My fingers tremble around the buttons of my worn coat. Lucy bursts into tears again. I can’t look at her any longer. It breaks my heart.
When I open the door to our crumbling cottage, I’m met with a barrage of smiling faces. I used to imagine them as devils with snakes for tongues and spiders for eyes. But they look as normal as me. They really do believe this is a great honor. That somehow,thisis holy.
But when I look a little closer at the crowd, sifting through their eager faces, it’s the eyes of the women who tell the truth. The dark, haunting legacy of pain and betrayal at the hands of our men. The shadows in their joyless stares seem to reflect mine. But they are too beaten down and brainwashed to speak out against this inhumane act.This festival of death.
I don’t look back at Mama or Papa. I don’t say goodbye or wish them good fortune. I will not allow them to have another piece of me. They’ve already taken too much. And when Saint Nick places that bag of gifts on their doorstep in the morning, I hope they deem it worthy. I truly do.
“Imogen Bishop,” the town crier begins, “you have accepted your duty and have agreed to join the Wild Hunt. In return, your family shall be rewarded with gifts from the great Saint Nick. However, if you should go back on your word and, by some miracle, survive the night, your sister, Lucy, will be sent in your stead. Cross your arms over your chest and make your vow.”
“I offer myself to Saint Nick on this eve of Yuletide. I submit to the Wild Hunt. I vow… to die.” I leave my arms in place until the crier rings the bell.
Five soldiers surround me on horses. They are more like overweight crones with sticks, but they think highly of themselves. One places a sack over my head while another wraps a rope around each of my wrists.
“The hunt will begin at Devil’s Rock. That is where your escorts will leave you. Do not take off that sack until the sound of hooves is no longer in your ears.”
The horses grunt and lurch forward, pulling me with them by the ropes they’ve bound me with. I swallow down the bile that inches up my throat, my stomach churning.
With only the clothes on my back—a torn dress, my favorite coat, now worn from three harsh winters, and Mama’s hand-me-down boots, once sturdy but coming apart at the heels—I walk blindly to my death.
My heart thunders as we march into the forest. Lucy’s cries echo in the distance as twigs and branches scratch against my bare legs. I take a deep breath, grateful that I won’t have to hear my sister’s wails for much longer.
When we come to a stop, my knees nearly give out. The end is near. It’s funny how you think you can accept your fate until it’s nipping at your heels. I shudder as they free my wrists and shove me down. The cold stone of the rock chills my bottom through my tattered coat and thin cotton dress.
“We will take our leave now, and we thank you for your sacrifice. Remember, do not lift that sack until we are long gone,” one of the soldiers mutters.
I nod and cross my arms again as I listen to the hooves stampeding away. I get lost in its cadence, wanting it to last forever. Because when it stops, I will be alone. And when the sound of hooves comes again, it will be fromthem. The Four Horsemen. My executioners.
I’ve never been this deep into the woods before. It is forbidden. These are sacred grounds reserved only for the chosen.Lucky me. In the stillness and quiet, it’s hard to imagine four deadly monsters lurking out here. The only sounds come from the rustling of branches and the occasional squawk of a raven.
I’m sad I’ll miss this year’s festivities. Even more so that I’ll never get to celebrate Yule ever again. While the people of my village sip mulled cider and decorate lanterns, they’ll cast wishes and exchange gifts. They’ll make flower crowns and dance around the bonfire. I wonder if they’ll sing songs about me. Will they mourn my death? Or perhaps they’ve already forgotten I exist.
The path is dark and riddled with fallen branches. Last night’s storm wreaked havoc on these woods. I take small steps, careful not to get my feet caught in the brambles. I will be in no condition to run if I twist my ankles. Not that it will do me any good either way. I must run to play the game, but I won’t be able to avoid my fate of being caught. Those are the rules. And if I want to keep Lucy alive, I must abide by them.
A flock of birds shoots out from the top of a tall tree, squawking. A shrill warning. My heart thumps like the drums that came to claim me. In the distance, a deafening thud of hooves pounds against the ground.
Oh gods.
The neigh of a horse follows after the gruff command from a man who has too much grit in his voice.He’s coming for me. This is it. I have to move.
I break into a full sprint, my pulse racing as fast as the winter wind. I don’t dare look back. But no matter how fast I run, the sound of hooves gets closer.No. I can’t do this. I want to go back. I shouldn’t have to do this. Is it too late? Maybe I can convince them to let Lucy live. Or we can run away together like she wanted.
I nearly trip over a severed tree stump as my thoughts become chaotic. I leap over it, narrowly clearing it. My boot splits from its sole when I land hard on the ground. I cry out as a sharp pain shoots up my leg upon impact.
The rain and snow fall down hard and fast, piercing through the holes of my coat and soaking my dress. But I keep going. The path is a blur, my head dizzy from the rush of nerves and fear. I take shallow breaths, panting as I sprint faster than I ever have before.
But it’s no use.These are not mortal men. They’re still gaining on me.
There’s nowhere to hide. No one to call to for help. My time has come. It’s over. They will reach me in minutes. All I can hope for is a swift death.
Rattle my bones, drink my blood, but no sacrifice shall be had until the virgin becomes our whore in the Wild Hunt.
The longer we hunt, the deeper our bloodlust festers. The woods are cold. Wet. Dark. She won’t be able to run for long. I will reach her, capture her, and ruin her pretty, soft skin.
They usually cry. The sounds of weeping ghosts haunt me still, echoing in my mind. It does nothing to satisfy the silence. The inexplicable silence that surrounds me now. This one is different. She’s tried to mask her scent, but I can still detect it coming from somewhere close.
Finally. A challenge.
I scan the trees, searching for movement. The wind rustles softly but doesn’t give anything away. My cock stretches, tenting my pants as I catch a whiff of soot and salted meat. Her skin is stained with it, the result of endless days of hard physical labor.The scent of a peasant whom no one will miss. No one will come looking for her unless they don’t receive their gifts from Saint Nick. But by then, we’ll be long gone.
