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Ryland claps his hands together, a wide smile on his face as he reminds his students, “Don’t forget to finish your reading tonight!”
The children mumble or yell their affirmatives as they gather their books and papers into their bags, in their arms. He waves goodbye as they file out of the schoolhouse, passing him as he holds the door open for them, “Okay, get home safe everybody.”
“Thanks, Mr. Grace!”
“Bye, Mr. Grace!”
“See you tomorrow!”
His heart warms as he sees friends pair off with excited chatter, others running to the waiting arms of their parents, a few of them beelining for the fields to play. It’s a pleasantly sunny day, a gentle warmth compared to the typically sweltering days their village has been suffering through for several weeks now. He’s been hearing whispers amongst his students’ parents, neighbors, and local farmers. An anxious murmur, questioning where the spring showers have gone. Trips to the temple on the hill have increased. Ryland tries to remain optimistic. A dry spring isn’t the end of the world. He’ll save his judgement until the summer, if the thunderstorms fail to appear.
Ryland leans against the schoolhouse doorframe for a moment longer. Dragonflies buzz across the water of the nearby pond. Two of his students–Verity and Paula, sisters–run in circles around it. Their mother watches over them, but briefly glances towards him to offer a friendly wave, which he returns. She’s also a teacher, her classroom just across the hall from Ryland’s, but she teaches the older teenagers. Their class gets out earlier than his, so theoretically it should just be him left in the building.
However, when he ducks back into his classroom, he sees there is one student still sitting at her desk. Tanya is the spitting image of her father, who is a watchman, someone who protects the village. Tanya tends to struggle with classwork, but she excels at any test Ryland puts in front of her. He’s been keeping an eye on her lately, because she’s been arguing with her peers more often. He’s unsure about the source of her tension, he idly wonders if it’s pressure from home or her burgeoning spirit clashing with some of her more headstrong peers. Her books are stacked and wrapped with a leather chord, but her eyes are glued to her dirt stained shoes and she hasn’t moved a muscle.
“Hey, Tanya,” He sits at the desk next to her, voice soft and hands open, “You okay?”
Tanya’s eyes flicker up to him for a moment, “I have a question.”
“Sure, ask away.”
“...Can I have a bandage?”
His eyes widen, instantly concerned, “Are you hurt?”
She shrugs, “I fell. When we were outside after lunch.”
The kids always have a burst of energy halfway through the day, so he usually lets them run around after they eat to expel some of that excess energy. He recalls ushering them all inside, but he can’t remember noticing anything off.
“Can I see?”
Tanya pulls at the edge of her skirt until her knee is visible, where the skin was scraped red and raw with dried blood. Ryland winces in sympathy, “Oh, Tanya. Here, I’ll patch that up real quick.”
He fishes out the first aid kit he keeps at his desk, asking over his shoulder, “It looks like that hurt. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
The girl shakes her head, “I didn’t want to. Too many people. Papa says I’m strong, so I can handle it.”
Ryland kneels in front of her, rifling through the contents of the box, “You are strong, but that doesn’t make you invincible. Needing help isn’t something to be ashamed of. Everyone falls sometimes, it’s okay.” He pretends to pinwheel his arms as if he’s losing his balance, “Woah! See, I fall all the time. I get bumps and bruises, too.”
Tanya giggles, which was his intended goal, “You tripped on a tree root last week.”
He scratches at his neck, chuckling, “Oh, yeah. Gosh, you kids never let me live anything down.” He takes a small rag, and warns, “This will sting a little, but it’ll help, I promise.”
She nods, her leg jerking a bit when he gently dabs it to clean off the wound, but she doesn’t cry or pull away, so he praises, “Good. You were very brave, thank you.” He wraps her knee in a bandage, tying it carefully, “Let your dad know to keep an eye on that, and rewrap it sometime later tonight, okay?”
The girl nods again, slowly standing up, “Okay. Thank you, Mr. Grace.”
Before he can stand himself, he finds himself with an armful as Tanya wraps her little arms around his neck. He pats her back consolingly with a smile, “No problem, kiddo.” He doesn’t pull back until she does, despite his old knees protesting.
He escorts Tanya out of the schoolhouse, asking if she’s sure she doesn’t want help getting home, but she assures him she’s already feeling better. He stands in the doorframe once more, and waves out to his student as she makes her way home.
And once more, as is often the case when Ryland finds himself without the company of another person to distract him, the hair on the back of his neck stands. Goosebumps cover his arms, as he peeks around him. There’s no one looking at him, and yet he can’t shake the feeling of being watched. It’s been like this for months, possibly even longer and he just never realized. When he first moved to this village some time ago, he found new footing after a period of running in circles, stuck in his own head. He came here in the midst of his pathetic wandering, a consequence of being kicked out of the fellowship he studied with for well over a decade. He had been arrogant and stubborn, unwilling to stand down from an argument. One too many, and they got sick of him. Finding himself with nowhere to go, he wound up here where they welcomed him with open arms when he offered to educate the village’s youth. It’s not where he imagined his life ending up, but he can’t say he’s not content with it. He has a place here, and he gets to watch his students grow. After what he lost, it’s more than what he could have hoped for.
However, there is that persistent paranoia that has been concerning him. Ryland isn’t the type to get wrapped up in ghost stories, or speculate on impossibilities. He’s not superstitious by any means. He wonders if he’s imagining things, but he can’t fathom what would cause such a feeling, and with such consistent repetition. There has to be an explanation, but he frankly comes up short on theories.
At least theories he can observe, test, and logically rely on. If it is something beyond him, well maybe…
Ryland’s eyes glance up to the temple on the hill.
He’s not one who often turns to the gods. This village worships a different god from the ones Ryland recalls the fellowship or his hometown building temples and monuments for. He’s less familiar with this one. The Blood-Eyed One, the villagers call him. A reaper of sorts, his domain rests in the balancing of life and death. The village gives him offerings of food and plants, gift art to decorate his temple, and there’s a special festival in the late fall where an animal, either a goat or a fowl, is sacrificed as a means to wish for preparation and protection for the coming winter.
Since arriving in the village, he has only made his way up to the temple twice. Once for the aforementioned festival, and once to give an offering himself. He had placed a bundle of flowers, picked from the pots lining the west side of the schoolhouse intertwined with a few wildflowers he spotted on the trek, upon the altar. He made a silent prayer, as thanks for the village’s, and hopefully the god’s, warm welcome. He had met eyes with the ruby red eyes of the statue at the center of the temple, and didn’t dwell all that much on it.
He saw no reason to return to the temple since then, but perhaps it’s time to face the reality that his little pattern of paranoia may require assistance from someone of a different skillset.
-
It’s near sunset, bright red and yellow hues cascade upon the bone white pillars of the temple. Ryland hesitates before stepping foot inside, but shakes himself immediately, feeling ridiculous. What is he so nervous about? He has every right to be here, to seek out answers. He’s just not familiar with this part of the village, that’s all.
It is a quiet evening, it seems. The only soul standing before the altar of the Blood-Eyed One is a priest. Ryland wracks his brain for the man’s name, calling out questioningly, “Father Michael?”
The elderly man turns to him, a thin smile upon his lips, “Welcome.”
Ryland nods in greeting, smiling nervously, “I, uh, hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
The priest shakes his head, his deep voice rumbling in the near empty chamber, “Not at all, son. Anyone is more than welcome to offer a prayer to the Butcher.”
That was another moniker for the god. Ryland was a little alarmed by the violent sounding epithet the first time he heard it. Apparently it comes from a well told story that is often recounted by parents in the village as a cautionary tale to their children. How there were a pair of brothers who long ago resided on the land the village now thrives upon. How the two would bicker and fight over a prophecy whispered to them by an oracle when they were merely children. One will live, one will die. That is the balance. Both brothers wanted to live, so they fought to kill the other, so their own life would be spared. For decades they spilled each other’s blood upon the earth. The brothers were barely holding on by a thread, therefore the oracle’s prophecy never came to pass. That was when the Butcher descended upon them both with a stark message, “You have not lived. You have not died. You have failed.” It is said they were pulled into the depths of Wire Lake, a serene yet uncanny place not far from their village. To step into those waters is forbidden, unless you wish to incur the wrath of the Butcher, who will drown you just the same as those two brothers.
Ryland has a feeling the story is both to warn about the lake, but also to remind children to appreciate the life they have and to not be caught up in squabbles all their life. A lesson Ryland himself only recently got through his thick skull. Still, the tale of the Butcher has never brought him much sense of comfort. Not many stories of the Blood-Eyed One have. The villagers seem to respect him out of fear of his wrath, but Ryland doesn’t necessarily agree with that reading of the Butcher’s character.
There is another story, one he’s heard circulating fireside tales far less, but one that he can’t deny intrigues him. The Blood-Eyed One is said to watch over the village, keeps the wolves roaming the forests at bay, keeps disease from ravaging their people, and ensures the safe travels of children who grow and move on from their quiet life here. He is a protector, first and foremost. There was a dog, a young pup who used to roam the temple halls many years ago. She didn’t have a name, nor did anyone claim her, but she was fed and cared for by those that looked after the temple. There were many nights when she would curl up at the feet of the statue, and rest her weary little head there. One night a bandit, some ruffian from a nearby town came and stole from the temple. The dog had growled and bit at the intruder, and in retaliation, the bandit grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and drowned her in Wire Lake. Before the bandit’s very eyes, the poor dog’s body was swallowed deep into the lake’s waters, but something changed. The dark pool turned into a bubbling crimson red. The Butcher’s anger made real at the injustice, at the inhumanity. He had not cared if his temple had been ransacked, for the people he looked over could repair it. But, to take a life so cruelly? That bandit was never seen again.
He remembers the woman who first told him that story, the mayor of their little village. Her strawberry blonde hair tied up, strands of it falling out and stirring in the late afternoon breeze. Crow’s feet at her eyes crinkled, as she smiled and told Ryland, “I like to believe she’s with him now. Wherever the gods reside.”
He smiled back, tilting his head curiously, “You believe in that?”
“Beats the alternative.” She counters, “There’s a monument for her in the temple. The children often pet her, as a wish for good luck.”
There’s a kindness to his tales that Ryland so rarely sees acknowledged. She is one of the few that often points out the Butcher’s true philosophy: live, live the life you want to.
Ryland is pulled from his thoughts as he looks over at the little dog statue, where she curls up in a sunny spot, at rest. He clears his throat, “Um, I was actually hoping to ask you about something. About the Blood-Eyed One.”
The priest gives him an inscrutable look. Ryland gets that a lot from the village elders. While he gets along well with the children and most of his neighbors, some of the older generation are still skeptical of him. They don’t care much for outsiders, especially one who is a little more flippant about his devotion to higher powers. Ryland has always favored the ground beneath the soles of his shoes, the books in his hands, and the measurable cycle of the sun and moon crossing their great sky, in contrast to those that he sees relying solely on the hope that some entity in the cosmos is willing to move earth and sky for the sake of a mortal who offered them a kind word and some food.
Perhaps that makes him blasphemous, but he hasn’t been struck by lightning yet.
Needless to say, his inquiry is odd. He can’t really blame the priest for his suspicion towards him.
“What is it you wish to ask, Mr. Grace?”
“How… active? I guess that’s the word I’m going with… How active is this god in the daily lives of his people?”
The elderly man raises a brow, “He watches over our village everyday. He listens to our prayers and offers us protection. He judges and he keeps the balance. It is not a coincidence when there is bloodshed when evil lurks in our shadows.”
How… ominous. Sweat beads at his forehead, and he clarifies, “I meant more individually.”
“I do not understand.”
“Does he specifically watch over any one individual? Could they tell if he was?
The priest eyes him thoughtfully, “Is there a specific reason for this line of questioning, Mr. Grace?”
He purses his lips, not really wanting to spell out his experience if it just makes him sound like a crazy person. He should have come up with a better plan, instead of running his mouth like always. He internally debates, before sighing and explaining, “For a couple months now, I’ve been feeling this presence near me. Like someone is watching me, but there’s no one around. I don’t really know how to explain it, unless it is something outside my realm of understanding. Which is where you come in, Father.”
Father Michael hums thoughtfully, assessing, “Do you associate this presence with a specific feeling?”
“I don’t know. It makes me kind of nervous?”
“Is it inherently malicious?”
Ryland pauses, thinking back to those moments scattered across his memory. He crosses his arms, fighting the urge to pace and ramble through his thought process. That word doesn’t strike him as accurate, no, but what does that presence truly feel like?
“No. Not malicious. It feels…” He runs a hand through his hair, “Like someone is observing me. Like I observe my students.”
The priest pats his shoulder, which startles Ryland out of his thoughts, and consoles, “I am sure the Blood-Eyed One is merely observing your transition here. You are the newest member of our village, after all.”
“I’ve lived here for years, though.”
“You are becoming more in tune with our ways. Perhaps you are only now feeling his presence because you are connecting with the Butcher’s land. It is often said that one can feel his presence amongst the trees, sitting upon the shore of Wire Lake, or praying here in his temple.” Father Michael steps away, leaving him with the remark, “Take it as a sign, Mr. Grace. The Blood-Eyed One sees you.”
He barely holds himself back from muttering, That’s not as reassuring sounding as you think it is. He keeps his thoughts to himself, nods his thanks to the priest, and leaves the temple.
-
Summer arrives with a promise from his kids that they’ll keep up with their reading over their break, and a loud crash of thunder. He peers out his window, seeing the dark grey clouds above the village, and sighs. See, the thunderstorms are here, the rain is back, they’ll be just fine.
He’s putting the finishing touches on his lunch, when there’s a knock on his door. He grins, greeting, “Stratt, it’s good to see you.”
She nods her head in greeting, stepping inside his cozy home, “How have you been, Mr. Grace?”
“Doing well. How about you?”
“Good.” She sits in her chair at the table–and at this point, it is hers–and sips at the mug of warm tea he set out for her. Stratt is really the only member of the village who regularly visits Ryland. To be fair, she keeps tabs on everyone in the village. It’s something he’s always admired about her. Her commitment to her people, her leadership in time of need, her steady presence. She’s not the warmest person, she is a realist first and foremost, but she is easy to respect and listen to. She is observant in a way Ryland finds a little scary, how she can point out a problem before anyone even noticed there was a leak. People find her reliable, and he trusts her more than anyone. He likes to think they’re good friends at this point, though he’s never outright asked her if they really are.
She opens their conversation by inquiring about his kids, which leads to an hour-long ramble from Ryland as they pick at their respective lunches. Honestly, it’s a topic of discussion that he never runs dry on. He will always find some new tidbit, story, or anecdote to bring up. He loves talking about his kids, explaining his theories about their interpersonal dramas, speculating on their futures, mapping out their growth track, detailing all the ways they overcome obstacles in their way and how proud of them he was.
Ryland’s students mean the world to him, and no one knows that better than the village mayor. The elders had been hesitant to welcome this outsider into their home, disrupting their status quo, their way of life. It had been unthinkable at first, allowing him the position of educating the newer generation. Stratt had grilled him for weeks, picking apart any possible angle of deception or malintent, and when she came up blank and grew to trust him, she offered up her hand and a classroom in the village’s humble schoolhouse. Ryland has done everything in his power to maintain her trust since.
Stratt sets her mug down with a quiet clink, and finds a lull in their conversation to suddenly say, “I heard that you went up to the temple recently.”
Ryland blinks, surprised, “A few months ago, yeah.”
She asks, “But, not again since then?”
“No,” He had decided to accept that the priest was right, and go about his business. If the Blood-Eyed One was keeping a closer eye on the outsider, well, it’s just the same as all the other people watching him. No reason to lose sleep over it. He scratches at his neck, “Uh, why do you ask?”
Stratt shrugs, “Curiosity. People talk. Figured I would get the source from the man himself.”
Ryland shakes his head, “You know I’m not all that devoted. I just wanted to ask Father Michael about something.”
“He said, you’ve felt his presence.”
So much for confidentiality. Ryland groans internally. Was that a thing? Were priests allowed to gossip? That didn’t seem very… priest-like.
“I don’t think he was supposed to tell you that.”
“He tells me everything. So, have you?”
“Okay, yes. I have.”
“Do you still do?”
Ryland gives her a look, “Why do you care so much?”
Stratt, he’s come to learn, is very devoted. Not just to her people, but to the gods. She often turns to them for guidance, when there are so few people she feels she can be open with. Ryland has seen how she keeps the world at arms length, despite how much love and care she pours into her work.
“Answer the question, Mr. Grace.”
He sighs, “Yes, I still do.”
She nods, “Good,” She stands, her long flowing coat reaching just below her knees (she’s always wearing something like that, despite the heat), “To be favored by him is a good omen, Mr. Grace.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far–”
“He values compassion,” That gives him pause, as Stratt turns back to him before reaching his door, “I know the elders still give you a hard time, but they will come around. I’ve seen what you do for your children. If he understands, so will they. Keep up the good work, Mr. Grace.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Ryland quips, but his smile is genuine.
“We’re counting on you,” She reminds him, “Have a good day, Mr. Grace.”
-
Despite the rain, the harvest is not as bountiful as the farmers expected. Mary River floods late in the fall, so Ryland is practically forced to attend the annual festival at the relatively dry hill the temple resides on. He stands on the edge of the crowd, as the villagers dance and pray, and he feels that unmistakable presence at his side practically the entire night.
He sips at the wine offered to him by Tanya’s father, and whispers, “Why me?”
He doesn’t get an answer. He frankly doesn’t expect one.
-
Well, he eventually does get an answer. Or maybe it’s all meaningless. Ryland has never led his life guided by the hands of an invisible higher power, he never wanted to, not when the world around them was already filled to the brim with wonderful mysteries to solve. He held faith in the human mind, and the miracles it could accomplish with the right push, the right thought, the right theory, the right tools, and a little bit of luck.
It’s a brutal winter. Ryland gives out food that would be offerings to the Blood-Eyed One, and instead divvies them out to his students.
When spring rolls around, the rain returns with a vengeance, but the farmers still murmur worries and prayers between each other.
Summer isn’t any better.
As the leaves turn brown, a chill permeating the air, the harvest is once more a hopeless cause.
People are hungry. The village grows concerned. Stratt does as much damage control as she can, trading with local towns. It’s still not enough. Their little village is of humble means. Their extravagance is limited to a few fur cloaks, a golden ring handed down from generation to generation by the oldest settled family, and the treasured temple on the hill. Anything more is pennies compared to what is accumulated in the nearby market towns.
Ryland reassures and cares for his kids as much as he can. He can’t really blame them for having a hard time focusing on topics like long forgotten wars, how plants flower and bloom, or the names on a map, when they can hardly think beyond the pits in their stomachs. When little Tanya trips and falls during a round of games, she doesn’t dust herself off and pretend she’s fine in order to ask for a bandage from her teacher when the school day is over. Instead, she lies in the brittle grass, curls up and cries. Ryland rushes over as quickly as he can, talking her through her pain as he carries her home to her father. Her fingers grasp his sweater, her tears soak the material, but he doesn’t dare reprimand her for it. He holds her, tells her she’s going to be alright and it hurts now, but she will feel better soon. The words taste stale and bitter on his tongue, and he only prays that he isn’t a liar.
There are an increased number of council meetings. Ryland is allowed to attend them, as a teacher in the village it is his right to have a say on matters related to his children. His hungry, tired, hurting children. He goes to every single one of them, offers theories and potential solutions, but nothing changes. The others repeat the same suggestion every meeting: more offerings to the Blood-Eyed One.
Stratt told him he valued compassion, but how compassionate can this god really be if he is merely watching his people suffer? What balance is the village dying out from lack of food? The villagers keep making more and more offerings to him, instead of giving out what little resources they have left to whoever needs it. Ryland can’t understand their logic. He can’t understand the god they worship either.
He waits until the temple is empty and clear, and he makes his way up the hill. He doesn’t enter, he doesn’t have to when he feels the Butcher’s presence already with him. He looks up at the crescent moon above him, swimming amongst a sea of stars, and ponders aloud, “What do you want? What do we need to do in order for you to help us?”
The night is silent. The leaves of the trees of the nearby forest sway and rustle in the late autumn wind. If Ryland were a more devoted man, he may interpret the leaf that falls at his feet as a gentle apology. He’s not, so he stomps his way back down to the village, frustrated.
-
The fall festival is rapidly approaching. The night before the sure to be subdued celebration, there is an emergency meeting called.
When Ryland enters the council chamber on that particularly chilly late afternoon, after ensuring all his kids made it home safe and sound with a bit of bread from a loaf he managed to scavenge enough supplies to bake, there is something off. Everyone had arrived before him, and the chatter goes deathly still as soon as he enters. He frowns, looking at Stratt who stands at the center and he asks, “What’s going on?”
She gestures for him to come forward, which he does, and she explains, “The council and I have come to an agreement. All of our efforts to salvage the harvest have been for naught, and we are looking at a devastating winter that could bring about twice as many deaths as the last one. While your efforts have been commendable, Mr. Grace, we have to face the facts that the cause of or solution to this famine cannot be demonstrated or accomplished by your science. There is clearly something supernatural afoot, and so we have looked to our god for answers.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but those efforts have also come up empty.”
“Not entirely,” Stratt gestures to Father Michael, who eyes Ryland in a way that feels more akin to a hunter than a priest, “Father Michael had a vision. He claims it is our only salvation. He saw the waters of Wire Lake run red once more.”
Ryland frowns, not following, “So, what? What does that mean?”
“It means… the Butcher is demanding a sacrifice.”
He chuckles ruefully, “Yeah, like the one we gave him last fall? That we’re doing again tomorrow? Bright idea, love the originality.” He winces, not meaning to snap like that, “Sorry.”
Stratt keeps her eerie composure, but there’s a crack in her veneer. Ryland sees it as blinding as dawn, and feels a sense of dread crawling up his spine. Something is really, really wrong. He looks out at all the rest of the council. They eye him like a lamb out for slaughter. Like wolves circling their prey. Even Verity and Paula’s mother and fellow teacher, even his friendly neighbor who offered him a bowl of sugar cane in his first week, even the birdcatcher who answered all of Ryland’s obnoxious questions that first festival he attended. All these people he has gotten to know. That lovely young woman who offered him help when he tripped over his own feet, and laughed at his jokes as she walked him home. That older man, the one with the gaggle of bright eyed grandchildren who ran circles around his ankles, who told him anyone can be brave, when Ryland was struggling to face his future upon his arrival at their village.
“Grace, I need you to understand.” She pauses, “This is for the good of all. I would not do this unless I felt we had no other choice.”
“Do what?” Ryland’s eyes snap back to hers, and he feels that gnawing fear constricting his throat, shallowing his breath, “Do what, Stratt?”
“Your sacrifice will be remembered. You will be heralded as a hero.”
Ryland feels the earth drop out from beneath his feet, horror overtaking any other possible emotion. Even that buzzing feeling of eyes on him, and not the mortal eyes of the other council members.
“You can’t be serious.” He breathes out incredulously, repeating himself out to the circle of stone-faced men and women he thought were… he thought… “You can’t be serious!”
A trio of watchmen slowly inch forward, and Ryland slowly backs away from them, “This is… This isn’t justice, this isn’t–This is murder! You’re going to kill me!”
Stratt pleads, “Please, Grace. Please try to understand, we’re not–I do not wish to betray you.”
“This sure feels like you’re betraying me.” He scoffs, disbelieving. Of all the people here, he thought Stratt would vouch for his life. He thought he must mean something, anything to her. He fixates wide, fearful eyes at her, but he sees no hope in her gaze. Only resigned, tired, desperate eyes.
She crushes any last hope he has with her next words, “You have no attachments in this village, or beyond it. You are favored by him. It is a sign we cannot ignore.” She justifies, as if that justifies anything!
He twists around, finding a handful of the parents of his students amongst the crowd, and begs, “What about my students? Please, the children, I can’t–”
“Your students will die, just as all of us will. Saving the harvest is our only way of surviving this winter. Grace, if you would please–”
Ryland darts forward, ducking under the grasping arms of the watchmen, and bolts out of the chamber. He doesn’t think, he just runs. Runs, and runs, and runs. He doesn’t know where he’s going, what he’s doing, what’s his plan, he doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter, he just has to get away, far away, he has to–
He trips and stumbles. He rolls right back onto his feet, his breath harsh and ragged in his chest. Behind him, he spots the watchmen right on his heels, and he pushes just a little harder. His feet pound against the earth, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
If they catch him, he’s dead. He’s a dead man. He doesn’t want to die. He wants to live.
He knows there is no scientific explanation for the village famine, he knows it goes beyond mortal hands, he knows the farmers and merchants and Stratt have done everything they can. He knows Father Michael may dislike him, but he would not lie for the sake of just getting Ryland killed. He saw blood spill in Wire Lake, he saw what was asked of him. He knows for sure that the Blood-Eyed One has been watching over him closely, not long since the village’s problems began sprouting up. He knows Stratt and the village are devoted people, he knows they are not murderers, that they would not resort to this unless they truly felt they had no other choice. He thinks of his children: Tanya, Verity, Paula, Olivia, Rekha, Parker, all of them. He thinks of them starving, their parents dying to provide for them. He visualizes them alone and lost in the cold, hopeless, and his heart breaks for them.
But, Ryland Grace is a coward. Maybe this really is the only way to save the village. Sacrifice the outsider, the one favored by their god, give his blood to the sacred lake, and restore balance to the village.
Ryland sees the treeline of the forest. There are wolves and bears and disease and more hostile humans beyond their land, but perhaps it could be his salvation as well. He could be free, he could move on, he could find forgiveness somewhere, he could live, he could live, he could live, he could–
He’s tackled to the ground, face pushed into the dirt. One arm is clasped behind his back, the other is pinned to the dirt. His fingers grasp desperately at the grass beneath him, his body unable to move anymore than that. He cries out, scared and panicked, “Please! Don’t do it! Don’t do this to me! Please! Don’t!"
Ryland Grace’s last moment is one of breathless fear.
The sunset shines in his eyes.
The wind howls around them.
The world spins, and goes black.
-
Wire Lake’s waters were tainted with the spilled crimson of the blue eyed teacher, who treated his students with kindness and gave his community its last hope.
Those in attendance of the sacrifice were filled with shock and awe, the way the lake’s waters were pulled by an impossible current. They twisted and turned, spun in circles, until a whirlpool formed in the center of Wire Lake. Blood boiled and ran thick, a nightmare macabre. No artist could ever hope to truly capture the pure horror of it. The ice that ran down the spines of everyone who witnessed the terrible fright, as an immense shadow erupted from the center of the whirlpool. It reached towards the stars, and to their astonishment, it wept.
Stories of that sacrifice and the spectacle it created spread far and wide. There are a thousand interpretations, some closer to fiction than reality, and some closer to the truth than they may realize.
The sacrifice worked, the village no longer starved and the harvest was restored. The success of this was attributed to the Blood-Eyed One, but it is not he who brought about their suffering in exchange for the mortal man he favored.
Still, Ryland Grace did not perish for nothing. His compassion for his children brought color back to their cheeks, gave them the knowledge to move forward in the world, and eased their hearts when it felt like all hope was lost.
His name is now revered just as strongly as their god’s.
A statue of the teacher was commissioned to sit beside the Blood-Eyed One’s loyal dog, that way he could keep her company and be eye level with the children he helped teach and raise.
The village mayor is often seen standing before his statue. No one knows what she prays, but no one dares disturb her whenever she graces the temple with her presence. A child whispers to their friend, answering their puzzled question about the mayor’s somber appearance, “She’s saying goodbye to her friend.”
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He opens his eyes.
A canopy sits above him, blocking a majority of the midday sun, only gentle rays of light breaking through the verdant green leaves.
He lays in a bed of flowers. They bloom in an assortment of colors, enough to color a rainbow after a long storm, all in unique shapes and sizes. He’s not sure he’s ever seen so many different kinds before all at once. Most he’s only seen in illustrations. His fingers reach out and brush the petals of a yellow tulip. Bellflower. Red carnation. Snowdrop. How they’re all growing here, he cannot say. It doesn’t seem entirely logical.
He slowly rises, sitting up. He takes in more of his surroundings, but its trees and flowers as far as the eye can see.
He startles when he finally sees the state he’s in. He’s not entirely sure what he’s wearing. Or why his skin has a slight golden glow to it. Or what the markings on his arms and chest symbolize.
“Hello?” His voice sounds the same, but there’s an echo to it. Like wind chimes, or the melody plucked from a harp, “What’s happened to me?”
It’s music. His voice sounds as if it is intertwined with music.
“Me… Who am I?” He wonders to himself. His mind is fuzzy, slow. He can’t recall where he was before he woke up, only that it certainly wasn’t where he is now.
He carefully puts two feet under him, standing up straight. The grass between his toes is soft, gentle in a way it only is after a perfect spring day. His eyes scan the flowers around him, before one catches his eye. An orange zinnia, he plucks it and tenderly brushes its sweet scented petals. He grew these, he cared for flowers like this one. Just outside the schoolhouse. Yes, the schoolhouse! He was a teacher. To his beloved students. They called him…
“Mr. Grace… Ryland Grace! That’s my name. Right, that’s who I am.”
What happened to him? Where are his kids?
Questions swirl around in his mind, leaving him feeling lightheaded and dizzy. Surely there are answers somewhere out there. He tucks the flower behind his ear, and marches forward. He has to find the village, his home. Yes, his home, that’s it. The schoolhouse is close to his home, in the village, by the pond with the dragonflies. There are people, his kids, waiting for him. They must be. It’s a beautiful day, maybe he can do a reading circle outside in the shade of the trees. The kids love that, they love sitting out in the grass and listening to adventure stories. Acting out their favorite scenes, groaning at Ryland’s bad jokes, and giggling at his silly impressions.
His heart pangs heavy in his chest. His breath trembles at a tremendous sense of loss that settles deep in his core. He… Did he lose a kid? All of them? No, he didn’t lose them. They…
“They lost… me.”
His head shoots up at the sound of a distant bark. She sounds friendly, as if beckoning him, Find me, friend!
Another bark. Louder, more insistent. His ears ring, remembering the sound of approaching, running footsteps. His heart races in instinctual fear. He can’t–If they catch him, something bad–
Ryland doesn’t know why, but he takes off, away from the foreign sounds, and starts running. The flowers begin to fade the further he runs, they vanish and wither, and he wants to save them, but he can’t stop running.
He runs, and runs, and runs, and–
He’s suddenly stopped when he crashes into another body. His breath is punched out of him, trembling as he clings to whoever unfortunately landed in his path. Arms wrap around him, hold him steady, as he falls apart. He should feel trapped, he had been caught, but… No, this person, whoever they are, they are safe. He’s safe with them.
His emotions, the tangled mess they are, flood out of him in a terrifying rush.
“They killed me, they killed me, I’m dead, I died. Why am I here? What happened? My kids… Oh, my kids, I didn’t… I didn’t get to say goodbye…”
A gentle sound breaks through his sobs, the deep vibrations of a bass, the steady beat of a drum, the warm voice of someone to lean on.
“Shh, it’ll be alright. Breathe, Ryland.”
His intake stutters, but he listens to them, and tries to match their breath. That was a technique he used to do, he remembers. Whenever one of his students panicked before a test, or felt pressured by the world around them or their peers, he would walk them through breathing, staying in the moment, not letting their fear take control.
“That’s it. Just breathe, flower.”
Ryland buries his face in this kind stranger’s neck, and breathes in the scent of pine, seabreeze, and smoke, and feels a wave of calm flood his senses. It’s familiar, this scent. That voice, too. He feels as if he… maybe not directly heard it, but something about this stranger feels inevitable. As if they were always meant to meet. As if Ryland was always meant to be here, in their arms.
Ryland pulls back out of their arms, unsure when they had ended up on the ground, once more surrounded by a thousand flowers. Feeling a little embarrassed for his rudeness and outburst, he nervously scratches at his neck and apologizes, “I’m so sorry for… all that. I, uh, I hadn’t meant to–I don’t even know why I was running–”
He gathers enough courage to face this stranger, and his gaze locks onto a pair of red eyes. Blood red eyes.
The very eyes he was killed for.
He gasps, “You’re… the Butcher.”
The god flinches, though it’s a minute thing he only notices because he can’t take his eyes off the real, actual deity the village he lived in devoted themselves to. His expression doesn’t shift from the neutral mask he wears, as he says, “Simon. My true name is Simon.”
“Oh,” Ryland didn’t even know gods had true names, “Um, I’m–”
“Ryland, I know.”
“Right.” He feels a creeping fear, the reaper sitting before him impassively staring, “Did… Did it work?”
“Did what work?”
“My…” He winces, his head hurting from the flood of memories, “My sacrifice. Is the village doing better? Are they okay?”
Something shifts in the god’s expression, but Ryland can’t read what it means. He slowly nods his head as he assures, “Yes. They’re alright. It worked.”
He breathes a long sigh of relief, “Good. Good, at least–” He sucks in a sharp breath, “At least it wasn’t for nothing.”
He nearly jumps out of his skin when Simon suddenly grabs his arms, and with a rush of passion, exclaims, “Of course it wasn’t for nothing! Ryland, you’re… You meant everything, your sacrifice was never going to be in vain.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why me? Why did you… Why did you choose me?”
Simon grimaces, his grip not letting up as he pleads, “Ryland, I need you to understand. I never asked for this. I never wanted… I had nothing to do with why your crops were dying. I had no control over… It wasn’t me. If I had my way, you would still be in that schoolhouse with your children until it was your time, it wasn’t supposed to be your time. Not yet.”
Now, he’s even more confused. His head feels as if it’s splitting in two, “But… Why were you watching over me? Why did Father Michael have that vision? Why did it work, if I was supposed to live, why did it–” Pain lances through his body, agony pounding his skull.
“Ryland? What’s–” Simon cut himself off with a curse, “Damnit, I… Breathe, flower. I’ll explain, or we’ll figure this out soon, but you’re still… adjusting. You need to give yourself time to rest.”
“Adjusting?” He hisses, clutching his head, “Adjusting to what?”
“Your immortality.”
Ryland freezes. His eyes feel as if they’re practically popping out of his skull, as he stutters, “Wh-What?”
Simon has a weary look about him, nervous and hurt in a way that is achingly dear for it being directed at his expense. He gently brushes a strand of Ryland’s hair out of his eyes, explaining softly, “I didn’t… I couldn’t stop them. You deserved better, Ryland. You deserved to live, so I… I did the only thing I could do.”
Ryland stares unseeing down at his hands, his vision hazy with the golden glow of his skin, “Simon, what did you do to me?”
Simon looks upon him. The Blood-Eyed One sees you. He cups Ryland’s face between his palms–one hand of flesh and blood, and the other is cold and skeletal–and says, “I made you a god.”