I was cowering under my blankets when I felt a rough hand shake me gently by my shoulder. I pulled the blanket back away from my head, and as I expected, there was Father, looking at me sadly and silently, pointing out my window.
Even before he entered my room to wake me, I knew something awful was going to happen. That chilly autumn night, I was already awake, and I had seen what was in the sky. Looming up there was something I had learned to be afraid of, something I had seen many times, even though now it was only a few weeks after my twelfth birthday.
The moon was red. The red of a hot iron at the forge.
I don’t remember the first few times it happened when I was really little. Father told me that the moon turned red twice when I was two, and again when I was three. I remembered the time it happened when I was four, and since then, once or twice a year, Father would enter my room, shake my shoulders until I woke up, and point silently at the window. Each time, the moon was shining with that same dull, fearful red.
Tonight was different only because I was already awake when he came in. I had been tossing and turning in bed all night. My blanket was just too thin and worn to keep out the cold. I got tired of laying there trying to sleep, and crept over to my little pine bookshelf instead. I pulled out my favorite collection of Moorson’s fairy tales, and tried to read it by the soft, silver-white light of the full moon. It helped, for a while. It was easier to ignore the cold while reading. However, as I finished one of my favorite stories, about a young shepherd who lost his flock, the moonlight suddenly got very dim. I looked up just in time to see the soft silver-white glow shift into that awful, familiar red.
If I hadn’t seen that color so many times, maybe I would call it a sad or lonely red. People always talk about “blood-red” being a scary color, but this wasn’t like blood at all. It reminded me most of a hot piece of metal coming out of the furnace at Mr. Pearson’s, our town blacksmith, and nobody is afraid of Mr. Pearson. He’s a nice man, with a gruff voice but always smiling when he talks to kids like me and my brothers.
This was different. By now, everyone else and I knew exactly what that red meant when we saw it on the face of the moon. I threw my book onto the little table by my bed and hid under my blanket. I thought that maybe if I went back to sleep, it would be gone in the morning. What if this time wasn’t like the others? I might already be in a bad dream! I curled up there, hoping that I would fall asleep and wake up and it would be a bright, sunny morning. Nobody would remember that the moon had turned red and everything would be just fine.
But I was wrong. I don’t know how long I laid there shivering with my eyes shut tight, but after a little while I heard the door open and Father entered the room. When he shook me by the shoulder, I sat up and uncovered my head and looked at him. He looked back and his eyes were sad and hopeless, like he had given up. Like I wanted to. He pointed at the moon through my window without a word, just like he always did. I nodded, and turned to get out of bed. My bare feet scraped on the rough old wooden floor. He left to wake up my brothers.
I stood up and put on my clothes as quickly as I could. I had a rough pair of brown wool traveling pants that I got as a hand-me-down from my big brother Michael, and a clean but very worn gray linen shirt from my oldest brother William. I put on my straw sandals and found my pack. I stuffed another set of clothing and a couple of books inside. Probably I wouldn’t need them, but Father had taught me to be prepared. I walked down the hall toward the front door, where Michael and William were waiting. They were standing near the door, looking sleepy and sad. William handed me a small bag of crackers and dried fruit that I tucked into my pack.
“The moon again,” Michael complained quietly, and William looked at him with a dark expression. Nobody said anything else. We stood there until Father appeared with little Sammy in his arms. Sammy was only five, and I wondered whether this night would be the first one he remembered as he grew up. That thought made me even sadder.
Father nodded at all of us and opened the door. A burst of cold air swept in and I wrapped my arms around myself and shuddered. I wanted to run back into my room and curl up in my blanket, but I knew waiting wouldn’t make anything better. We all marched out into the darkness.
The rule was that we had to walk to the altar, which was quite a few miles away. We couldn’t take our horses or our cart. It wasn’t allowed. I didn’t know why.
I did know that it would only take a few hours to get there, but the trail was rough and rocky and it seemed like all the plants that were growing in the road that night had thorns. I trudged along watching the ground around my feet. I tried my best to avoid every little shadow in the dirt because each one might be a clump of thistle or cat’s-head.
The walk to the altar was slow, sad, and quiet. All of us knew we would need to save our breath. As we walked, heads hung low, the red light of the moon hit the trees on one side of the trail and cast creepy shadows across our path that looked like scared, screaming people. The angle of the shadows never changed as we walked. The moon stayed right where it was when it turned red, and even the clouds were still. My books had never been able to explain how it does that.
Soon, I could hear a faint murmur on the wind. I looked up and saw the faraway crowd. At this distance, they looked like a big hairy blob gathering around the brightly-lit altar. We were still at least a mile away. We could run away now if that’s what we wanted to do. But I remembered what had happened when one of the other families tried to run a few years ago. One of them had been chosen because they weren’t there to defend themselves, and the groups who volunteered to ensure that the choice happened were not their friends. What those people did to them before they got them to the altar was horrible. So we kept walking.
As we got closer, the murmur grew to a dull roar, punctuated every once in a while with an angry shriek. I shuddered every time I heard it. We all knew whose shriek it was. The Higthar family’s matriarch—that’s what I had heard my father call her when he was talking to another grown-up—was well-known for her loud arguments for the choice. I always thought it was horrible how she convinced people with cruel insults and foggy accusations, but as much as I hated it I also saw that she often got her way.
She would scream and rave about the crimes and dishonors that the other families had committed against hers, and demand that one of them be chosen. In the noisy mess of dozens of people screaming the same kinds of awful accusations, she was the loudest, the most angry voice. I was scared of her, with her wrinkled face and missing teeth and awful shriek. I was scared of her even in the daylight, even when we weren’t making a choice.
As we got closer, I could start to understand some of the words. She claimed that one of the Kirson boys had taken a calf from one of her grandchildren. She was very good at blaming other people without giving any proof. One of the Kirson women retorted with an accusation that a Higthar woman had put a curse on her goats, and now their milk was sour. The crowd screamed and jeered and roared as the accusations flew back and forth, reaching peak after peak as the voice of that mean Higthar lady rose above them all again and again.
We started mingling our way through the crowd, and a few of our friends greeted us quietly, keeping their heads down, just like us. My brother William had told me that that was the best way to deal with the choice. Keep your head down and stay quiet. More often than not, it was one of the loudest people that was chosen.
But the Higthar lady was proof that being loud could be a shield, too, wasn’t she? It made me feel like I didn’t know what to do, and being slow was always bad on a night with a choice.
All at once the argument stopped, because the loudest people there now shouted sarcastic welcomes toward my father. Father clenched his fist and said nothing as one of them, a middle-aged man from the Redlig family, yelled about how happy he was that we were finally here, and now there was only one more family to wait for. The Redlig man grimaced evilly as he tried to trick Father into yelling some kind of insult in response. I saw Father’s jaw move, but he was strong even under all this abuse. He knew that if he said anything, it would bring even more attention onto us.
Then, one elderly man, also from the Redlig family, placed his hand gingerly on the arm of the yelling man. I remembered him. He had once given me and my brothers each a piece of bright blue hard candy while we were at the market one morning last spring. He was a nice old man, always outside his family’s shop polishing the rocking chairs, or reading while he sat in one of them. The candy had tasted like blackberries.
He reminded his younger cousin that our family lived quite far from the altar, and that we had arrived as quickly as anyone could expect us. The loud man seemed to calm down, but his face was still angry and his eyes mean as he shrank back into the crowd.
The silence didn’t last long. Someone else started yelling about the one family that hadn’t arrived yet, the Ulsters. They lived closer to the altar than we did, and part of the crowd began to demand we make the choice without them. A few accused them of trying to run. I heard a few people in the crowd try to start a low, creepy chant, but not enough people joined in, thank goodness. One other elderly man raised his hand and, when the crowd quieted down, said that the Ulsters had twin babies this year, and that it hadn’t been long since the moon had turned. There was a moment of quiet, and then there was a pulse of red light from the sky. The moon suddenly shined a little brighter, and the peace and silence failed as ten more arguments started.
My father, my brothers, and I all stayed as quiet as we could. Michael almost got goaded into a fight with one of the Higthar boys, but Father put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. We had all agreed during the last red moon to stay quiet until we really needed to, but it was so hard! Every time the light of the moon reflected off of something, whether it was the slick surface of the altar or even just someone’s glasses, I felt so angry that I had to bite my tongue.
A few minutes later, a cry rose up from the edge of the crowd, and I heard shouts that the Ulsters had arrived. Several of the families made faces at them, and others shouted angrily, and the Ulsters frowned and muttered angrily, too. I wanted to yell that they had only been an hour later than us. Everyone was in such a hurry to make the choice that it scared me. Nobody had ever told me why there was such a rush. Maybe I would learn it someday, but part of me worried that learning why might be even worse.
Now that all fifteen of the families had gathered, the worst part of the meeting could begin. People began pointing at others and shouting that we should choose them. The people who were being pointed at pointed and shouted back. Some people got angry, but others got scared and tried to hide as best they could.
“One of our family was chosen last time!” screamed one person.
“One of ours the time before that!” yelled another.
“You’re only here to nurse your grudges!”
“How dare you insult me and my family like that!”
The accusations flew back and forth like that. It got louder and angrier and before long some of them were pushing each other. I clamped my hands over my ears and closed my eyes and told myself I would wait for it to end. That’s all I had to do.
But it didn’t end, and after a few more minutes, I became aware that the muffled yells that were getting through my hands were becoming familiar and repetitive.
They were shouting my name.
Oh, no.
I looked up and saw that the shoving match had moved a bunch of people between me and my family. I saw my father, terror in his eyes, looking at me from a little ways away. The old Higthar lady was yelling my name, over and over, and pointing at me with some kind of accusation, but I didn’t know what.
“Why shouldn’t we choose you!” she screamed at me. “Standing there as if you’re above us! Say something, give us a reason not to!”
I opened my mouth but I couldn’t form any words. I made a sound, but it wasn’t words, just kind of a moan. I was so scared!
“He has no defense!” she yelled. Then the crowd started chanting my name again. Low and slow at first, they got louder and louder. Now my father and brothers finally used their voices! This was why we had saved our breath! They cried out not to choose me, that I was innocent, that I was too young! Our family had been chosen only a few years ago! They shouted as loud as they could, but the crowd was louder. Father and William tried to push through the crowd toward me, and some men from other families grabbed them and held them back. Two more men gripped my arms just under my shoulders and lifted me up, marching me to the center of the altar. I was too scared to try to get away.
I saw that silver slab, with grooves running across the floor around it and away to the back. The men carried me to the slab and laid me down on it. It was smooth and icy cold, even through my clothes. Then there was the smell. Even though it looked like clean metal, it stank like rust.
I kicked my feet but the slab was slippery and I didn’t have anything good to push against. Two more men came from the crowd to hold my feet. One was the Redlig man who had tried to pick a fight with my father. He made a face at me, a crazy, scary grin. The old man who had given me and my brothers candy was nowhere to be seen, now.
Finally, one old man, with most of his head shaved except for a little topknot dyed red at the tip, walked toward me. He looked at me with such deep sorrow as he stepped up to the side of the slab. In his hands was a curved dagger with a shiny silver blade and a brass handguard. It was the same ceremonial dagger that I had already seen many times in my short life, but now it was coming toward me, even as the man holding it looked so sad.
He raised it up, and the crowd went silent. Then the knife came down. I heard my father scream, “No!” He was so loud it didn’t even sound like him.
Then, blackness.
***
I opened my eyes. The altar, the crowd, even my family—they were all gone. I was laying on a dusty piece of ground, and all around me was bright, almost white dirt. Even though the ground was lit up like daylight, the sky was pitch-black, and instead of the moon, I saw a strange blue-and-green circle in the sky, and I saw the sun, moving across the sky much faster than it should have.
I stood up and looked around, and as far as I could see, there was nothing around me but that same light gray sand. Sometimes it was piled in a little hill, and sometimes it made a little ring. But everywhere it was the same fine, dry dust, with no plants or water anywhere I could see.
It was very strange, like nothing I had ever seen, not even in books!
Then, everything went dark in what seemed like just a few seconds. I looked around, and after a second I realized that the sun had just fallen past the horizon. Wherever I was, it was nighttime now.
A strange feeling came over me. The fear and anger from around the altar were gone, replaced by a feeling of contentment. It was strange at first, and unsettling, like a familiar song you can barely hear, but after a few minutes I started to like it.
I turned around to look at the dark spaces around me, and in one direction, and one direction only, I thought I saw something. It was very faint, but it looked like a little bit of golden light. The funny thing was, when I turned toward that golden glow, I felt that weird feeling of contentment get stronger.
So, I started walking toward it. What else could I do? I had not gone very far when the sun appeared again on the opposite horizon, and I stopped to watch it begin its journey across the sky. It was going so fast that it seemed like a whole day went by in what felt like less than an hour. I had no idea why, and all I could do was guess. I thought about my books, but even with all the time I had spent reading them, I didn’t have a clear answer.
I started walking again. That weird feeling got stronger. Sometimes my path twisted a little, as I tried to get around a hill. The dusty sand was not easy to climb, and when I first tried to scale a little hill my feet sank into the dust. I grabbed at the hill with my hands and clumps of dust came away easily. I fell, and the dust made a big cloud around me, but somehow it didn’t make me cough or sneeze. After it settled, I decided to go around the hills instead of trying to climb them. Each time my direction changed, that feeling of contentment changed with it.
It was a little creepy, but I was kind of grateful that it was so easy to know which way I was going. Once when I was seven, I got lost in the forest once for a whole night. William found me in the morning. That one night alone had been so scary, with the sounds of things moving around me in the darkness and that feeling of having no idea what to do next. Here, I could never get lost!
I trudged along like this for a long time. I stopped counting the times the sun crossed over my head at a hundred. Another strange thing was that I didn’t feel hungry or thirsty at all. My feet weren’t sore, I wasn’t too hot or too cold, and I didn’t sweat, either. There was only that feeling of contentment, getting stronger every hour and filling me with a soft happy feeling and a wonderful, comfortable sense of my place in the world. Even though I didn’t know what world this was.
Each time the sun went below the horizon, I saw that faint glow in the distance again. I was getting closer, but I still couldn’t tell how far away it was. Well, it was the only clue I had, and I had nothing better to do than to seek it out. I reached behind me and realized my pack was gone! But I wasn’t hungry, so I guess that was okay. I did kind of miss the book I had packed, though. It was a nice book with lots of drawings about plants you could eat out in the wild. But since there were no plants in sight, I guess it wouldn’t have done me any good.
I must have walked for days, but I never felt the tiniest bit tired or anything. The strange glow got closer and closer, until finally I could see what it was. I saw thousands of people in the distance, all moving around the weird dusty landscape. They weren’t doing anything loud or hurried, they just seemed to stand together in little groups and some of them walked from group to group very calmly every once in a while. Nobody seemed to notice me at this distance. It was totally different from that crowd around the altar. The people here made no sound and even though they were moving around, I didn’t see anything that looked like a fight or even an argument.
I was so very happy to see some people after all that walking that I started running. Before long, one of them saw me, and he waved his hands until he had most of their attention. They all turned to see me, and one of them stepped out in front of the group. It took me a moment to recognize her, it had been so long since I had seen her. But she recognized me instantly.
She was my Mother. I hadn’t seen her in four years. When she was chosen, she had volunteered. She was already so sick and weak that we had known she wouldn’t be around much longer.
She had told me not to be sad, but I didn’t listen. Before I had gotten here, it had still hurt, even though in four years I had learned to tuck it deep in my heart with all the other hurts.
Now there was no reason to be sad! As I ran toward her, she opened her arms and I ran into her big hug. She closed her arms around me and I hugged her back, and we stayed that way for some time. I was so happy. She wasn’t sick anymore! She stood up straight and her face was smooth and rosy. Finally, I pulled myself back to arm’s length and—
I couldn’t say anything. I could open my mouth, and I could think of how words ought to sound and how I would say them, but I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t force my throat to make a moan or a whisper. I couldn’t even make my lips move to make the right shapes!
It was so strange that I started to feel stupid and embarrassed, like when I got called on in school but didn’t have the answer, even though the rest of the class seemed to. I stood there trying to form a word and just couldn’t do it.
Mother saw me struggling, and calmed me with a warm look and a happy smile. She tousled my hair and nodded at me. She understood what I was trying to do, even though I couldn’t say anything to her, and I was so relieved.
Another person came to stand at my side. I stared at his smiling face and tried to remember who he was. When he stopped grinning, I realized that I knew his face from a painting that I had seen at my grandpa’s house. He was my great-uncle Michael—my big brother was named after him—but I never met him because, before I was born, he...
I stepped back and looked around at the faces around me, and I realized who I was seeing. Every person standing around me was someone who had been chosen. All of them were there, smiling, happy, and warm. I had been so scared just a little bit ago, but now it seemed like a faraway memory. I saw one of the Redlig boys, the son of the man who was so angry and wrathful, and so happy when he got a chance to bind my leg to that altar. His son’s wavy red hair swished all over the place as he played tag with a few other kids. I saw the three Higthar girls who had been chosen one after another when I was just a little kid. They were the reason that old lady had turned into the terrifying creature she was today.
All around me, the chosen stood, and I was one of them now, I guess. That sense of contentment and happiness washed over me again, and suddenly I was no longer sad that I had been chosen. It was so wonderful here! No pain, or hunger, or loss! It would be so different if they knew there was nothing to fear! I looked down at my chest, where there was not even a little bit of a mark. I never even felt that awful knife!
Why? Why can’t we tell them? We have to tell them! I still couldn’t say anything, so I clasped my hands together and prayed. I wanted to tell Father, William, Michael, and everyone there was nothing to fear. I wanted to tell them all, but maybe that was asking too much. If only one of them could understand that the choice was not something to be feared and hated, that would be enough. If just one of them knew, he could tell the rest! Then nobody would have to be scared, and nobody would have to fight over it!
There was a sound, like a huge golden bell ringing off in the distance, just once. The sound was low, and clear, and mournful. It vibrated through my whole body. I felt my eyes tear up just from the pure sadness of it.
All of the people around me looked up and around as they listened to that sad sound, too. Then my great-uncle brought his eyes down level with mine. He looked deeply into my eyes, and smiled a sad smile, the saddest smile I had ever seen. He nodded at me once, slowly, like he understood everything. Then the whole landscape around me changed color, and I realized where I was.
The moon was red. The red of a hot iron at the forge.
END
I hope you enjoyed this short story. I was inspired by the cold, amoral worlds in Marcel Schwob’s Double Heart, or Coeur Double in the original French. I recently read and reviewed a collection of his short stories which contained English translations of some of his stories out of two collections: Double Heart and The King in the Golden Mask. The stories in Double Heart were very interesting because they often ignored the urge to include some kind of a message in favor of weaving a strange and ambivalence-inducing narrative in an amoral world. His story “The Amber-trader” was close to what I was going for.
See my review here.
“What is the right thing for the people of the world in my story to do? Will the cycle ever end? The world itself must be designed to propagate ‘the choice’ against the deeper wishes of the people, to what end?”
These were the thoughts I had in mind as I wrote the first draft of this story. Even I’m not sure if there’s really a right answer to these questions, but that’s kind of the point. The world is stacked against the people, and even benevolent thoughts continue the cycle.
One thing that was tough was trying to write with the voice of a twelve-year-old kid. The protagonist is a bookish one, but still not with a huge vocabulary or sense of flowery language. I considered changing over to a third-person perspective but in the end I decided against it.
The cover image is edited by me, starting from a royalty-free image by Ganpathy Kumar, courtesy Unsplash.
Thank you for reading, and stick around for more book and story reviews, and more original fiction!
And as always, you can find free shorts and some of my longer stories for sale here.
No comments:
Post a Comment