Soft chants and the swishing of the druids’ robes were the only sounds from the procession. At its head the priestess carried a torch of alder, murmuring low prayers to the gods with misty breaths. Tonight’s Beltane fires would see many more fervent prayers before it was done.
They carried the Virgin in a sling of deerskin and birch poles, her raven hair trailing in the hallowed dust of the ancient path. She was as pale and bare as the day she’d been born, despite the procession being cloaked in furs against the night’s chill. A smear of wine stained the corners of her mouth. No doubt a draught of the goddess to help her on her way to the pyre.
This Beltane was the hardest we’d ever had to endure. Surely the Virgin would please the goddess. Surely we would be blessed with a better harvest this summer. The clan would not survive without it.
She clutched a crude doll-shaped bundle of hawthorne and heather between her breasts, cradling it as if to protect it from the cold. Soon it would be its own warmth. She smiled sadly at me like we’d shared the same thought.
“It will be a good death,” I promised her.
The Virgin gazed past me with large glassy eyes. She did not answer.
The Firebringer had looked at me that way once, before I’d slaughtered it’s earthly body in my crazed hunger. I remember the spirit seemed rooted in place as its herd loped away in sudden frenzy. The stag was motionless, even as the last doe leapt past, leaving only the swirling mist and settling leaves.
A hungry glow had begun to lick up the legs of the spirit, building strength until even the stag’s tines were alight. The piercing cry of the Firebringer still haunts my dreams. I’d dropped my bow and fled, flames chasing me into the dusk. With this offering I hoped he would be appeased as well.
The procession stopped at the sacred stones, piled high with bundles of gorse and oak. Gingerly I placed my own offering among them for the spirit who haunted me. The little carving hardly did the spirit justice, but I prayed it would please the Firebringer.
The Virgin bravely pushed her chin forward, leveling her gaze to the priestess as the stag’s crown was laced over her head. The smallest of whimpers escaped her lips as the thistles were pressed into the lattice of sinew holding the crown in place. She hugged the effigy tighter, the thorns of the bundle pricking her bare skin. Her eyes widened as her terror grew.
The torch lowered to the pyre with the last offering laid at the Virgin’s feet. The flames leapt to the tinder. I squeezed my eyes shut and shuddered, remembering the Firebringer’s cry again.
“May this offering bring you peace. Goddess, bless this harvest.” I knelt to my prayers.
The priestess began the rites.
The Virgin screamed.
Link to the Theme Thursday reddit post here.