A Bit of Theater

The village liked to think itself egalitarian, each person serving a purpose as best as they could. The Ash Evening couldn’t be celebrated with just anyone. The pyre had to be lit by the right person.

Not everyone was allowed to feed the Sun, yet everyone was present for the opening act. By nightfall, the village had gathered.

Outside the walls that protected the villagers, deep in the valley and hidden among the pines, lay the dormant pyre. The stage had been prepared over the past few weeks. The guards who safeguarded the wall, as well as the hunters who braved the woods beyond them, had built it for the Ash Evening. By dawn, its embers would be seen for miles, alongside other pyres from faraway villages.

The main square looked beautiful. It had been decorated in evergreens and pinecones, garlands looped between doorways, lanterns glowing gold against the frost. Stalls lined the cobbles, heavy with sugared fruit, cured meats, and steaming mulled wine. A choir of children sang by the fountain, their breath rising like incense. At the center stood a long wooden table, its cloth embroidered with suns and moons. Loaves were stacked beside roasted game, honey cakes, and crystal bowls of berries. Laughter carried through the cold air though no one laughed loudly. It was soft and careful, a sound to keep the darkness at bay. The hills were hungry after all. They had been hungry for months.

The young men kept watch along the wall; their duty was to defend the village from outside threats. No one alive had ever seen an attack, but the stories of foreign invaders remained the village’s beating heart. Tales of monstrous creatures said to feed on their life-force passed from one generation to the next. No: the young men served the collective by keeping them safe.

The elders, too, were excused from the main event; their wisdom was considered a kind of tithe. This was a half-truth. The other side of that coin was that the hills probably wouldn’t be pleased with an older person. Their gift of light would be no gift at all. At least that’s what the oldest among them kept repeating.

Babies and toddlers who were too young to make The Walk did not have the honor of participating, for they could not yet bear the journey. Their mothers had roles of their own to play—caretakers of the future generation.

The traders were another matter. Their hands built and baked and mended; without them, the village would starve long before the Sun ever did. Their crafts were guarded like family secrets, passed from father to son so that the skill—and the privilege of performing it—would never fade. They would not make The Walk either.

It was in the village’s recorded history that there once was a skilled carpenter who had a young daughter he loved very much. She was, understandably, a bit wary of the pyre. The craftsman made a deal with the village’s leaders: he would be in charge of the upkeep of their cottages free of charge in exchange for his daughter’s exclusion from the Ash Evening. And so another tradition was born. Those who could, would pay a tax to stay safely inside the walls.

When it came to feeding the Sun on the longest night of the year, it fell to the rest. Girls, women, and the poor: those whose bodies were still of use.

The evening started as it did every year. The villagers came together and feasted on the food they had all prepared. The children were allowed seconds, even thirds, their mouths sticky with honey and grease, darting between the tables in games only they understood. The adults filled their cups with mulled wine and toasted one another, cheeks flushed from the heat and the happiness of company. Fiddles and flutes played quick, cheerful tunes; the choir’s rehearsed harmonies gave way to clapping and stamping boots. Someone started a dance, and soon a chain of swaying bodies wound through the square, laughing breathlessly as they tried to keep the rhythm. Friends embraced, neighbors traded news, and even the most stoic elders smiled at the sight of youth running wild. The air was rich with cinnamon and roasted meat, the sweetness of baked apples and warm bread. Lanterns glimmered from every rooftop, scattering gold across the frost. It was the kind of night that made the village seem small in the best possible way—close-knit, sheltered, content. For a few bright hours, there was nothing but music and warmth: the soft glow of a community certain of its future and prosperity.

After the food had been eaten and the wine had been drunk and the songs had been sung, an air of solemnity washed over the crowd—though solemnity, tonight, was merely a new kind of excitement. The curtain fell on the evening’s merriment.

Children bounced on their toes, trying to peek between the grown-ups for a better view of what came next. Seeing who made The Walk was always the most entertaining part.

A cheer went up as the bonfire at the edge of the square was lit, crackling to life in a shower of orange sparks. This was not the pyre in the valley but a grand and cheerful fire built just for the game. Flames leapt like dancers, throwing warm light across eager faces. The elders, in their heavy cloaks stitched with silver thread, came forward carrying an old wooden box filled with neatly coiled white ribbons—each cut by their careful hands to be exactly the same. It was said that the box preceded the village itself, having been made when its forefathers established on the hill. There was no way of knowing if this was true, but it certainly gave it an air of gravitas.

They offered the box to the players, who reached in one by one, drawing their ribbons with the same anticipation as children choosing prizes. There were giggles and a few playful boasts about how quickly one’s ribbon would blaze. It was all in good fun; this was tradition, and being part of it was a mark of pride.

Once everyone had their ribbon, the contenders gathered around the fire. An elder raised his hands for silence. On his signal, the contenders stepped forward—as close as the fire would allow, ribbons held like flags catching the glow. All of them counted together. With a flourish, one end of the long ribbons was tossed into the dancing flames—the other end tightly held by the player.

The audience leaned in, delighted. Children shouted guesses as the white strips curled and caught, flames nibbling their edges. Some ribbons flared brightly, others darkened slowly. Parents clapped their hands, laughing when they thought their child’s might win—a harmless game of fire and fate.

This year, it was fifteen-year-old Maisie’s turn to make The Walk. She felt the weight of every gaze in the crowd.

Her ribbon burned out the fastest. She had to let go of it so it wouldn’t hurt her fingers. It was her third time playing. Her mother and sister, who had also played—and lost, came to congratulate her. She faked a smile. She didn’t have to fake her tears; she passed them off as joyful ones.

After the elders delivered their ceremonial salute, she set off for the wall with two guards behind her.

It was her first time outside, in the wilderness. She took a step forward, then another, and another. The two sentries followed close behind her, carrying some rope and fire for the pyre. It was nowhere near as terrifying as she had thought it might be. She had imagined shadows with teeth, claws at her ankles. Instead, the night felt wide and calm. The moon made a silver road for her feet. Snow dusted the pine needles like sugar.

It was peaceful. The moon and the stars guided her way, allowing her to see once her eyes had gotten used to the dark. The trees looked tall, healthy, and covered in white.

In the distance, she suddenly heard the distinct sound of a fire being lit. It was most likely the pyre from one of the other villages. It was followed by what sounded like a grotesque howl from an animal in pain. Maisie knew it wasn’t an animal.

The Walk took them less than an hour. Where were the monsters? Where were the outsiders whom the leaders were so afraid of? All she saw on her journey here was a beautiful stag that had huffed at them before bounding away.

Did the leaders know? If that threat was not true, was feeding the Sun really necessary? Even if it wasn’t, she knew it wouldn’t stop. The ceremony was something to look forward to every year. It was an honor to be chosen, after all. Maisie was serving her village the only way she knew how.

She didn’t resist when the guards bound her hands to the wood; that was only to keep her from pulling away. As they lit up the tinder beneath her feet, she breathed in the pine smoke, and understood: all of this paraphernalia—the songs, the ribbons, the stories—was simply a little bit of theater to keep them entertained on the longest night.