Reaching under my bed, I retrieve the wooden box Papa engraved with my initials. Inside is my old magic collection. The crystals clink as my fingers brush against them while the bundles of dried flowers and herbs release their soothing scents. I close my eyes and sway back and forth, remembering a simpler time.
I used to burn incense by the creek and arrange my pretties along the bank. I would make-believe curses and charms and read the palms of whoever paid me with crystals. Brahm was my number one customer. I wish I had taken that beautiful amethyst from him yesterday.
After tucking the box back into its place, I scream into my pillow and punch the headboard. Fuck, that hurts. Sitting naked on my bed, I rub my sore knuckles and shake my head. There’s no getting out of this either.
Years ago, an Offering’s family attempted to fake their death. They hid their son in a wine cellar and burned the shed, reporting he had been inside. The high priest executed the entire family for their lies.
I pull myself together and slip into my asparagus-green skirt and off-white blouse from yesterday. I squeeze some of the lake water from my red locks, but it’s no use. I’m a dirty Offering. Though I should remove it, Wil’s dagger remains strapped to my leg. It reminds me of happier times, my family, and who I am. I want it with me when I die.
In the kitchen, my parents form a protective ball around me. They wail into my shoulders, and I don’t know whose arm is whose. I wish to be a child again when my parents could take away all the problems in the world. Lately, they’ve been the problem. Thora stares at us with her head tilted, and her bottom lip pouted. What will happen to her if my parents don’t get their shit together?
When Mama and Papa ease up, I’m in a haze. The fuzzy forms of my family speak, but their voices circle my ears with the draft created by the open doors. I spin around, and the priestess again pulses her finger in the clock gesture. Does she know we had to pawn our only clock this past winter?
I give Thora a hug, sobbing into her neck. The grief of saying goodbye to my sister and best friend presses on my heart like a stone.
“Don’t cry, GiGi. I got you,” she says, imitating how Mama and I speak to her.
“I love you, Thora. Remember what Cinderella’s mother said? Dear child, be good and pious. Help Mama and Papa. You can collect eggs and milk the goats as I taught you. As a last resort, Papa can slaughter or sell a goat.” I pause. What else do I say? What else can help? “Maybe Brahm will provide you with fish or give you a job to help with his music lessons. Alright? Don’t be afraid to ask people for help.”
“What?”
How do I explain to Thora that she’ll never see her sister again? I’m her rock, and she is mine. I stare into her wide brown eyes, afraid to break her precious heart. My lip trembles as I hold back my tears. “GiGi has to go away forever.”
“No!” Thora tugs at my hair and dress, pulling me to the wood floor with her. She screams louder than I’ve ever heard before as she slams her fists into both me and the ground. “NO!”
“Thora, it’s alright, sweetie,” Mama whispers as I sit up and cradle my sister.
The priestess steps to my side and reaches for my arm. Resisting the urge to yell fuck off, I tighten my embrace around Thora, who is still shrieking and wailing. She thrashes against me for only a moment longer until her energy dwindles, and her body goes limp. My sister cries into my chest as I fight the painful sting of tears forming behind my eyes. Mama and Papa squat to rub Thora’s back.
“I love you so much, Thora,” I say. “I’m sorry I won’t be here for you. But I’ll love you forever. GiGi’s always in your heart.”
The patrolmen grab my arms and yank me toward the door. Thora and my parents sit on the floor, their faces drained and eyes empty.
“Let me go!” I wrestle against the patrolmen’s grip as the tears come pouring down my cheeks. “No!”
The priestess steps behind me, blocking the view of my family, and raises her palm. A glowing light hits me and makes my body fall slack so the patrolmen can drag me toward the horses. They force me onto the one with the priestess. Sitting behind me, the priestess props me up and reaches for the reins with her bony arms.
Flanked by the patrolmen, we gallop toward the North Mountain until the Bergot Sanctuary dominates my view. The ancient temple is a man-made cave carved into the tallest mountain. It has many pointed arches, niches containing sculptures of past High Priests, and thin columns adorned with intricate floral designs that match the edelweiss flower on my dagger.
A gigantic sculpture of Bergot Herself stands in the center of the deep cavern. The Priestesses of Bergot dress in their shrouded layers to imitate the goddess. The craftsmanship of the statue is unbelievable; the delicate layers of veils draping her body look too realistic to be carved from the stone.
Among other things, the virginal priestesses are charged with keeping the flames lit atop the statue’s veiled head, giving the appearance of a fiery diadem. Legend has it, Bergot’s true crown was lost long ago and is the source of great power.
Early-bird villagers have already formed a line outside the temple, hoping to get a seat on one of the rock benches inside the cave. Most people will have to stand in the surrounding fields for the ceremony. The acoustics of the cave allows thousands of people to hear the words of the high priest. The dark clouds blow away, revealing more sunshine with every passing minute. Such a lovely day for a death sentence.
When we arrive, my tears have dried from the wind, but I’m certain my cheeks are streaked with salty, red marks. The priestess dismounts the horse and extends her hand, returning my strength to me. I hop from the other side, refusing her help. She glides as if she has no feet and ushers me toward the cave with the patrolmen following close behind.
As I step into the cool shade of the cavern, my eyes climb to the one hundred tapestries lining the stone walls. Colorful threads, some gleaming and gold, woven into a dark background bring to life the old fairy tales. According to legend, Bergot herself hung the fabric images in the Sanctuary. The stories had been passed down orally for generations until they were written down in a book, preserved for all eternity.
The ancient artifacts ripple against the cave walls and warp in the wind. When I was younger, I thought I could see the images in the tapestries actually move.
The priestess turns to the patrolmen. “That will be all, gentlemen. I can handle the maiden from here. Blessed Day.”
“Blessed Day,” the patrolmen say with a bow and take their posts.
I follow the priestess down the side of the Sanctuary and through a dark tunnel, lit with only a few torches. We enter a small room carved into the rock. The dampness creates beads of water on the stone walls and causes a chill to crawl over my skin. The priestess shuts a wooden door behind us and locks it with a rusted, metal bar.
A pitcher in a bowl, a towel, chains, hairpins and a brush, something folded and white, and a black canvas bag lie on a wooden table.
“What’s all that for?”
The priestess offers no response. My heart races in terror, but I know she won’t kill me yet. I must be presented along with the other Offerings in front of the villagers. The veiled lady pours water into the bowl and dampens the towel.
“Off with your clothes,” she says in her deep, yet feminine voice.