Sacrifice
By Abigail H. Leskey
I am Myrna; and tonight I am to be
sacrificed to the Sea, that the Sea may rise and swamp the Red-Crests, that she
may sink their galleys, that she may defend this land. I am willing. This would
not be done were I not; what value would the Sea place on one who died in
anger?
Today I am going to my favored place.
Look, there; up that slope. I climb, brushing past heather. A bee lands on my
fiery hair. Ahead is a cave, one too small for dry sleeping, but great enough for
me to sit and look far away. I enter and sit on the round of stump I carried up
here, having no lad to do it for me. This is just as well. I doubt I should be
a willing sacrifice had I a love. Though is it strange I have not, being old
enough to be the mother of two or three were I matched.
There, far below, heather and rocks; and
then the Sea. The Sea is mine and I shall be hers, and from over her my father
came, from a land called Eire. Back to that land he sailed, while my mother was
moon-shaped with me, and he has never returned to us. My mother was sad of this
when she was dying.
Eire is not far. Today is a fine day, and
I can see that place. Often some one of us goes there, or one of them comes
here. My mother was proud, and stayed here in Alba. Eire looks green; I did
hope, someday, to see it. When I was younger I used to dream of swimming there
and forcing my father to return. I became a fine swimmer, practicing.
I sit and watch the sea. It is darker than
the sky, and when the sky begins to darken and become fire and apple and
heather colors, it is still darker, and looks as if it knows what it is
receiving today. I rise and walk down towards where my people are waiting. We
will feast.
I do not eat much, but I am not distraught.
I watch the fires and my people. Soon the fires and the round moon and the tiny
stars are all the light left, and we walk down to the Sea. The tide is partway
risen, and our chief and priests and I wade through the Sea to reach the rock.
I hold my white gown up, although that makes little sense.
I stand on the rock, and the chief and the
priests speak to the Sea as it rises, telling her what we desire in exchange
for me. Then the chief asks me for the last time, “Are you willing, Myrna Nic Aodh,
to belong to the Sea?”
“I am willing,” I say. They all leave
then, quiet. The moon is above me, the rock is beneath me, and the Sea is
around me.
After
the water rises a hand’s-breadth, I hear a voice cry out the name my father
called my mother. “Aoife!” I turn and look behind me. A tall old man is rowing
a boat towards me, and he cries out again the name he called my mother.
“My mother is dead,” I say. “I am Myrna.”
“Dead?” He ceases rowing, and drifts back,
away from me.
“She is dead.”
“Are you my daughter?”
“I fear so,” I say coldly, and turn my
back on him. I hear his oars. Now he is
before me. I look like him.
“Come on, get in,” he says.
“I will not,” I say.
“You’ll drown!”
I stare at him. “I will. I am a sacrifice
to the Sea. A willing one. Go back to
Eire. I do not wish to spend this time in your company.”
“Myrna—I meant to return. One of my kin
had been slain…. I lost all memory—a sword-blow—for as many years as I have
fingers and then that again.” He looks at me earnestly, sadly, and I credit
him.
“I am sorry,” I say. “My mother wanted you
when she was dying.”
“Come, Myrna.”
“No,” I say. “I am saving my people from
the Red Crests. I chose this.”
“Your mother was stubborn.”
I nod. “I am glad to have seen you.”
He bows his head and rows. Around a corner
of rock he vanishes.
Water splashes my bare foot. The Sea is rising. As I look down at it, through
the center of the moon’s reflection barges a dark-brown head. It is a
sea-monster. It opens its snout, and many sharp teeth stay white as fire flames
from deep inside the hairless beast. Another, its mate, silently pokes up
beside it; and then behind me I hear a roar, and see bat-like wings spraying as
a lizard pulls itself from the Sea with them.
I close my eyes.
Nothing, except more roaring. I stand
while the Sea rises over my feet and climbs my dress. The monsters seem to be
waiting.
Then a Sea wave rushes and throws me
forward, and we fall together onto the monsters and into the Sea.
I sink in it. I am a willing sacrifice.
A monster swims through the water toward my
face, and will-less I jerk back and surface for a moment.
As I go under, scratched by monster claws,
it is as if my heart struck its forehead. This is water. The Sea is just water, and these are just
animals. The sea is water. Teeth rip
at my leg, and I cry out under water, and make myself rise. I am willing to
die, but not merely that one more dead creature may float in water or fill the
bellies of these beasts.
I’m fighting.
I reach the surface and gasp, but it still
has my leg. I kick with the other, and scream defiance as one with three heads
wriggles at me and another grabs my arm.
I go underwater, my white dress ripping
and floating. Something dark is above, and I see a wooden paddle. I shove a
monster away from my throat, slam another into my rock—a good thing these are
small beasts!—and get my head up. My father clutches my hair and then my
shoulders, and I grab the side as he stabs the monster biting my arm. It grunts
and plops into the water. He jerks me into the boat, and passes me a knife even
as he slits the throat of the monster sucking at my one leg, yelling as it
emits fire and roasts his hand. I shove the knife into the head of a smaller
one entangled in my white rags.
There are no monsters in the boat. We each
grasp an oar and row for Eire. I am bleeding from four places, but I will be well
in time.
A splash, a roar, and fire coats the back
of our boat. We are the head of a procession. I push my oar into my father’s
hand, rip off most of the lower part of my gown, and slap its wetness against
the fire until it is out.
The foremost monster is now behind us,
and we are gaining. I row again, shivering. We run onto the shore of Eire and
my father helps me out of the boat. He ties it. We are safe.
My father looks at me, soaking wet,
bleeding, barely covered. I look at him, also wet, with a burnt hand.
My father recognizes that this situation is
so peculiar that there is nothing to do save act as if it were not. “Welcome to
Eire, daughter,” he says. I try to say something. My nose coughs four times. He
puts an arm around me, and we walk onto greenness, away from the sea.
Copyright© 2015 by Abigail Leskey
Author’s Note
This story is inspired by Evelyn De Morgan’s
painting “S.O.S.” which you can view here: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Evelyn_de_Morgan#/media/File:Evelyn_de_Morgan_-_S.O.S._%281914-1916%29.jpg
This is not my type of story, but I will say that it was very well based on the painting.
ReplyDeleteThank you :)
ReplyDeleteAbigail
I really enjoyed this story, I thought it was very vivid and the ending was very nice. Your writing style with this one actually reminded me of Rosemary Sutcliff.
ReplyDeleteThank you! This is inspired by her books, though the actual situation comes from the painting.
ReplyDeleteAbigail
I highly enjoyed your story! You have a marvelous voice; it was enchanting to read!
ReplyDelete