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It’s winter. Still winter. Tonight is a moonless night, which sets the preparations in motion. The gods have hidden their light in the darkest of night, in the darkest season. It is time for the sacrifice.
He has been chosen by the elders. They don’t tell him why, and the decision cannot be questioned. He knows it is an honour, even if his legs do feel unsteady as he stands to accept their choice. They must please the gods, or else the entire village will suffer. The gruel he eats that night is sparse and watery, just a selection of the last grains and the chaff, swept up from the floor at some point several weeks ago. They’re all hungry by now.
He takes his daughter’s hand as they sit together in the warmth of the fire. Her mother died in childbirth a while ago; the baby died too. She’s the oldest of the surviving children, and she’ll have to grow up now – take on more responsibility, maybe find a man sooner than expected.
She looks scared, the fire reflecting in her wide, wet eyes. He tries to soothe her; he tells her it’ll be okay. It is a necessary thing, his sacrifice will appease the gods and bring health and happiness in the spring. She nods, seemingly understanding, which makes a certain pride bloom in his chest. He hopes she will live a long life and never know hunger again.
They haven’t had a human sacrifice in his lifetime. Not in his parents’ lifetimes either. But it is time now, the signs are all there. The crops withered last season, the animals started dying off. They tried with bowls of precious grain first, lowering them carefully into the dark waters. Then came tools, crucial to their daily lives. When that didn’t help, they sunk weapons into the soft peat of the bog, hard-earned and dearly traded copper hand-forged in the heat and sweat of the smithy. Finally, two dogs were sacrificed, their throats slit cleanly and their sacred blood spilt into the water.
None of it took. Their sacrifices disappeared into the dark, cold waters, but the crop still continued to fail and the trees bore little fruit. The gods were displeased, angry even.
The children cry when he’s about to leave. His brother has promised to look after them, but when you have nothing, there’s little to give. Looking at their gaunt faces, wet with tears, he almost falters. But the decision has been made, and he knows it must be done. He just hopes the gods will find him a worthy sacrifice. Maybe they’ll look into his mind and see this moment, see the love for his children, and they’ll know just what price he has paid for their blessing.
As he stands on the edge of the bog, the big tree looming over the shore, the branch waiting for him, he wonders what else is down there in the black water. Who or what will he meet on his journey to the shadow realm of the gods?
Sometimes objects will reemerge from the bog, and the elders will gather on the shore, wailing in despair to the gods, begging them to accept the sacrifice. Whatever has come to the surface will be carefully returned, and an additional sacrifice will be made. One time as a child, he saw an elder clutching the decapitated head of a stag, shakily holding it towards the sky, the blood running down his arms. The antlers loomed up out of the dark waters of the bog for a long time afterwards.
A wise woman gives him a small ceramic cup and tells him to drink. It’ll ease his passage. He takes it greedily, hoping it’ll also help dispel the cold seeping into his bones. He’s used to being barefoot, but not in the cold mud of winter. He’s wearing just a thin hemp tunic, and the leather cap on his head isn’t doing much to keep him from shivering.
The woman takes the cup from him and retreats again with a simple nod. Her part is finished for now, but later she’ll return to help them prepare him for his watery grave.
The poison is quick and sweet. He’s practically already gone by the time the leather rope tightens around his neck. He can feel his legs kicking, but it’s like someone else is moving them for him. Somewhere far away, he can hear the elders as they gather closer and closer around him, chanting to the gods. Their fingers softly brush his bare, twitching feet in gentle reverence.
When he’s finally dead, they carefully cut him down from the tree, leaving the leather rope around his neck. It’s beautifully made, and the hours of work concealed in the simple construction will serve as an additional sacrifice. They remove his tunic, fold it up and return it to his family, but they leave his plain belt around his hips, and his pointed, soft lamb leather cap remains on his head. These will be his grave gifts, a thank you for his sacrifice.
Finally, they close his mouth and his eyes before laying him to rest in a peat pit. He looks like he’s simply sleeping. The water will seep in and claim him for the bog and for the gods. His eternal rest will bring peace and an end to hunger. His children will live on.