I walk back ten paces, turn, and sprint into the lake.
Under the water, the upward rush of bubbles tickles my skin and sets my nerves ablaze. I hold my breath until my burning lungs threaten to betray me and suck in the frigid water all around. Pushing myself from the slippery lakebed, I gasp when my head pierces the vitreous surface. I float on my back, weightless, staring at the stormy sky. Raindrops pelt my face and plop into the lake, disturbing it with tiny splashes and rings of ripples.
I pray to Bergot for lightning to strike me. But it doesn’t. I must go back for my family, so they don’t get in trouble with the high priest.
I step onto the lakeshore, drenched. What the hell was I thinking? It’s not as if I have an abundance of clothes. My brown dress is heavy and clings to my legs, making the journey a challenge. The patrolmen find me about halfway and drag me home. We enter through the back door of the house, and I ignore my family huddled in a crying heap at the kitchen table.
The priestess remains in the front doorway and pulses her draped finger in a circle as she whispers, “Tick, tick, tick, Gisela.”
Glaring at the creepy bitch, I wriggle myself loose from the patrolmen. I slam the door to my bedroom, which will now be Thora’s alone. After peeling the soaked brown fabric from my skin, I collapse onto my mattress. I try, but I can’t even force myself to cry.