She nodded.
“But everyone we know is here.”
Greer dragged her gaze from the forest. “I don’t think it’s anyone we know.”
Hessel’s eyes widened, and the dark worry that had covered him like a shroud since the night at the Calloways’ lightened by soft degrees. He looked…hopeful. “You heard them? The Benevolence?”
She hesitated. She’d heard something, but was it the Benevolence?
“Greer,” Hessel prompted, urgency weighting her name. Reluctantly, she nodded. “That…that’s wonderful.” His eyes raced across the tree line, then he grabbed her hand and returned them to the circle.
Across the clearing, Ellis watched her, face grim with worry. Greer smiled, trying to offer the assurance that she was all right, that everything was fine. She could tell he didn’t believe her. She wasn’t sure she believed it herself.
“Friends,” Hessel began, “these days have been grim. Grim and mystifying. Challenging. It is not possible for us to understand the ways of the Benevolence. To us, their methods seem cruel and incomprehensible, but we must believe they act in our favor. We must believe that they will continue to watch over our cove, protecting us and bestowing prosperous bounties upon all who dwell here. The way they always have. They are close.” A sound of mirth escaped him, as if he could not hold back his joy. “They are not faceless gods, far off and uninterested. The Benevolence is here, right now, watching to see what we’ll do next.”
Murmurs of surprise and confusion rose. Several Stewards dared to approach the trees, trepidation clouding their faces.
“I…I see them!” shouted Ian Brennigan. When he turned back, his eyes were bright with wonder. “They’ve come to show us their mercies.”
“Yes! There’s one! And another!” Michael Morag cried out, pointing.
Greer tried to see what they saw, narrowing her eyes against the falling light, but there were only shadows. And though she strained to hear the voice, the woods were silent once more.
“They have seen our sufferings. They have seen our pains,” Hessel continued. “So now, good people of Mistaken, let us show them our devotion! We must light the bonfire!”
Greer was surprised to see Lachlan Davis come forward, lantern held high. Normally, a Steward performed this most sacred task. She did not doubt that Hessel had bestowed the honor on Lachlan, signaling his great esteem.
Lachlan knelt beside the pile of logs and set to work, transferring his flame to the kindling. The dried grass and twigs caught quickly, casting a warm red glow over the group.
As the fire rose, Lotte Morag started to sing the first hymn.
“As we gather here together, hands and hearts and minds as one,” she began, her voice as clear and sweet as a freshwater spring.
The song had been sung at Mistaken’s first Reaping, and each thereafter.
“We try ever to endeavor, pleasing Ones whose wills we’ve done.”
Other women took up the next verse, strengthening the old melody with richer altos. The song filled the clearing, haunting and beautiful and so full of hope.
Once the bonfire was fully lit, its orange and yellow tongues flickering high into the dying afternoon, townspeople began to feed their offerings into the flames.
They went alone or sometimes in pairs, but each person had their own moment with the fire, whispering their dearest wishes. It wasn’t hard to imagine what was most asked for this year.
When her turn came, Greer knelt alongside the raging heat. She took out her map and smoothed the creases, looked it over one last time. Whispering her wish, she pressed a kiss to the back of the vellum before tossing it into the flames. It was incinerated in an instant, its thin ashes caught in an updraft and carried out into the approaching night.
When all the sacrifices were burned, another song was sung, and then the town of Mistaken returned home, leaving behind their offerings and a bank of smoldering embers for the Benevolence to enjoy.
They all made it across the town line before sunset, pressing a reverent touch to the Warding Stones as they passed.
They stood at the edge of their world, watching the sun dip behind the mountains and feeling its pull in the marrow of their bones. It set without fanfare, and, for one perfect moment, everyone breathed a happy sigh of relief.
The Warding Stones had remained still.
The border had held.
The good people of Mistaken began to cheer. The heavy weight of their worries eased, sloughing off like water from a duck’s back, and they celebrated. They danced and jumped and shouted their good fortunes to the sky.
But then, far beyond the Warding Stones, a dark shadow rose, and Mistaken’s joy turned into screams.
