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They lead her to the bog singing, a procession of villagers, their voices crying out to the gods in unison. She holds her head up high, her sheepskin cloak heavy over her shoulders to keep out the chill of early spring. Her feet are bare though, her toes sinking into the increasingly soft dirt.
She knows what’s going to happen. They will hang her – watch her slowly choke to death as she dangles from the sacred tree. She looks at the big branch jutting out over the waters of the bog now that it has swelled with rain. They’ll all get wet, she thinks with quiet resignation.
She’s scared but defiant. Her entire life has been dedicated to the gods. She has been closer to the gods than most, has learned from the elders how to properly sacrifice a range of animals and drive the stakes through their bodies to anchor them to the bottom of the bog. She has painted her face with the holy blood of a recently slaughtered goat and communicated with the gods in deep growls and high whines. She knows she’s the best sacrifice, the one who can save her people.
There has been war lately. Violent raiders stealing their food, destroying their crops. Some of the men were killed; some of the young women were stolen away. Before that, there were failed harvests. Lingering winters and wet summers. They have struggled. They need the gods’ blessing now more than ever.
She looks out over the bog, wondering who she will meet down there. She knows there have been people before her who were put to rest in the heavy, black soil of the bog or weighted down in the water. They had appeased the gods with their sacrifices, and their people had lived on. Perhaps after she has given her life, no one from the village will ever have to go through this again. Maybe hers will be the final gift to the gods.
She chastises herself for thinking so highly of her own worth. She will meet her fate with bravery and acceptance, and she will be humble in the face of the gods. She can comfort herself with the knowledge that her death will help bring life and prosperity to her people, but only if the gods accept her sacrifice. So she bows her head in reverence when her feet reach the edge of the cold waters. Everything is in the hands of the gods now.
That morning, one of the other women braided her hair. They sat in silence while her rough but nimble fingers worked through the strands of golden hair. She’s known this woman since she was a child, has had her hair braided by her many times before in the warm glow of the fire or outside in the beginning chill of autumn. They used to laugh and talk, but there is nothing left to say. The knowledge of her impending death hangs heavy in the air between them.
When the elaborate braiding is done, she eats her final meal in solitude. She’s spent more time alone since the decision was made than ever before in her life. Orphaned as a child, the others took care of her. The elders taught her. She was a part of the community. Now it’s like none of them can really look her in the eye. Like they feel guilty for needing her sacrifice. But she understands it must be done.
The singing stops when they all reach the shore of the bog’s cold water. She knows the ritual. The wise woman steps forward and anoints her with the sacred blood, marking her as the sacrifice. This way the gods will recognise her. Then she is given the bark cup, and she accepts the poisonous liquid with shaking hands. It won’t kill her, but it’ll ease her passage.
She’s already unsteady on her feet when they lead her to the tree. The wise woman kisses the top of her head before retreating. She’s not supposed to, it’s not part of the ritual. She relishes in this final act of kindness and tenderness from a woman she has known all her life. It reminds her of why this must be done. To protect them all. So future children can be brought up safe and with full bellies. May she be the last one, the last gift to the gods.
They sacrifice her at noon, under the bright eye of the sun. Once they’ve cut her from the tree, they lay her carefully in the freshly dug grave. The water will soon start to seep back in to claim her for the bog. The wise woman adjusts her sheepskin cloak and drapes her legs in a cowhide. The rope they hung her by is neatly folded and placed in the grave with her as one last offering to the gods.
The voices of the villagers once again sing out in unison when they leave the bog. The sacrifice is complete. If the gods deem it fit, peace and bounty will come to them all.