Chapter 1
There once was a small lonely village, hidden away from the world by a river that swallowed anyone who stepped in it on one side and a deep dark forest where monsters lurked on the other. All of this made the people of the village backwards and self-reliant, for no one dared stray towards or from the town, but the village itself was subdued with rain falling everyday and mist rolling in like the tides all year round, however one wet winter it seemed as if the sun hadn’t shown herself in weeks, as if she were tucked in behind a blanket of thick cold haze, too sickly to show herself to the world. Without her light the crops grew sickly too, and what little the people of the tiny village had grew more little and wilted by the day and it wasn’t long before the people wailed with hunger, gnawing on their leather belts to calm their wrathing stomachs. They were lucky if they were to find a dead rabbit, who also fell victim to the famine, with barely enough meat on it’s bones for a bite. When the children started dying by the masses was when the people approached the Enchantress, whom resided on the outskirt of the small village, by the edge of the deep dark wood, her humble home entangled in thorn brambles that reached around every corner like spindly fingers reaching out of the Earth.
The villagers formed a flock around the Enchantress’s house, looking like a skin colored army of skeletons, however this was no mob bent on causing trouble for the Enchantress at all, instead it was a mob bent on begging for her aid. The butcher’s boy bravely stepped up to the porch before reaching out, quickly giving three quick raps on the dilapidated door before he stepped back, nearly tumbling off the stone as he did.
Silence.
After moments of stillness the door opened, revealing a slender chalky hand that reached forth from the pitch shadows. “Yes?” The enchantress was faceless, her body shrouded in the dark shadows of her humble home. For a moment more the stillness grew more still, and not even the brook babbled, not even the wind blew through the emaciated trees. No one dare breathe or blink. “Yes?” The Enchantress repeated from the within darkness, her voice rising barely over a whisper that, despite its softness, rang in the ears of the villagers like the scream of a bell. An embolden women at the front of the flock speaks up, her voice hoarse, filled with rifts and breaks, “It is the famine. Please. End the famine.” She pleaded, her eyes like grey puddles as the wind began to move again.
“It’s killed all my hogs and my goats. I have nothing to eat, nor do my children!” A farmer spoke, shoving some aside.
“It’s taken my daughter, Clara. She was only a baby, four months last week,” Sobbed a woman, soon joined by the whimpers and weakened weeps of other mothers who had shared a similar misfortune, but were too exhausted themselves to mourn.
“And it won’t be long before we follow!” The silversmith called from the back of the mob, “Tell us how to stop the famine!” He angrily demanded, stomping toward the porch. After perhaps a step or two he stopped in his tracks, eyes like saucers and pupils like pins, his hands were clenched into brutish fists before they slowly relaxed, crackling under the sudden release. The shrouded woman clicks her tongue before stretching out her open palm once more towards the skeleton people, bringing her three middle fingers towards her own self. Finally a young boy was enlightened and began emptying out his pocket, reaching and reaching for anything of value that may have fallen into the abyss of lint and crumbs. Other follow his lead, mimicking him like apes. They all empty their pockets. One had a silver button, another with a half dollar, and one even possessed a piece of a broken brooch that she had inherited from her late grandmother, despite it’s strong sentimental hold she eagerly pawed it over into the Enchantress’s snowy palm. Once satisfied with her harvest she snatched back her hand quickly. “If it is a harvest you want, then the goddess must be fed.”
The older villagers cast glances to one another while the children tugged on their mothers’ skirts, “Who are we feeding?”
“You said we wouldn’t have to do that after the last one,” The shepherd grunted.
“That was the last one. The Goddess wants a new one. Do you question my prophecy?” The Enchantress asked with a tone that made the children clutch their mothers’ legs and hide their faces. The shepherd deflated, the Enchantress’s words stealing his courage. “Who then?” A pale-faced milk maid asks, her hands placed on her children’s bony shoulders.
“That is your decision to make.” The Enchantress said before a cold gust of wind blows, slamming the door shut and leaving the villagers in a dazed cold quietness
That night, while all the children slept tucked in their beds, the villagers gathered by the old Church, settling in the decaying pews as the elder’s congregated by the pulpit, speaking in hushed whispers. It all came down to the elders, every decision carried out, every choice was made by the elders, for they were the ones who had lived. In a world where life was short and aching, living to grow wrinkled and decrepit was not only a strange oddity to be treasured but a sign of discipline and perseverance in a painful unforgiving world, where slipping away into the dark oblivion of death was a temptation. And so they whispered and plotted for what seemed like hours as the villagers nervously sat in their rows, staring at everything but each other- look at the stained glass windows that had faded and fractured, look at the dust lingering in the air, look at the splintering beams, look at everything but each other, for if they didn’t look at each other they wouldn’t have to think of what was to come. Finally, the elders turned, the candle light guiding the shadows of their hideous faces in a dance,
“We’ve decided to give another girl.”
Just before dawn, each household with a daughter under the age of 16 was opened to the elders, where they examined each sleeping girl, with their parents stand by, hoping and wishing silently. Mothers rushed home, smearing dirt on their children’s cheeks to feign birthmarks, making sure scars were apparent, even going as far as to smother the girls in crushed animal bones as to palen their skin to make them appear more sickly. Each one was swept over with eyes looking for any sign of a suitable sacrifice. Too skinny, to plump, eyes too far apart, peculiar toe, short fingers, tangled hair, warts, crooked teeth. Finally they reached the room of 14 year old Lyra, who slept soundly. No powder, no dirt, no scars marred her skin, for her parents were most confident their daughter would not be picked, for she had a secret abnormality. As the elders lingered in the room, whispering Lyra’s mother quietly interjected, “She is blind, you do not want her.”
The elders turned, with startling soft smiles, “She will do just fine. We’ve made our selection.”
