Chosen. They allow some to live, and others—What happens to the others?
I swallow, looking at the other desperate souls around me. Many are barefoot. All smeared in dirt, regardless of the quality of their clothing. Some are on their knees, crying out to the masked beings walking around the circle of people. “Save us!” they cry.
“Help,” one rasps with a hoarse voice. There is blood dripping down her arm. Her fingers are caked with it. Her breaths tremble. “Please help.”
I want to help her, but I don’t know how.
These people have come from miles in every direction. Most are from Ruthend, I assume. Since it fell to rebels recently, there are thousands searching for a new life.
I cannot imagine what they’ve been told to believe this is their best option.
But then again, Lorraine and I were not given a choice, so perhaps they weren't either.
“How long have these people been here?” I ask Lorraine. “How many come here by their own will?”
She takes in a long breath before answering. “I know little more than you. Most have been here the better part of a day. Some two or three, from what I’ve heard.”
Most of the people here are women. Because they didn’t fight back? Or another sinister reason?
At the center of the area we have been gathered, there is a small circle of stones surrounding blackened rubble and ash, and a few glowing embers. I tap one of the stones with my toe. A bonfire?
There’s a grating sound in the distance. A rumble beneath our feet.
No one seems to pay mind to the strange sounds and sensations. A woman beside me calls out to the masked beings. More calls rise as the sun slowly lowers in the sky.
There is no pyre connected to the fire ring, but after the tales I grew up hearing, I can’t help but wonder if one will be added. Will they burn people alive tonight? Will the crowd cheer while it happens?
The temperature drops quickly as daylight dims. Men and women, all wearing skull masks, cross the wooden platform ahead and light several torches.
Then, a line of women in short brown dresses come out carrying trays of wooden cups. The refugees don’t dare cross the line of the circle, but they reach out for the cups desperately.
What happens if we leave the circle?
I too find myself eager for more liquid to coat my dry tongue, but as the cups begin to spread around the clearing, I see the bright red liquid slipping down chins as they chug.
I am suddenly less eager to accept the offering. What is in it?
“Keep your cup!” one of the women in cloth dresses instructs. “We will refill them! No one will be lacking tonight.”
The women around me cheer.
I shift toward the center of the circle, and Lorraine sticks close to me, as the others cry out for more and more of the red juice.
Before long, the energy shifts from desperation to calm and joyous. The women begin dancing to no music at all. The skull-masked people surround the circle and watch.
“You,” a voice growls. The crying stops. The crowd stills.
A massive man stomps forward, crossing the barrier into the refugees. He points and again says, “You.”
The girl with blood pooling in her hands gasps. “Me,” she says with a hushed tone of irreverence, as if being chosen by a god.
“Come,” he says.
“Chosen,” someone whispers.
Several other voices join a soft chorus, repeating the same word.Chosen.
These people are so convinced that it is the light at the end of their tunnel, but all I see is darkness. I press my eyes closed tight and pull my arm from Lorraine, instead gripping both around my chest and begin my own prayer.
