The Crafting of a Prophet

The rains came often enough in the spring, always in mid-afternoon, but lasted not long enough and were usually too violent to be of any real benefit. Full of wind, lightning and loud with booming thunder, the brief but torrential downpours often managed to wash away soil more than provide any real saturation to the fields. The blistering sun always followed the storm, drying and cracking the now muddy top layer of claylike earth.

The village had been in slow decline now for years, weather patterns changing as is their ilk. The previous winter had been the hardest yet. Rationing had been decreed as the foodstores became increasingly barren, but the decision had come too late to stave off the loss of many of the sick and most frail.

The Conclave of Elders, sequestered in their Great Hall of Deliverance, prayed for guidance.

By decree, the entire village was assembling at the Meeting Grounds, none to be exempted. Gimery and Apolitta weren’t at the grounds as yet, for they would be two of the last to arrive.

Their opening part in the Ritual of Fertility was nearly complete, the ‘consummation dance’ of those newly wed, as the elders of their small community looked on and chanted. But this was not a dance for the masses, with turning and spiraling to festive music. Rather, this dance was reserved for just two participants, this day performed upon sanctified ground, in grunts and thrusts, at least on Gimery’s part. Apolitta played her part dutifully as well, and as designed, lying nearly motionless beneath him and staring blindly up into the empty darkness of the hall rafters, striving to show no signs that would indicate either pleasure or discomfort. The special herbs in the tea the Sacred Sisterhood had administered just before their ‘dance’ assured that aspect.

The elders, sensing the impending climax or simply anxious to see this part of the ritual concluded, increased the rhythm of their chants, the couple before them matching their tempo as intended.

This was not the norm for couples in the village, but the occasion of Gimery and Apolitta’s joining was to be special, a cause for augmenting tradition. To be married during the Ritual of Fertility was a great honor, or so they had been told. This particular ritual had never been performed in their young lifetimes, and the details beyond their being chosen as the revered fertility couple had been kept secret.

Gimery was also under the influence of a tea concoction, his formulated to assure virility and stamina. He had resisted at first mention of the enhancing tonic, but was now glad the elders had insisted. Having an audience looking on, especially this group of hooded elders, had been more distracting than he had imagined.

Still woozy as he stood and gazed down blissfully into the loving visage of his new wife, not sure what was expected of him now, he was quickly surrounded by the elders and whisked away. The Sacred Sisters poured into the hall from nowhere to attend similarly to Apolitta. A fresh cup of tea was pressed to his lips, cold and acrid as it slipped down his throat. The room immediately began to spin, light from the torches on the walls smearing out in wild traces of orange and red as his head slumped back and forth. Gimery lurched forward and was caught by the elders, who proceeded to carry him bodily from the chamber.

He awoke at the Meeting Grounds, but not comfortably situated in the place he had expected. He was supposed to be seated next to Apolitta on the dais, the two of them honored by the community this night as a symbol of youth, fertility and the resilience of their people, a beacon to light the way back to prosperity and out of the dark times of recent years.

But Gimery was not on the dais, rather he was on the grounds themselves, seated not on a throne of distinction but instead upon the plane, hard wood of the communities witnessing chair. The oversized proportions and desk-like front of the chair made it easy to recognize. Gimery had noticed its absence from its usual spot in the Great Hall, but had paid it no significance at the time. He could not help wondering at the significance now of the chair being here, particularly since he was tied to it, his arms and legs lashed in place. Instead of the normal ceremonial cloth tied to veil the mouth of a citizen acting as witness, reminding all that the Witness for the People was to remain always silent, a cloth of thick, coarse wool had been jammed between his teeth and tied tightly. Gimery would need no reminder that he shouldn’t speak.

Confused, Gimery looked to the crowd for answers, but none were forthcoming. The people of the village stared, his friends and neighbors all in attendance for the ritual per the decree, packed into the stands of the Meeting Grounds. Few seemed to return his gaze as he searched for a reassuring face in the crowd. Their attention was drawn to the center of the grounds, where the massive stone altar protruded from the earth: the Offering Stone.

The Offering Stone was empty for the moment, but at its base lay an assortment of bags and baskets, one moving noticeably. A mound of dry wood for a bonfire lay heaped behind the stone, a rock lined hearth oven built into the dirt and glowing hot beside the pile.

As Gimery pondered where all this was leading, he caught movement to his right from behind the bonfire pile. Apolitta was being led onto the grounds by the sisters.

Shuffling slowly along, her face blank and eyes glassy, she was now obviously even more heavily under the influence of one of the sisters’ mind-altering brews. Barely clothed in a thin white shift, the sisters paraded her slowly about the grounds before leading her to the stone.

As soon as Apolitta was seated upon its edge, a low chanting started up from behind Gimery, joined a moment later by a single louder voice, overriding with a mantra of its own in a strange tongue.

“Madre lo conta, uminose rant. Madre lo conta, uminose rant. Welcome all this night. Welcome…. to the restoration of our lives.”

Marlen, the Prime Elder stepped up beside Gimery. Tall and silver haired, wearing the stark white robe and carrying the staff of his office, he was an imposing figure.

“Too long have we struggled in darkness,” Marlen continued, all heads turned now towards him. “Too long have we toiled as a people, veering further and further from the one true path of salvation. I tell you today that the trials and hardships of recent times are but a small sampling of what may come, indeed what is to come, if we do not repent. Our gods are telling us that we have forgotten them, that they demand subservience. Demons await in the shadows, ready to spring forth and wreak their fetid havoc. But fear not, all is not lost, for the gods, they are wont toward forgiveness as well. And, the gods tell us what we must do to mollify the evil that lurks all around us.”

Marlen reached down and grasped Gimery’s left hand in his, another elder quickly and efficiently untying Gimery’s arm. With an iron grip, Marlen raised their joined hands as if in mutual victory.

“It is an honor to be chosen…chosen to be the instrument that shall bring forth the salvation of one’s people. To prosper, we must appease the good and the evil alike.”

Still holding onto Gimery, Marlen raised the staff he held in his opposite hand and pointed toward the Offering Stone, toward Apolitta, still seated upon its edge with the sisters now kneeling in a circle around her.

“Behold, our offerings to the good!”

On cue, one of the sisters rose and moved to retrieve the largest basket at Apolitta’s feet. From the basket she withdrew a lamb, newly born that morning, still slick from the fluids that eased it from its mother’s womb. From beneath her robes, the sister drew a knife, short bladed with an ornately carved handle. She handed both to Apolitta.

“We beseech the gods of fertility, those who create all things that live and grow, whether they be animals that reside in the fields and forests, fruits that sprout from of the earth, or man himself. Accept these sacrifices from your people, and return us to your graces.”

Seemingly with no emotion or misgiving, Apolitta slit the throat of the tiny lamb, soaking her lap and legs with its warm blood. The sisters surrounded her, laying her down outstretched upon the stone surface, the dead lamb’s body resting between her legs in the spreading stain of blood.

Each sister now grabbed a bag from the ground and formed a line on either side of Apolitta. In turn, each reached in and pulled a small handful of seeds from the bag they carried, seeds from the crops that had so recently and so often withered in the fields.

Apolitta obligingly opened her mouth as the first sister bent over her, pouring the handful of seeds in.

The third time this was repeated, the seeds overflowed, trickling down her cheeks and making a small pile on either side of her head. Undeterred, the next sister retrieved the knife that Apolitta still held in her hand and carefully cut a long, deep gouge across her neck. Blood poured from the wound as the sister took her handful and worked it into the gaping slit. As Apolitta lay dying upon the stone, the sisters methodically finished their ceremony, each in turn before returning to kneel.

Stunned to silence, the crowd sat mesmerized. A few fainted and a few became sick from the sights, but none moved to help or console those afflicted, too overcome with shock and fear to act. The village folk all knew the legends, had heard and repeated the stories, but it had been before the time of any still living since a human sacrifice had been made. Many secretly worried that their community might revert fully to its pagan ways since the elevation of the elders and sisters to the roles of leaders and educators, but none had stepped forward to oppose it.

The elders and the sisters pressed on.

“To the evil, most obvious to us as the abomination known as the Wicce of the Pass, we must offer as well. To it, we reluctantly offer a mate, young and strong, the other half of our sacred fertility couple.”

Marlen looked down for the first time upon Gimery, speaking directly to him, but still loud enough for all to here.

“Witness for the People, what you have seen here this day is the greatest sight you shall behold in your lifetime. We thank you for your sacrifice, given this day for the betterment of all.”

An elder approached Gimery from either side, each brandishing an iron staff with a red-hot glowing tip, having just been extracted from the oven.

“So that no other sights may intrude and thereby diminish the memory of these glorious events you have witnessed, let this be the last your eyes ever see upon this land.”

Gimery did not understand, but felt sure he was about to die.

A nod from the Marlen and those flanking Gimery stepped closer and plunged their searing pokers, not into his chest to impale him, but into Gimery’s eyes. The pain was beyond intense, as Gimery was assaulted with the smell of his own burning flesh. His screams lasted but a few moments. For the second time that day, Gimery passed out, this time from unimaginable pain and anguish.

Gimery awoke, hours or days later he knew not which, and tried out of habit to open his eyes. The pain was still there, dulled down to something almost manageable, though nothing but darkness greeted him as he struggled to sit up.

“So this is what Marlen and his band of robed miscreants think an old woman wants as an offering, eh. Sorry, not woman, wicce.”

“You are the Wicce,” Gimery stammered, shying reflexively away from the voice, though he knew not to where he meant to go.

“Ah, do you believe so?” she bellowed. “Do you believe me to be a powerful and fearsome sorceress, the bane of the village and the cause of all your hardships and all your nightmares? Are you terrified of me, secretly glad that your eyes have been put-out to spare you the horror of looking upon my loathsome countenance?”

“Please don’t harm me, but I do. I do believe it.”

“Then you are as big a fool as Marlen himself,” came her calm reply. “For I am no wicce, just an old woman cursed by what she knows.”

Gimery heard footsteps approach, and felt two small hands reach down to grasp his.

“Come on, up with ya, lets have a look at you,” she said, pulling him upright. “My, you’re a big one, ain’t ya.”

When Gimery didn’t offer any response, she carried on.

“I was once of your village. In fact, I was the healer.”

“So you were one of the Sacred Sisters?”

“Bah,” she cursed and spat. “I said a healer, not a superstitious heathen. The Sacred Sisters are nothing but poisoners and charlatans, playing at being pious and learned, and at the same time rejecting any true understanding of what healing is about. No child, I was talking about true healing, the art of tending to the health and wellbeing of a people.”

“So why do the elders call you wicce then?”

“That’s Marlen, your Prime or High Elder, that was his doing. He had me banished years ago, for crimes against the natural order. Crimes, bah. Twas no crime, even if it were a damn shame. No, I committed the unforgiveable sin of letting Marlen’s only son and heir die.”

“But Marlen has many sons, the eldest just a year behind me.”

“Yes, now he does. His second and third wives have been more inclined to birthing males than the first. She gave him six daughters before Jares was born, some forty years ago. His was a rough birthing, nearly killed his mother, but they both survived, in no small part to my ministrations, if I do say so. That’s right, I was there at his birth, and there sixteen years later at his death. I even nursed him and many of the other children, adults as well, through the years of the swamp fever, when the rains came just enough to always keep the ground moist, and the bugs and mosses thrived to overabundance. Weeks of boiled extracts of caroo bark and wormwood, mud plasters and a careful diet. I could not save them all, the swamp fever when it comes takes it share of souls no matter the efforts of one such as I, but Jares was not to be called away at that time.”

“You saved his life then?”

“Ah, then, when he was but five. But ten odd years hence, he was not so fortunate, and I paid nearly as dearly for it as the darling Jares did.”

“The swamp fever again?”

“No, no, much worse, lad. The white sickness. It started with just a bad cough, but when the blood started coming up with it, I knew poor Jares was in a bad way.”

“I have never heard of the white sickness.”

“Count yourself as truly blessed then. Some call it the wasting, or even white death,” she continued remembering back, more than twenty years. “Many died of those dread afflictions, but those were still better times than now.”

“Marlen wasn’t always such a monster. Ah, greedy and obsessed with hisself, but I wouldn’t have called him evil then. But as times got harder, he and others like him started to drift away from the learnings and knowledge that had supported us these many years, had proven invaluable in getting us through hard times. A few challenges, like the years the cattle started acting strange before dying off in large numbers, and disappointments, like the death of his son…. ah, that was the one that really sealed it. Marlen was convinced that the old ways were better, and once he started convincing others, that was all it took.”

“I was the keeper of the knowledge at that time, all the accumulated know-how we had learned from years of trials, from travelers who passed through the village, or that some had brought back from their own travels far and wide. I was still young then, young enough that I hadn’t really started passing it all down to the next generation, so it was simple enough to excise most of the knowledge all at once. My knowledge scared them. Jares’s death was the excuse Marlen needed, and I was banished. He and his followers expected me to fade into the forest I suppose, find a new village or more likely starve in the wilderness. But I stayed here, stayed close, built myself this hut at the end of a protected pass along the cliffs by the sea.”

“They called me witch then, and have built the legend of the wicce ever since. I am their evil incarnate. But not for much longer. Marlen made a mistake when he left me alive, and I believe he has made the same mistake with you. I still have friends in the village, my own secret sisterhood if you will. The people want a leader to follow, and better a blind prophet, returned from the Wicce, than a pagan priest.”

Gimery’s head swam, his eyes ached. So much had happened in just a few days.

“Think about it lad. Twon’t be easy, but what in life worth anything ever is. If not for anyone else, do it for Apolitta.”