Then
sacrificed. Another number in a never-ending line.
Chapter Thirteen
After a few
minutes of gestures and hisses in one another’s ears, Goatee and the leader of
the new group strike a deal. Goatee nods and both Pug Nose and Unibrow untie
the ropes from themselves and hand them over to the already open hands.
Meredith’s eyes
are still focused on the altar, unaware of what’s going on around her, too
focused on the scene. Maybe she sees her own eminent death. Or perhaps she’s
just trying to keep her mind on someone else’s pain to avoid her own. She
doesn’t even look away as the Banjankri tug and start to drag us back to their
group. I don’t even know what we were traded for, some shotgun shells? Furs?
Who knew? It didn’t matter anyway. We were about to die, the price of which
would probably only worsen the situation. I’ve often wondered about the cost of
life, what someone might pay for me, but now that it has happened, it’s the
last thing that I want to think about.
“I’m sorry,” I
say, looking to Meredith. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. That things went so
wrong.”
She stays focused
on the sacrifice.
“I wish I could’ve
done more. Kept you from harm. Kept all of us from it.”
Her face remains
frozen, echoing the surroundings. I think I see a flicker in her eye, but I
probably just imagined it, wanting to see something change within in her, to
know that my apology got through and that she accepted. She’s always been, and
always will be, an enigma. She’ll die a puzzle, and I’ll just die, wondering
what she’s thinking.
The latest
sacrifice is being dragged away and our new captors tug us forward. I want to
retch. I want to fight. But I do neither. I stumble forward, casting glances
about the area, thinking that I’d never have been able to even imagine such a
place as this, let alone picture it as my death bed.
Up close, I can
see the imperfections of the altar. All the spots where the warm blood and
flesh have mangled what might have been beautiful. In other places, the blood
has built up like stalagmites, built from the floor up, layer upon layer of
frozen blood until the trickles and streams resemble candle wax. I have an urge
to reach out and break off a chunk of ice, but I suppress the urge.
Meredith is
equally stoic. We’re the best-behaved captives of the lot, going to our death
with what looks like courage and integrity, when it’s really just impassivity.
I’m ready to go. Fine, let this frozen pedestal of death be my resting place.
I’m ready.
Or so I think.
The second they
start pulling me towards the altar, I’m wishing that it isn’t me. I want a few
more seconds to live. My mind races for any sign or place of escape, but all I
can think about is the relatively undamaged house that resembled my home. The
only way to escape is inside myself. I try to leave, to re-shutdown my system
and forget the world and everything in it, build my own out of the memories of
grass and flowing water and warmth. It’s then that I notice who the initiation
is for. Whom I am a sacrifice for.
Charles.
He stands to the side
of the Jo-Bran, wearing different, darker furs. He’s hardly recognizable in the
new gear, since I’d grown so used to him wearing the same things day in and day
out. One of the Banjankri claps him on the shoulder and whispers something in
English to him, though I can’t make out the words amongst the clatters and
cheers. The others in the group heft Meredith onto the altar and ready
themselves for the slaughter.
As they pull my
arms out, I scream to Charles, “What are you doing?”
As they stretch
out my legs, I scream, “Tell them to let us go.”
The Jo-Bran steps
forward, and Charles’ face tilts into the moonlight. I expect to see a look of
horror on his face. I expect his mouth to be opening, unable to speak from the
shock. I expect his arms to shoot out and stay the Banjankri. Instead, he
simpers, a sneer that reminds me of every
sacrificed. Another number in a never-ending line.
Chapter Thirteen
After a few
minutes of gestures and hisses in one another’s ears, Goatee and the leader of
the new group strike a deal. Goatee nods and both Pug Nose and Unibrow untie
the ropes from themselves and hand them over to the already open hands.
Meredith’s eyes
are still focused on the altar, unaware of what’s going on around her, too
focused on the scene. Maybe she sees her own eminent death. Or perhaps she’s
just trying to keep her mind on someone else’s pain to avoid her own. She
doesn’t even look away as the Banjankri tug and start to drag us back to their
group. I don’t even know what we were traded for, some shotgun shells? Furs?
Who knew? It didn’t matter anyway. We were about to die, the price of which
would probably only worsen the situation. I’ve often wondered about the cost of
life, what someone might pay for me, but now that it has happened, it’s the
last thing that I want to think about.
“I’m sorry,” I
say, looking to Meredith. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. That things went so
wrong.”
She stays focused
on the sacrifice.
“I wish I could’ve
done more. Kept you from harm. Kept all of us from it.”
Her face remains
frozen, echoing the surroundings. I think I see a flicker in her eye, but I
probably just imagined it, wanting to see something change within in her, to
know that my apology got through and that she accepted. She’s always been, and
always will be, an enigma. She’ll die a puzzle, and I’ll just die, wondering
what she’s thinking.
The latest
sacrifice is being dragged away and our new captors tug us forward. I want to
retch. I want to fight. But I do neither. I stumble forward, casting glances
about the area, thinking that I’d never have been able to even imagine such a
place as this, let alone picture it as my death bed.
Up close, I can
see the imperfections of the altar. All the spots where the warm blood and
flesh have mangled what might have been beautiful. In other places, the blood
has built up like stalagmites, built from the floor up, layer upon layer of
frozen blood until the trickles and streams resemble candle wax. I have an urge
to reach out and break off a chunk of ice, but I suppress the urge.
Meredith is
equally stoic. We’re the best-behaved captives of the lot, going to our death
with what looks like courage and integrity, when it’s really just impassivity.
I’m ready to go. Fine, let this frozen pedestal of death be my resting place.
I’m ready.
Or so I think.
The second they
start pulling me towards the altar, I’m wishing that it isn’t me. I want a few
more seconds to live. My mind races for any sign or place of escape, but all I
can think about is the relatively undamaged house that resembled my home. The
only way to escape is inside myself. I try to leave, to re-shutdown my system
and forget the world and everything in it, build my own out of the memories of
grass and flowing water and warmth. It’s then that I notice who the initiation
is for. Whom I am a sacrifice for.
Charles.
He stands to the side
of the Jo-Bran, wearing different, darker furs. He’s hardly recognizable in the
new gear, since I’d grown so used to him wearing the same things day in and day
out. One of the Banjankri claps him on the shoulder and whispers something in
English to him, though I can’t make out the words amongst the clatters and
cheers. The others in the group heft Meredith onto the altar and ready
themselves for the slaughter.
As they pull my
arms out, I scream to Charles, “What are you doing?”
As they stretch
out my legs, I scream, “Tell them to let us go.”
The Jo-Bran steps
forward, and Charles’ face tilts into the moonlight. I expect to see a look of
horror on his face. I expect his mouth to be opening, unable to speak from the
shock. I expect his arms to shoot out and stay the Banjankri. Instead, he
simpers, a sneer that reminds me of every
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