And Then They Trembled!

Chapter 4: Sacrifice

No. . .God no. . . anything but this. Why do they insist that I keep doing this? The barn, I can handle. The box, I can handle. Even the occasional beatings from Daddy are bearable once you get used to them. But this. . . this I'll never get used to.

"Come Rowena. It's time. You know the drill." Pastor Paul said, his friendly smile looking more sinister then usual as he held out the large knife in my direction.

The red fox whined pathetically behind him as the two men held it down. They weren't gentle either. In fact, they seemed to take some kind of pleasure in hearing the cries of the animal as they slammed it's neck down onto the stone slab that had been stained red from all the previous sacrifices they've forced me to participate in.

The members of the church filled up the four long white clothed picnic tables. Every eye was glued to me. Unblinking, some of them.

I walked up to Pastor Paul.

"I don't want to." I whispered to him. "Please. . ."

At least he had the curtesy to speak too softly for listening ears, "Rowena, you should be used to this by now. Every four months." His mouth held a smile but his eyes had a sharpness of which I hadn't seen before swimming among the usual green. He placed the knife into my hand and closed my fingers for me. Slick was the manner in which he existed. To anyone else it may have seemed like my own doing, grabbing the knife. The firmness of his grasp told me a different story then his demeanor told the crowd.

Perhaps he saw the small glint of fear in my eyes as I registered what exactly his firmness meant. For he suddenly softened his touch and began his seasonal sacrificial speech although it seemed oddly directed towards me this season.

"I see some disquieted faces among you." Pastor Paul said calmly, "Do not fret for the creature you see before you. As I said in todays sermon God is a forgiving god. But he is not a forgetful one. Every action has its consequence. Every gift has it's penance. This town is filled with souls that like up even the darkest edges of the deep forest as far as I'm concerned. But this town also has. . . .a past. One that must be atoned for. One that many of you I'm sure hasn't been lost to memory."

Solemn nods came from two thirds of the crowd. Followed by whispered curiosity by those who didn't nod. "I'll tell you later." came soon after.

"I won't go into it. This is a day of thanks and joy. Not one of guilt and regret. However, we must dip our toes into that murky pool of past actions just for a moment, and give sacrifice to the lord. So that his forgiveness does not go forgotten."

But why must I always be the one to hold the knife? It was always me. Thanksgiving, the winter festival, day of penance, and the dinner of resurrection harvest. I'm forced to cut into a beautiful creature of the forest. and every season it feels worst then the time before. And every time I do, I become so weakened by the experience. Like it drains the life out of me somehow.

I felt sick. My breath was getting caught into my throat. If it refused to go into my lungs, maybe I'd pass out or die. I wouldn't have to do it if I were dead. The world felt like it was spinning. The trees at the edge of the forest danced to a sickening rhythm and the haziness of my sight mixed with the natural whisp of the breeze.

The sun was burning hot. I know it wasn't actually hot. It was the end of November for gods sake. The air was crisp with a touch of cool as the brown, red, and yellow colors of the leaves gave a feeling of pumpkin pie and brown sugar on a normal day. Today they gave the image of burning rot.

I felt hands on me. Pushing me forward. The one direction I didn't want to go. Pastor Paul, his hand firmly on my back, guided me up behind the stone slab, so that all the crowd could bare witness.