Ritual Day
Whose name shall I put on my slip?
Shirley’s eyes skimmed over her fellow tribe members. She didn’t dare write a man’s name. She shivered at the audacity of such an act. It would have to be a woman’s name.
Three Weeks Earlier
The day was sunny, and everyone in the compound was preparing for the sowing feast and ritual. It would be their sixth–always on the full moon before the planting. The tribe prayed their luck would hold another year and the blight wouldn’t kill the crops. But prayers were never enough. That was why the provider instructed them about the ritual and how it was to be held.
“Sister, tis a glorious day the provider has blessed us with. Isn’t it?”
Brother Jessup rankled when the woman, who stood two hands taller than himself, looked around as if to verify the beauty of the day.
“Aye. It tis at that, brother Jessup. Praise the provider, praise the lith,” she said, bowing towards the northwest corner of the compound.
Jessup nodded sourly.
“May we have a word in the barn?”
Constance set the bucket of water on the ground and followed him inside.
Her eyes widened when she saw the tribe had gathered there, murmuring, sitting on short chairs in the hay like they were children. Magnus stood in his black robes at the center of the circle of congregants, gesturing for quiet.
Constance panicked. Then she thought it was maybe a welcoming ritual for having completed her trial period. She knew she worked as hard as any man, and harder than any two women combined.
I’m smarter than all of them.
“Sister Constance, Brother Billy tells us he saw you with your head in your lap yesterday. You were supposed to be tending the field. But it looked almost like you were…”
Constance’s breath caught in her chest. It felt like she was lying beneath Aubrey’s anvil.
Do they know?
“…reading. It looked like you were reading.”
Several of the tribe gasped.
If they had found my book, I’m sure they looked for it, they would have already slipped the noose around my neck.
Jessup hadn’t asked a question, but it was implied.
Do they know?
Sister Constance didn’t confirm or deny the charges. For Magnus, this was the same as a confession.
“When you sought sanctuary in Hadlow’s Corner, we told you books were not allowed here,” Magnus said.
Constance’s eyes began to water, and she trembled despite promising herself she wouldn’t.
“Aye, you told me,” she said, knowing that was the only response the black-robed man expected or would accept.
Many sought refuge at Hadlow’s Corner. The soil was fertile, the sunlight was plentiful, and the plants weren’t tainted (yet!) by the blight that ravaged most of the southeast and nearly all the western resettlement lands of the once United States. But the best thing was the tall wooden fence the previous tenants had erected around the compound. It kept the sick safely away from the residents inside, away from their crops, and away from the lith. The walkers were kept outside.
Most refugee applicants were turned away on the spot. They were either too old, too weak, from an inferior bloodline, or asked too many questions. Of the percentage that was accepted (on a six-week probation period), only a handful lasted longer than a quarter moon. Some ran away, some asked to be put out, and others, fearing the sowing feast ritual, lost their nerve and escaped in whatever way they could.
Hadlow’s Corner was Magnus’s creation, and he ruled it with an iron fist. The velvet glove he wore was for show only, and it did nothing to cushion the hand within.
Constance looked up and saw Magnus nod towards Tobias. The second man steps forward, already holding the bullwhip.
She knew she might later regret not waiting for the offer she knew would come. Instead, she interjected.
“I wish to be put out,” she said, catching Shirley’s eye and shrugging.
They likely would expel me anyway. I’ll be damned if I’ll let them whip me and expel me.
The crowd fell silent.
It was sweet while it lasted, but there’s no way I can stay with such ignorant folks.
Their offer would be the same. Be flogged or leave. So, she saved them the time.
No one said anything.
“Tis my right. You told me on my first day. I wish to be put out. Now.”
The silence continued. This was unprecedented.
At that point, Constance stood, walked out, and left the compound.
“Enid,” Magnus said, nodding at the door.
Enid stood and hurried after the woman.
“There are other matters we need to attend to. Settle down, settle down,” Brother Jessup tried to regain control of the assembly; its purpose had derailed when Constance walked out.
Sister Enid reentered the barn.
“Well?” Jessup said.
“Aye. She’s gone. She took her pack and climbed over the south wall. We’re well rid of her.”
“Agreed. Praise the provider,” Jessup said.
“She’s the walkers’ problem now. Praise the lith,” Enid said, sitting down.
Aye, but she was a hard worker, Jessup thought but didn’t say.
Ritual Day
Winter was sliding into spring. It was cool but not cold in the barn where the tribe gathered for the ritual. Shirley rubbed her hands. The ritual wounds had never fully healed. The tribe members sometimes talked of home remedies, herbal cures, and the like, but in the end, the culture at Hadlow deemed such things as no better than the medicines and hospitals of times past. Such measures reeked of science. In the end, they put their faith only in the provider.
Shirley shifted in her seat, worried the thing beneath her skirts might fall out. If it dropped to the floor, what then?
I should have laid with him.
Shirley discreetly studied the man in black. Even through his loose robes, she could tell Magnus was a big man. And it was clear from his actions and words that he wanted her. But Shirley had no desire to be with him. She would never admit it, but Magnus was weird. He wasn’t kind. But it was more than that. She could never shake the feeling that he was evil.
She cringed at even thinking such a blasphemous thing before the tribe.
She rubbed at the stubs where her left pinky and ring finger stood before taking refuge at Hadlow. The stubs were still black and still ached.
She knew it was some lingering infection. Her body would fight it back again and again, but it continued to come back. Talking about disease and infections was not allowed at Hadlow.
If it be the provider’s will, then who are we to stand in his way?
She knew that in the world before this one, Magnus had traveled with a circus. He was a magician, a special kind of magician, a mentalist.
He rigged the last two drawings. He must have.
There were still schools when she was a child. She never liked math much, but she knew the probability of her name being drawn twice (two sowing rituals in a row) was very low.
I should’ve slept with him.
He had made overtures to her in private. But he wouldn’t force a woman against her will.
But he took two of my ten fingers. Is that not forcing? Madness.
There were methods the circus performers used to control the outcome of such things as drawings and whatnot.
If it be the provider’s will…
She was sick of their talk about the provider. She sighed.
Magnus was their leader. He was the guardian and minder of the monolith. Through communing with it, he received messages from the provider. No one else was allowed near the stone pillar in the northwest corner of the compound.
Anytime Shirley walked within thirty yards of it, she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. The monolith was powerful magic indeed. She sometimes wondered if Magnus was a charlatan or a fraud, but she never doubted the monolith’s power. But she was unsure if the eerily shaped stone with its oddly straight flat sides was a force of good or evil.
But there had been six drawings in her six years there, and his dexterous hand withdrew my name twice in as many years? That’s impossible.
She knew it wasn’t impossible, but it was unlikely.
It was wrong. It wasn’t fair.
The thing was a game he played. It was his rules, and it was wrong.
The springtime sowing ritual was always the same. Everyone in the tribe signed their name on a slip of paper. (Signing the slips of paper was the only time writing was allowed in the compound.) Then Brother Jessup walked around the room collecting those slips in the ceremonial burlap bag.
An idea came to Shirley. It was such an obvious strategy she was surprised it hadn’t occurred to her before.
I will write another’s name on my paper.
She wanted to write Magnus’s name on her slip, but that felt foolish. She shivered with fear at the idea of doing such reckless actions. Being their leader, Magnus was exempt from the drawing.
I will leave my slip blank. I will only feign signing my name.
But that too, proved to be a risky proposition. If Magnus withdrew a blank slip of paper from the bag, surely the tribe would cry foul. Then there would be an investigation. And if every other adult member of the tribe was represented by a slip of paper in the bag? And her name wasn’t present?
She shivered at the idea. No, that wouldn’t do either.
I will sign the name of another.
This idea didn’t terrify her as much. Danger was intrinsic to living at the Corner. But she didn’t want to lose a third finger. And she feared very much that would happen.
Her mind flashed to the day before. She had been weeding the corn in the southeast corner, and Magnus had approached her.
He had asked her to check something in his quarters.
He asked.
If he’d commanded her, she would have followed. He was the leader after all. But he asked. He wanted her to choose to follow him. But she did not. She could not.
I should have gone to his quarters.
Then she remembered the previous year, when her name was drawn a second time, and she’d sacrificed her left ring finger so that the tribe might have a bountiful harvest.
It was the same!
The day before the previous year’s drawing, Magnus had approached her with some talk designed to draw her to his cabin. It was nonsense. That was too big a similarity to dismiss as a coincidence.
You entertained simple folk with such theatrics. In the time before.
That was true. Once upon a time, Magnus had entertained country folk with magic and mentalism. Not everyone in the tribe knew this but Shirley did. She scanned the room.
Whose name shall I put on my slip?
Shirley’s eyes skimmed over the others. She skipped the men. It would have to be a woman’s name. It was a huge risk she was undertaking, and she had no desire to anger a full-grown man with the assault of a lost finger.
It would have to be a woman’s name.
Constance!
She touched the heavy thing secreted beneath her skirts. Her face blushed red.
Oh, what a pity she returned to the walkers a week past.
Shirley scanned the women, searching for a name. She thought again about Constance. She doubted she could have betrayed such a strong woman as her.
‘Will you hold this for me, Sister Shirley?’
Constance had pressed something heavy into Shirley’s hands shortly after arriving two months before. Shirley accepted the leather pouch and held it for Constance. She kept it beneath her mattress. Sometimes in the night, her head would press against it, and she would wonder about the mysterious woman.
She let her eyes return to the hunt.
Trudy?
Shirley liked Trudy and was happy whenever she got selected to do chores with Trudy. She could not do that to a woman she considered a friend.
Nicole?
But she’d already lost a finger. That was the second ritual drawing. There had been five drawings, and three of the five fingers came from her and Nicole’s hands. This was an implicit solidarity. Nicole was safe. The other two fingers came from men. She vowed to select the next woman she spotted.
Liza?
But Liza complained about every ailment. Shirley had no desire to listen to Liza’s endless whining about losing her finger. She reconsidered the idea of putting a man’s name down. That was when her gaze landed on Elle.
A memory–Shirley had cut the dinner cornbread two nights before, but then she tried to serve herself. This was not allowed. This was not the way of the provider.
One ought not tempt themselves with the act of giving themselves the largest portion. Trust your brother or sister with that task.
Elle had caught her mid-act. Shirley shook her head as though she had been sleeping, shrugged, and handed the spatula to Elle, who gave Shirley the smallest piece in the pan, a corner.
I will write Elle’s name on my paper.
Before she lost her nerve, Shirley printed Elle’s name on the paper just as Brother Jessup arrived before her. They nodded at each other, and it was a done deal.
Serve me the burnt corner piece, will you? This will teach you a lesson.
She didn’t really want Elle’s name to be drawn. Elle had done nothing that she wouldn’t have done herself if their positions had been reversed. She would have reminded her fellow tribe member of the rules.
She who cuts doesn’t serve.
It was the provider’s way.
Please, choose someone else’s name this time?
She supposed it was the provider to which she was praying.
It might have been directed at the monolith on the opposite corner of Hadlow.
I only have eight fingers left, and the two I sacrificed ache constantly, despite no longer being on my hand.
Shirley felt nauseated.
They will find out. They will discover my deception. I will be put out before the ritual feast is served. I will be among the walkers by tomorrow.
The beet pie smelled wonderful, and she longed to taste it.
I should have laid with him.
Shirley didn’t know how Magnus could pull her name from all the others. She didn’t care. She was determined to keep her remaining fingers.
There are forty-three names in that bag. I ought not have to sacrifice more than I have already. It’s someone else’s job now. I’ve done enough.
She sighed her nausea to the side, content knowing she would not be asked to provide for the welfare of this sowing.
Brother Jessup finished collecting the names, cinched the bag shut in one strong, full-fingered hand, and made a show of shaking the bag.
Everything is above board here.
Shirley shivered when her gaze returned to Elle.
Please don’t pick Elle. Please.
Magnus made a show of pulling up his sleeves.
He’s back in the circus. Remembering the smells, the sounds, the gullible rubes before him, oohing and ahhing.
Shirley’s doubts assailed her. She longed to leap to her feet, confess her childish ploy, and beg for leniency.
They wouldn’t put me out, would they?
They would, and she knew it.
“Praise the provider,” Magnus said.
“Praise be to the provider,” the tribe said.
“Praise the lith,” Magnus said, his voice filling the barn.
“And for all the gifts it bestows on us, the unworthy,” the tribe answered.
The call and response went on for several minutes. The newest members did their best to keep up with the long list of answered responses.
Again, Magnus rolled up his sleeves, reached into the ceremonial burlap bag, and withdrew a single piece of paper.
He held the slip high overhead and said, “Praise be to the provider.”
“Amen,” said the tribe.
Magnus smiled broadly to the tribe, at each of his congregants.
When his gaze landed on Shirley, he winked at her.
I know what you did, Shirley.
Had she heard his thoughts? No, she felt guilty about her attempted deception.
Then Magnus deviated from the ritual. He walked the bag over to the fire burning in Aubrey’s livery.
Why, in the provider’s name, do we have a livery? For one dying horse? It’ll be lucky to survive to the sabbath.
Shirley let her mind run where it wanted. His wink had rattled her.
He opened the bag and upended it over the fire. The flames welcomed the papers into it, gobbling each down.
Ashes to ashes.
Shirley was puzzled, but only for an instant.
Why did he do that? We’ve never burned the slips before.
It was obvious. He must have seen her vacillation and deduced her ploy. If he’d not burned the remaining slips, Shirley might’ve caused a scene and demanded that the papers be examined. There would be two that said Elle.
He couldn’t allow that.
She thought again about why she had rejected his advances.
I have my pride.
“Praise be to the provider and the lith,” Magnus said.
The tribe hummed the single om syllable as they’d been instructed to. The hummed response lasted a full minute.
“The provider has spoken. The winner of the sixth annual sowing ritual is,” he brought the paper before his eyes and read.
“Shirley.”
What? No way! No way! No way!
She wanted to cry out. She wanted an insurrection.
Magnus approached the tribe. He handed the slip to Brother Jessup.
“Pass this around. Make sure each one sees it and kisses it. Thank the provider and thank Sister Shirley for the bounty we will doubtless have come fall,” Magnus said.
“All thanks to Sister Shirley,” the tribe chanted.
No, no, no. It isn’t fair. He cheated.
“All thanks to Sister Shirley.”
Oh, shut up. Please shut up. I cannot. I will not.
Before she could find a strategy, she surprised herself along with everyone in the bar when she stood up and cried, “I will be put out. Now.”
This won’t work. There must be a sacrifice. For the harvest.
Shirley pushed the doubt aside, but she had had enough.
The crowd murmured.
“But it’s too late for that, Shirley. The lith must receive the blood sacrifice to ensure the harvest is bountiful. Think, child. You can be put out afterward if you wish but…”
Shirley pulled the gun from beneath her skirts. When she cocked the hammer, the noise froze everyone in the barn.
“I’ll be leaving now. I don’t expect to be followed.”
Shirley slipped from the barn. She gathered her pack and left. No one followed her.
I need to return this to Constance. I promised her I would.
While Shirley hated guns, she took comfort in the security and courage Constance’s gun gave her on her departure from Hadlow’s Corner.
Outside the Gate
For the first time in five years Shirley stood outside Hadlow’s Corners.
What an odd experience that was.
She remembered her arrival and how, for a little while, her heart had burned with love. She liked the tribe and took comfort in the routine and rituals. For months, she had wandered through the wilderness. Alone. Her only concern was her safety. In Kentucky, she’d heard rumors of a fenced-in town. It was supposed to be a haven for those seeking shelter. She left the old place. It was no good there any longer. She set off to find the haven. Eleven months later, she found it.
At Hadlow’s Corner, she found friends, safety, and routine. If she had to pretend to care about some simpleton in black robes talking to his magic stone, then so be it. But her time alone had changed her, and soon Shirley found herself not pretending. She had opened to their rituals, and she believed.
She worried walkers would attack her once she stepped through the south gate, still holding Constance’s gun for the security and confidence it provided. But there was no one around. Shirley was alone. The skies were blue, and she relished the wind on her face.
We didn’t get much wind in the compound, the walls, of course.
She sat her pack down and stowed the gun in an outer pocket.
Have we been overstating the dangers in the secular world?
She decided that they had. Magnus and Jessup had used fear to control the tribe. She rubbed at her finger stumps and felt overwhelmed by the need to cry.
He took two of my fingers. Two!
She dried her eyes and hoisted her pack onto her back. There would be time for tears later.
Now isn’t the time.
She looked over her shoulder to see if anyone had followed her out of the compound. There was no one. She was alone in the sunshine and the breeze.
She closed her eyes for three deep breaths. The wind revitalized her.
I’m not afraid. I thought I would be, but I’m not. Why?
Roanoke was to the south. It felt as good a direction as any, so she walked that way.
That’s likely where Constance went.
She remembered the sin that led to her expulsion–reading.
Constance is smart. I bet she went to Roanoke.
Shirley remembered the books she’d read in her youth. Before the pandemics, before the fall of everything, before the compound.
I feel good.
She thought again about books and how silly it was to have abandoned them for any time. To have denied herself their pleasures for five years. That was ridiculous.
I bet there are books in Roanoke.
She vowed not to stop walking until she found Constance, books, or a place to live.
I will return her gun.
She quickened her pace. She wanted to be well away from the compound before she stopped for the night.
Maybe she will let me read her book.
Stories by Shawn 