Devil’s Bargain

By Denise Longrie

“I’m not worthy. I—I’m not a virgin.”

Gods help me; it was the truth. A few gasps escaped from the people gathering outside our front door. Other people tittered. My beloved Vane, the cobbler’s son, stepped away toward the edge of the crowd, but he did not escape Papa’s glare.

“The lot fell upon you, Hilda, Brennen’s daughter,” the priest said. “To refuse is to bring the penalty of death on your family.”

“I ask only,” my father said, “let her spend this last night in her home with her loved ones.”

The holy man of the Anzu turned to Papa, his heavy starched linen headgear no doubt hindering his movement, and intoned, “It is permitted, Brennen, Morgan’s son.”

Holding little Timothy and Gertrude, Mama wept.

“My gratitude,” Papa said.

The priest nodded, his stiff crown of office crinkling. “We will post guards at your door.”

“That is not necessary—”

“Consider them an honor guard.”

My father pursed his lips. “Very well.”

The priest whispered to his acolyte. Without bidding my parents farewell, they left.

Papa grabbed me by the back of my collar and dragged me into the house, slamming the door.

“What in the seven hells did you do to bring this on us?” he screamed, his face reddening. “As if going whoring after the cobbler’s son weren’t enough.”

“This is none of my doing!”

My mother ran to me, hugging me and kissing me. My little brother and sister laid hold of my skirts as if not that could keep me from leaving.

“Brennan, why do you berate our daughter when we have so little time?” Mama asked, clasping me to her breast.

“The cobbler’s son will pay!” He shook his head, finger raised in the air.

Oh, Vane, I hope you weren’t lying about that fast horse. Get out of town!

“I know all about the cobbler’s boy!” my mother retorted. “He’s a nice lad.”

You do, Mama?

“And you didn’t see fit to tell me?”

Little Timothy howled. “I don’t want a dragon to eat Hilda!”

Dragon. A child’s word for the Anzu. I once believed in dragons, too.

I broke Mama’s death grip—er—embrace and picked him up. I hugged him. “I don’t want a dragon to eat me, either, little man.”

“Put him down,” my father said. “If you’d listen to me instead of whining, there might be a way out of this.”

“How, Brennen? For the love of Lady of Mercy, do something!”

He glowered at me. “You—Do not stir from this house. Have a full meal tonight.” He turned his back to me and left to tend to the animals. He argued with a guard outside and then continued on. Ordinarily, I helped with this work, but he’d ordered me to stay within the house.

Mama hugged me and began crying once more. In truth, she had not stopped.

Finally, she wiped her cheeks. “Your father will be furious if we don’t have something for him when he comes in. Here, peel potatoes. I’ll start a fire. Timmy and Trudy, do not bother your sister.”

We followed her directions as if this were any other dinner, not the last of my young life. I’d seen sixteen winters and would not see a seventeenth. Perhaps it was better to keep my hands busy, for I might pull my hair out.

How can this be happening? Why did Papa say this was my fault? It isn’t. The priests and their omens and drawing lots in secret… hmmm. In any event, it isn’t fair. Why don’t the Anzu eat priests? They’re holy. They’d make a more worthy sacrifice.

“Hilda!” Mama called. “Stop! You’ve peeled enough potatoes for a week!”

I dropped my knife.

My mother wrapped her arms around me. “No harm done, my darling girl. No harm done.” She released me to wipe away more tears. Her face was red, and her eyes were swollen. “I’ll take the peels to your father for the pigs.” She laughed. “Even they will feast tonight.” Her laugh brought another round of weeping.

I wrapped my arm around her shoulders.

She rubbed my shoulders. “So. I’ll take these to the barn, then?” She lifted the bucket and walked out the back door.

I swept up a few stray peels. Outside, a guard challenged Mama. I dipped the potatoes—so many of them!—in the rinse water, cut them up, and tossed them into the pot of water heating over the fire.

“Hilda, Timmy is cheating again!” Gertrude cried.

“Am not. You don’t know how to play—”

Little stones and a ball lay between them. How could they worry about their game when—

I said nothing but, over the wails of the two young ones, picked up the stones, and threw them out the door. The guard—a man Papa’s age—turned to me. Offering no apology, I closed the door and walked to the hearth.

“Hilda!” my little siblings cried. “What did you do?

I resumed cutting up the potatoes.

The back door opened, casting failing daylight across the floor. Mama entered. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

She cut some dried beef—a rare treat—and threw it into the water with the potatoes to soften. We busied ourselves, gathering the necessities for our little feast—my farewell banquet. Mama kneaded dough and added cinnamon and honey with dates. She baked handful-sized portions on a pan in the fire for dessert. My mouth watered, but my stomach lurched. I hoped the guards smelled them, for they would get none. Papa should be back soon.

The sun set, and the feast lay on the table, but Papa still did not return.

“Should I go fetch him?” I asked Mama.

“Never you mind. Your father knows what he’s about.”

“But dinner’s getting cold.”

“Keep it warm for a little while longer.”

“I have to make a trip outside.” I walked to the back door.

A blond giant of a guard turned as I stepped across the threshold. “Where do you think you’re going?”

From his speech, I knew he was from the southern seaside—a stubborn idiot. “Nowhere that’s any concern of yours.”

“Get back in the house.”

“I wasn’t born in a barn,” I said.

Puzzlement showed on his face.

“I must go outside.”

Mama appeared at my side. “Young man, I beg of you, let my daughter do what we all need to do at certain times.”

“Oh,” he said. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ll escort you.”

“That’s unnecessary. I’ve been doing this on my own for a long time.”

Mama slapped my shoulder with the back of her hand.

Thus, I visited the privy while the guard waited outside as if I were a child escorted by its mother.

The moon had risen, and the stars shone in the sky before Papa returned. The food was drying, and the ale going flat. Timmy and Trudy lay fast asleep before the fire in their day clothes. Mama woke them.

“Sit. Eat,” Papa told me. Was he smiling?

I did as he ordered.

Not happy to be roused, the little ones took their places. Trudy turned to me. “They’re going to take you away,” she wailed.

“No tears now,” Papa said. “Have some dinner, Trudy. Let your sister eat.”

I squeezed her hand.

We ate, choking down the overcooked food with tears. Why was Papa acting like this?

“Hilda, have some more bread,” Papa said.

“I’ve had enough,” I said.

He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the dishes. “I told you to eat!”

A silence fell. I stared at him. Why was he angry? I cut myself off a slice and buttered it.

No one spoke. Trudy covered her face with her hands and wept. Mother kissed the top of her head.

I chewed the bread and washed it down with flat ale.

Our feast concluded. We cleaned up and sent the little ones to bed. My heart was heavy. I would never eat with my family again. Papa began to fasten the shutters, provoking objections from the guards.

“I have children and womenfolk inside!” Papa protested. “Surely your duties don’t extend to prying into their nighttime doings! With the house locked up, where will your sacrifice go?”

“You best behave yourself, man!”

After Papa finished locking the shutters, he laughed, referring to the guard in terms that belittled the man’s intelligence and cast doubt on his mother’s chastity.

With nothing to occupy my mind or hands, all the sorrow and anger returned. I did not want to die—and certainly not in this cruel fashion. The only remaining solace was sitting by the fire with my parents before the inevitable dawn and talk of happier days.

Papa took a clean clay cup off the table and poured fresh ale into it. With his hand, he beckoned Mama and me to join him by the hearth. He stirred the ashes with a poker, sending a handful of embers flying up the chimney. He left the poker in the ash. From behind his belt buckle, he retrieved a tiny pouch.

Mama gasped. “Brennen, no!”

“Do you want to see your daughter again?”

Mama turned away and said no more.

Without another word, he emptied the contents of the pouch—foul-smelling dried herbs—into the ale. The liquid surged and foamed like whipped egg white. When it settled, Papa took the poker from the embers and thrust it into the cup of ale. It hissed and spat like cats before a fight.

“Hilda, drink this. All of it.”

My stomach turned. I feared I would vomit. Was Papa’s plan to make me too ill for the Anzu to eat?

I took a sip of the ale. It was so foul I spat it out.

“Drink!” Papa said, grabbing my forearm. “Your life depends on it!”

Mama put her arm around my shoulders and recited prayers for my safety.

I drank more of the ale. The foulness made me cough and spit a little.

Papa slapped my face. “No tricks, girl. Drink.”

I laid a hand over my stinging cheek, regarding Papa with more anger than I ever had. Refusing to weep, I took a deep breath and drank more. The cup was half empty. I must finish this. Mama continued praying and kissed my hair. I drank more. Finally, the cup was empty. The bitter herbs and ashes made me choke. I set the cup on the ground. Papa picked it up and threw it into the fireplace, smashing it into countless pieces. No one would drink from it again.

My eyelids grew heavy, and I fell backward against Mama.

“What have you done to our daughter?” Mama’s voice came from a thousand leagues away.

“Quiet, woman,” Papa said. “Remember those who stand outside these walls.”

I lay back in Mama’s arms. She wept, rocking me.

I tried to tell her I was well enough—only tired, unnaturally tired—but the words refused my summons. I did not sleep but lay entranced by shadows from the dying fire.

“Do not mourn.” Papa’s voice came. I could not turn my head to see him. “The herbs will make her sleep. She will wake tomorrow when the sun sets.”

“Another woman’s child will die,” Mama said.

“Better hers than ours.”

“Hilda, Hilda, my beautiful girl… Daughter, you take a piece of my heart with you. A hundred times would I die so you could live…”

Why had she never said these things to me before? I longed to squeeze her hand but could not move or speak. Mama, I don’t want to go. How do I yet breathe?

Papa brought a pillow for my head and a quilt to cover me. “Let her lie before the fire,” he told Mama. “We must keep her warm.”

“Very well. I’ll keep her warm the way I did when she was a babe.”

Mama hugged me to her under the quilt. She wept yet more. Papa sat in his chair staring into the fire. Behind him, shadows danced across the wall.

How did I know this…? My eyes were closed. I saw my eyes and my head held against Mama’s breast. I glanced down before me where my hands should be. There was nothing. The girl under the quilt—I—seemed to be at peace. I tried to take a step toward Papa. Even in the darkness, I saw the tears running down his face.

“Papa, what have you done to me!” I howled.

He gave no sign he’d heard.

I tried to clasp his arm but might as well have tried to seize water in my fist.

“Look at me!” I cried. “Don’t you hear me?”

I turned to Mama. She wept. “Mama! I’m right here! Look at me!” This must be a dream induced by the herbs Papa fed me. I wish they’d let me sleep.

I walked in circles around my parents. I say “walked,” though that is not so, for I had neither legs nor feet. I had no body, yet I could move. How was that possible?

Am I going mad? No. No, this makes no sense. This is all a lie.

I continued to march in circles around my parents, longing to rest but unable to. I tried to grab my shoulder under the quilt and shake it, but this, too, was like trying to grasp water—until I touched the fabric itself. It moved. I could tug the quilt back and forth. I pulled it off the two of us.

Mama awoke with a little cry, sat up, and looked around though the gloom revealed little. She pulled the covering over herself and me and lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Mama. I did not stir, yet I am awake. What is happening?”

I turned to the fire, which had long gone out. How was it that I saw in the dark? This was a dream, wasn’t it? I reached out and touched the poker stand on the hearth. Even without fingers, I grasped it. It seemed unusually heavy. I could lift it no more than a finger’s breadth off the ground.

What else lay within my power? I had no legs, but I stood. How high could I stand? To the rafters? Without climbing the ladder, I somehow entered the loft where Timmy and Trudy slept. How peaceful they appeared. I paused, again puzzled that I could see their faces in the pitch dark.

I returned to the main room and my parents.

And I understood. This wasn’t a dream. The herbs Papa made me drink sent my soul from my body. Did Papa intend that? Did something go wrong?

Voices came from outside. Had the night gone by so quickly? No. No. It was only the guards talking.

Sadness overwhelmed me. I heard but was not heard. I studied my parents. Mama held my body as if doing so would keep me here. Papa stood watch over us in his sleep, perhaps believing he would keep the evil at bay by willing it so. I loved them more than ever at that moment. Knowing my words would never reach them only tore at my heart. I did not want to die.

Had I eyes, I would have wept. A sound arose from the depth of my being: a moan born of mourning. How had the benevolent gods allowed this to happen?

They said the sacrifice kept the Anzu from ravaging the villages and farmlands. No Anzu had ravaged a village or farmland in living memory. Did that mean the priests lied—or that the sacrifice worked?

In the distance, drums sounded. Dawn had yet to break. The guards called a salutation. My family didn’t stir, so profoundly did they sleep. I moved to Papa.

“Wake up!” I begged.

He snored as if he had not a care in the world.

“Mama, they’re coming!”

She did not move.

At the pounding on the door, they both jumped. Mama wrapped her arms around me, cradling me, and sobbed noiselessly.

“Brennen, son of Morgan, open this door to the holy men of the land, or we shall break it down.”

“Hold, hold!” Papa called. “I will allow you in.”

Papa stood. “Wife, how is she?”

Mama wept. “She is as one dead.”

He nodded. “That is how it should be.”

What?

Papa made his way in the dark toward the door and swung it open.

“Where is the girl?” The holy man in his high linen headgear asked.

“She is in her mother’s arms. The burden proved too great for her. She died in her sleep during the night. Please leave us in our sorrow.”

The holy man pushed past Papa and stepped inside with an acolyte holding a torch.

Things seemed to be as Papa described them. Mama rocked my body as if I were an infant.

“Well,” said the priest. “That will make this business easier.”

“What do you mean?” Papa asked. Panic flashed across his face.

“It’s more dignified if the Anzu’s offering doesn’t squirm. The sacrifice is executed before it’s presented.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Dieter. Michael. Get the girl.”

“No—no,” Mama exclaimed. “You can’t have her.”

“Now, now, Myrna,” the priest said as if Mama were a wayward child. “Being difficult is unbecoming.”

Timmy and Trudy had awakened. They peered over the edge of the loft. With mussed hair and sleepy eyes, they wept. “Don’t go, Hilda!”

The brutes—I have no other word for them—seized my body and tried to force it from Mama’s grasp. She clung to me.

“You cannot have her,” my poor mama cried.

“Come now, Myrna,” the holy man said.

“To the Pit with you,” she said.

I gasped. Mama never swore, and certainly not at a priest.

“I’m sure you don’t mean that.” He turned his back.

One of the two brutes wrestling with Mama kicked her in the face. I reached for the poker by the hearth to fling it at the brutes with all my might. To my dismay, it moved no more than a handspan. Mama let go of my body. The two dragged me outside.

I cried aloud. How dare these men abuse a defenseless woman? Mama bled from her nose and mouth. I longed to throw my arms around her. Papa held her, but there was no consoling her. The little ones wailed at seeing their mother abused. Papa cautioned them to stay in the loft.

In a heartbeat, the door slammed shut on my only home. I moaned, my heart breaking. I had no choice but to leave. By staying, I could offer neither comfort nor justice. If I followed the procession, I might do something—just what, I couldn’t guess.

The brutes carried me by the armpits and ankles to the back of an oxcart standing not far from our front door. To my horror, they swung my body between them, then flung it onto a bed of straw in the wagon. I landed on my right side, face in the straw, arms and legs sprawled out like a calf carcass.

I glanced at the house. The shutters and doors were closed.

Thank you, merciful gods, that my family did not witness this indignity.

The priest sat up front with a driver. The acolyte, two brutes, and two unfamiliar guards walked. The two guards who had stood outside our house sat in the straw with my body, wrapped in their cloaks, and slept.

The driver cracked his whip, and my funeral procession—such as it was—departed.

Despite the early hour, the villagers poked their heads out their doors as the convoy passed. Did the priest and his company not hear the curses and the warding prayers that followed in their wake? None appeared to notice.

The priest offered prayers. I thrust a fist at his headgear, hoping to knock it into the dirt. My only reward was to see a new crease form in its middle.

We approached the village center where the cobbler shop stood. I gazed toward Vane’s window, recalling our few afternoons of joy. I longed to tell him farewell. All was quiet. Perhaps this was better. He would not witness the shame and agony of my demise. I hoped my father would not be too hard on him. He was a good man and would have made me a good husband, had he the chance.

The travelers continued out, the rising sun at their backs. My father had done his best to stop them, but it was not enough. I would never see my family again. All I had ever known was slipping away from me. I moaned.

A young acolyte marching beside the oxen shivered and glanced over his shoulder. Had he heard me?

“The wind startles you, young Thomas?” the priest asked. He chuckled.

“No, Master. I thought I heard—”

“It seems our young friend has weak knees,” the priest called to the others.

Young Thomas blushed at the laughter of his fellows. He was about my age, with a head of dark unruly hair, and sworn not to touch women until he reached his full office of priesthood.

Thomas heard me, but he did not understand.

I stopped. I now realized that I was dead—a ghost.

No, no. I argued with myself. If my body remained intact until sunset, I might join it again, as my father expected…

You fool yourself. You are a ghost—and utterly alone.

The thought brought on such despair I would have done myself violence were it possible.

When I lifted my eyes (or whatever functioned as eyes) to the priest in the high linen headdress, the self-pity and sadness turned to blind rage. How could he visit such destruction on people who had done him no harm? On people powerless to fight back? I screamed, cursing him with words grown men muttered under their breath.

He flinched.

Good.

No one mocked him for flinching at the wind.

When the party stopped for a midday meal, I picked up pebbles. No one seemed to notice but attributed the noise to the animals. Throwing them grew easier with practice.

After the meal, they moved on.

When the shadows lengthened, the group found a place to camp. I hovered close to the abject girl lying in the straw. I should rejoin my body, was that not so? I should awaken, right? When neither happened, I tried to grasp my hand, but again, it was like trying to grasp water. The sun set, and the stars and the moon rose. I studied my motionless body.

I was dead. Now and forever. All that I had known—my family, my home, Vane—was lost to me and I could never recover it.

I flew as high into the sky as I dared, keeping the campfires in sight, and sent out a howl of anguish and desolation. Why did no one teach me what to do when I died? I had no guide.

I spent another long night throwing pebbles at the sleeping forms. My aim and control improved with practice. One stone landed near the sentry, panicking him. When he found no lurking highwaymen, he sat back down and cursed with a fluency I’d never heard.

I watched the sun light the eastern horizon, then rise above the trees. The western stars held fast as long as they could but faded one by one before the sun’s overwhelming light. The members of the group awoke, ate, broke camp, and moved out.

On the road, people of all stripes turned away from the procession. Even rough men with knives hidden in their boots (how did I know that?)—moved aside to let the men pass and cursed them once they did.

***

We approached the temple complex near mid-morning. None of the tales I’d heard prepared me for the majesty of the temple city. Grand shrines built of stone and brick soared toward the heavens. The tallest temple was that of the Anzu, bringer of life and death.

Despite my sorrows, I studied it in wonder. The shrines welcomed pilgrims and visitors, but these represented a small portion of the land. Rows of fine houses for those dedicated to the gods lay beyond the shrines, along with barns and vast silos whose contents would feed my village for a year. Recently harvested fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Meadows full of cattle, sheep, and goats—more than I had seen in my short life—filled the land to the sea. Man-made stocked ponds dotted the shoreline, their water refreshed through grates with each tide.

Hmmm. The devout eat well.

A gong sounded from inside the gate. The city guards had spotted the group bringing my body. Horns answered the gong. Inside, people ran to line the pathway; they would rejoice at my death. A runner bearing a lit torch dashed ahead of us toward the sea.

The priest issued orders to various underlings. Inside and outside the gate, the people cheered as the party continued. People threw flowers before them. The priest demanded food for himself and his companions, stabling for the oxen when they had completed their duties, and heated water for baths. There would be a feast later.

…and mourning at my family’s cottage. I picked up a pebble and threw it at the priest’s headgear. To my chagrin, he leaned over to greet a fellow priest, and the pebble landed harmlessly in the dirt behind him. A few heads turned at the sounds of the stone hitting the ground, but no one said anything.

Next time, I will be more certain of my aim.

The little party halted outside the wall that separated the public from the priestly areas. Acolytes laid a table and brought bread, butter, fruits, and wine. The weary travelers washed their hands and faces, sat, and ate their fill. A stable hand exchanged the team of oxen for a single one.

One of the brutes leaned over to the other and said, “Isn’t it odd that the girl still has the color of life.” He’d spoken quietly as if for only his friend’s hearing.

His companion shrugged. “Saved our ears from her weeping and wailing.”

“Indeed. I don’t fancy garroting them, either. I make an exception for some of the louder ones.”

“It brings peace.”

“Indeed, it does, my friend.”

I stood dumbfounded. These men had beaten my mother while the priest turned his back. Now they spoke of killing helpless humans as if it were no more than slaughtering chickens for a saint’s feast day.

I moved to the wagon where my body lay. Two men stood guard over me, chatting and drinking ale. I studied the girl within. She might be sleeping. Pieces of straw had blown over her; jostling of the cart had bared one rosy cheek. Red lines on her legs showed where the straw had scratched her.

She bleeds. Does she not then live? Or does she hover somewhere between life and death?

Part of me wanted to comfort the girl, yet I withheld my hand.

A fiddler appeared, and people danced to his jigs. The sounds of merry-making resounded in the little courtyard. These people—these pious people—rejoiced at bringing sorrow to my family? I seethed, longing to overthrow their tables.

After the party emptied plates and wine casks, they rose for baths. Servants cleared the table. With half an eye on the courtyard, I left to see the shrines.

Soaring structures reaching into the heavens. These were the homes of gods on earth, or so the holy men told us. Here, the mere mortal met the divine. I followed the pilgrims with their offerings into the principal shrine of the Anzu. Sky-blue paint covered the vault, along with depictions of every kind of bird, the sacred animal of the Anzu.

Down the central aisle came the worshippers, many carrying live doves for the priests to sacrifice. I grew angry and, disregarding many childhood warnings, approached the unapproachable, insatiable horned god.

What had I to fear? He could hardly strike me dead.

The god stood as tall as four men. His wings flared outward in protection, and his scaled body assured worshippers he could withstand all onslaughts. His horns curved upward from his head, which resembled a dog’s more than a bird’s. His mouth hung slightly open in warning, displaying sharp teeth and fangs that protruded up and down outside his jaw. One clawed hand rested alongside his thigh. The other was raised either in benediction or threat. His bird-claw feet spoke of his communion with the heavens.

I gazed into the god’s eyes. “What do you offer in return for the lives you take? For the blood you demand? You are no better than a blood-bloated tick. Your priests live off the sweat of the brow of honest people. Skilled human hands built you. Unskilled human hands can topple you.”

I amused myself by abusing the mute statue for a while, then left to discover what the priest and his companions were doing.

Servants bustled about, cleaning the little courtyard when I returned. The priest and his party had departed. For a moment, I panicked but then thought to rise high in the air and look for them. I found them easily, on their way toward the sea with my body in the cart, and caught up with them. Different acolytes and guards made up the retinue, but the same priest who’d knocked at my family cottage door led the way. His clothes appeared fresh from the seamstress’ hands. No one spoke,

The shadows grew long and turned purple. The guards lit torches foolishly (so I thought) near the hay. As darkness fell, I saw a fire blazing atop a hill in the distance near the shore.

The party stopped to share wine and meat with prayers around the cart, a sacred meal. The ox drawing the cart was also fed and watered. After finishing, they continued into the dark.

The winding path rose into the hills. The ox strained. The sounds of crashing waves came. Did the others hear them also? I looked out over the black sea to gaze at the stars. Sadness washed over me. This was the end of the world; this was the end of me.

The moon rose from the sea as the men ascended the hill. When they arrived at the top of a cliff facing the ocean, the stars shone. The priest exchanged words with men tending a signal fire. Only the priest and a single acolyte continued into the darkness down a path along the cliff face barely wide enough for the oxcart.

To be home again peeling potatoes with Timothy and Gertrude fighting over their games and Mother and Father arguing over—whatever they always argue over! And Vane… but my life was over. Greedy men and silent gods have seen to that.

After a quarter hour, the path widened out. It ended at a circular area large enough to turn the cart around. At the priest’s direction, the acolyte stopped the cart by a black stone slab in the middle.

The Cliff of Sacrifice.

Facing the sea, the ox lowed as the lights were withdrawn from it and the poor, simple beast could no longer the cliff edge.

Giant rocks had fallen down the cliff face to this broad shelf in times too long past to remember. The stones lay arranged in a ring mimicking the cliff except for one large black slab in the middle. A gap between the ring and the cliff left room enough for men to sit unseen.

The young acolyte shivered. I didn’t blame him. It must have been a chilly night; they were alone with a corpse. He looked out to the sea. I followed his gaze.

“Ishmael,” the old priest said, “empty the cart. The girl is to lie on the slab. You must remove her clothing. Make a pile of the hay over there.” He pointed to a corner. “Drive the cart up the road some distance. Then return on foot. We will set the hay and clothing ablaze.”

In the dark, the priest couldn’t see the incredulity pass over Ishmael’s face but noted his inaction.

“Oh, you dunderhead,” the priest snapped. “The ox cannot be around when the Anzu arrives. It will eat the beast. It’s a long walk back. So. Set the girl down, strip her, and go so we can set the fire.”

Oh, no, wouldn’t want to lose an ox….

Ishmael set my body on the slab with unexpected gentleness, brushing hair from my forehead. He piled the hay in the corner as directed. “Master,” he said, “I don’t know how…”

The old man laughed. “Start with the obvious, boy.”

Blushing deep scarlet, Ishmael removed my shoes and stockings. The old priest helped him divest me of the rest of my clothing until I lay as naked and helpless as the day I entered the world, on my back, arms and legs spread.

“Want to give those titties a little squeeze?” the priest asked, chortling. He grabbed Ishmael’s hand and thrust it over my breast. Ishmael shook his hand off and turned away.

“Come. No one will be the wiser,” the priest mocked.

“You lecherous old goat,” I said.

The acolyte said nothing but mounted the cart and drove it away up the path.

I pushed on one of the rocks. It moved. Hmmm… I continued upward along the sheer cliff. Rocks had fallen in the past. They could fall again.

Torchlight making its way back signaled Ishmael had not fled as he might have. I descended the cliff and watched as they set fire to the straw and my clothing. What need had I of clothing now?

The blaze flared, sending crackling sparks and embers into the night. To my surprise, the black rock seemed to come alive, sparkling with the fire, casting more light than the fire itself.

“The fire will not last,” the priest told Ishmael. “Wait for me in the cart. I will tend to this alone.”

The acolyte dipped his head, muttered some polite phrase, and left as quickly as possible without risk to life and limb. The priest ducked behind the ring of fallen rock.

The moon darkened, then shone again like a candle when a hand passes before it. Fear and dread shook me to my core. Wordless cries escaped me. Without seeing the being about to arrive, I knew: the Anzu, the god I had mocked and cursed. I would pay now for my blasphemy.

The sound of beating wings came. I searched the black sky. Could I run?

A great rush of air followed, and many stars went black. The Anzu landed, his clawed feet grabbing the edge of the clearing, his wings outspread while he surveyed the area. He ignored the smoldering remains of the straw fire. His lower beak swung open, and his black tongue protruded as if tasting the air. He panted like a dog on a hot day.

He’s thirsty. The thought came unbidden.

He hopped around like a crow striding across a farmyard toward the slab where my body lay. He stood twice the height of a man. His head was the size of a man’s torso, the beak jutting like an absurd mask. His feathers shone with a sheen as black as pitch, yet when he stretched out his wings, those on his belly and chest displayed all the hues of the rainbow.

His few awkward steps were so much like a crow’s I almost laughed. He stood before my body, sniffing it. Panic rose in me; I could do nothing. I glanced at the priest. He watched, gripping the stone in front of him. To my horror, the Anzu clasped my body in its dread beak. Like a wading heron swallowing a fish at the pond, he threw his head back, opened his maw, and slid my body down his gullet, barely chewing on it. My bones cracked.

I cried aloud. Had I a heart, this sight would have torn it from my chest.

The priest betrayed no visible reaction.

Oh, you fiend!

A protrusion stuck out of the Anzu’s throat and was gone. He walked—waddled—near the fire and sat down on his haunches, rubbing his belly.

So, he wanted a nap after his big meal, did he? I fought the urge to push him over the cliff’s edge, smash him into a pulp, and watch him float away in the ocean waves. I turned to the priest. My what-passed-for-eyes looked immediately above him to several great slabs of stone and saw possibilities.

I moved up the cliff wall and examined them. Which one would serve the best? I had to be certain because I wouldn’t get a second chance. Once I found what I thought was the best choice, I shoved. With amazingly little force, the giant stone wedge loosened from the earth and fell. The priest turned at the sound and looked up, confusion rather than fear on his face. He had time to do little else but take a few futile steps away. The massive rock caught him, pinning him to the ring of stone. I turned away, unwilling to witness the blood and gore of my handiwork.

You have killed a man. Not a good man. A man who will never hurt another young girl again. A man who brought about your death. A man who brought grief to your family. But a human being, nevertheless. I can’t undo what I have done. I must live with that for the rest of my life. Or whatever this is.

The considerable noise did not disturb the sleeping Anzu.

“Digesting my earthly remains taxes you, does it? You parasite,” I muttered.

Gods above, was he snoring?

I studied him. I would not bring down another stone slab on him. The blood and gore of the priest’s death weighed on my conscience.

Now what? Where would I go from here? What would happen when the priest did not join the acolyte? Ishmael would investigate and, finding the blood at the scene, tell the others what had happened.

…well, not like I need to worry about hanging for murder, though in a just world—in a just world, the priest would have swung dozens of times. That’s neither here nor there.

I sat—if that is the word—and thought through many things.

***

The Anzu stirred. I froze. He groaned and rolled over, covering his head with a wing. He didn’t want to rise, it appeared. Despite everything, I smiled.

“Aww,” I said. “Tummy bothering you?”

He rolled around again and attempted to rise but could not get his footing. Perhaps he saw the dead priest, for he tried to walk toward him but stumbled and swayed like a first-time sailor trying to get his land legs back. His thrashing grew intense. I realized he was in pain. He half-stood, staggering around the circle of stones. He cried, sounding like a raven in distress. His flailing carried him near the edge.

Was he blind? Did he not see where he was going?

His feet slipped, talons grasping at air, and he fell headlong over the cliff’s edge. Aghast, I leaned over. He beat his great wings but did not recover. The colossal body collided with the rocky slope below, bounced twice, then rolled down to the sea. He uttered a single cry of despair but nothing more.

I moved down to the shore. The tide was out; the broken body of the Anzu lay on a small strip of rocky beach, dying. His black tongue hung from his open beak. His eyes stared at nothing. He panted, trying to rise to escape the waves washing over him, but he could barely move. He attempted to drag himself to a standing position. His strength had left him. He struggled until he collapsed with his face in the water.

I sat on a nearby rock and studied the dead Anzu. He had died as any mortal being might. He was no god, yet people worshipped him in a grand temple. The priests sacrificed human beings to him. Why? What was he?

A presence appeared at my side. Waves of shock, horror, and sorrow rippled from this presence. I looked over my shoulder—an Anzu sat above me, mourning the dead Anzu below. Great bellowing sobs rang forth.

“They betrayed me!” he roared.

Is the Anzu an intelligent beast?

“They sent me forth to my death!”

Oh.

“And you, weakling human! You poisoned me!”

I didn’t know what, if any, harm he could work in this dead-but-alive form, but I did not allow myself to fear him. “And you ate me!”

“All according to the ancient agreement.”

“I agreed to nothing.”

“I didn’t agree to be thrust from my people and home, either.”

I paused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He regarded me as a teacher regards a slow child who needs the simplest things explained. “The ancient agreement between our two peoples ensures that neither of us grows too strong. Our emperor takes only fives females—”

“Gods above, what does he do with five wives?”

Again, he gave me a look like I was deficient. “And the nobles take only two. Thus, many of us have no females. When the lot falls on one of us, we must leave. Humans feed us on our way. In return, we fertilize your fields—”

“You what?”

“—and seek our fortunes elsewhere.”

We stared at each other for several moments.

“The people worship an image of you,” I told him. “They bring you offerings of birds.”

He stared at me without a word, then laughed. “Nonsense.”

“No, that greatest temple is dedicated to the Anzu.”

“My name is Nid.”

“Not you personally, but to what you are, an Anzu.”

He laughed again. “That must be what the priests tell you to make one of you give yourselves up for us.”

I shook my head. “We are seized.”

“How unfortunate. Well, you are needed.” Again, he paused. “A human lies dead there.”

“Yes.”

After a few moments’ thought, he said, “His spirit departed in violence. I take it you killed him?”

How can you tell how his spirit departed? Why should I lie? “Yes.”

He nodded. “I see. And you killed me.”

“No. Or at least, it was unintentional. Frankly, I’m as surprised as you are. The sleeping herbs my father gave me to try to save me must have killed me. Maybe they killed you, as well.”

His anger vanished, and waves of sorrow flowed out from him. “What a waste,” he said. “What a damn stupid waste. The ancient agreement is shattered. There will be war and death. Well, little enough I have to do with it.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Are you indeed that thick? When your people learn that your holy man died by violence, they will accuse my people of murder. When my people hear that one of us who was promised safe passage is dead, they will accuse your people of murder. Thus, centuries of accord break because one girl didn’t want to be eaten.”

“How unreasonable of me.”

“War is inevitable. The death and destruction of many will follow your obstinacy.”

“No one wants that. Yet why must my life be forfeited because a lot fell on me? Can the rulers not find peace by means other than by death?”

“A lot cast me from my people. It’s not to my liking, either, but what can I do? It is necessary so that others live. The same is true of you.” His presence withdrew.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Where do you think? To join the ancestors. I have nothing more to do with this world. The living live. The dead are dead. I would have thought you had departed long ago to join your ancestors. Don’t you have any?”

No doubt he said this as an insult, but I didn’t understand it. “All in good time,” I said. “Don’t let me delay you.”

He departed.

So, war would come. No longer would Anzu outcasts eat girls. The youth of both our peoples would kill each other to preserve the peace of those who ruled. Perhaps this night’s actions had achieved no more than to exchange one devil’s bargain for another.

Or, perhaps, it gave both peoples a chance to rid themselves of rulers who did not rule and of gods who were not gods.

I could not sit between the carcasses of the priest and the Anzu. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Perhaps I should seek the ancestors, but I had no idea where I might start. Nor had I any inclination to start. Unlike the Anzu, I still had things to do in this world.

I might become a Fury and exact vengeance on those who brought about my early death—once I learned how to become a Fury. Dieter and Michael deserved a sound thrashing for the abuse they’d visited on my mother.

With war coming, I might attach myself to berserkers, encouraging and protecting them in battle.

After I’d avenged myself and the present troubles were over, I might walk the earth as a restless spirit, bemoaning the injustice of life. At my cry, people would turn their heads and wonder—was that the wind?

I’d let them go on their way if they had harmed no one. However, those who had harmed an innocent would live long enough to beg the silent gods for mercy.

I smiled.

Denise Longrie’s work has appeared in Danse Macabre, Liquid Imagination, and Wisconsin Review. She has self-published a nonfiction guide to pre-1900 speculative fiction. Currently, she is working by the flickering light of a Jacob’s ladder on a sequel treating twentieth-century pulp science fiction. In a previous life, she worked as a pharmacy technician.