A Woodland Offering

Part One: Overture

The woods are never silent. Even in the depths of night there is always the endless breath of wind moving through unseen branches; there is the creaking of tree limbs as if straining upwards to touch the stars shining tantalizingly, above them, forever out of reach. There is almost a pattern to the music of the woods, a hushed rhythm of whispers and stirrings punctuated by the echoing screams of predatory birds or the sudden thrashing of an unseen animal moving in for the kill.

The glade stands empty of all except the old oak tree, standing firmly in it's centre, it's gnarled trunk reaching up into the star-strewn sky. The moonlight reveals nothing of the tree other than its shape, a dark black flowering. It is almost as if the night itself is pouring down into the earth. Around the glade the sounds of the forest continue; the hum of insects joining in a harmony to mix with the restless and impatient unrest.

Then, through the trees, a light appears, weak and flickering. Then another. A line of torches glimmering through the trees. Getting closer.

And, for the first time in seven years, the music of the forest slowly fades into silence. It is as if the deep woods, as a single entity, has taken a deep breath, and is holding it in anticipation for what is to come.

Part Two: The Ceremony

None of them have the courage to look me in the eye, my so called brother's and neighbours. I understand why, and it's possible that I would be the same in their shoes, but I do not feel the need to say anything to relieve their shame. It's theirs, let them wallow in it. It's just the kind of hypocrisy I could never stand. Justina and I were alike in this.

I bet they never looked her in the eye either.

They have made sure they have the strongest men from the village to walk along bedside me, just in case I decide to make a run for it. I'm tempted to, just for appearances sake, but it would only prolong things. It will be a two mile walk to the clearing and I have no desire to keep the night waiting.

We walk in silence, Father Haley leading the way. I can almost smell the stench of his fear and shame on the wind: a man as far away from God as I am. The only difference is that I am content whereas he is wretched, and probably cries himself to sleep each night in mourning for his soul, his faith, and other things long since abandoned and lost. He is not the worst of them of course - the Samuel twins, their bulky frames flanking and dwarfing mine as we progress through the woods, probably deserve that accolade - but he is as empty and as barren as any of them.

They have tied my hands behind my back, of course, but at least they have left me the dignity of being allowed to walk unaided. I understand many in the council objected to this, claiming that such freedom had never been allowed before. But then, I am a special case.

After all, no-one has ever volunteered before.

I am a mystery to them. I suppose I always have been. When I turned twenty I was expected to accept at least one of the proposals offered to me. When I rejected them all I was seen as an ungrateful oddity. Many of my potential suitors suspected I would reconsider, accept their offer once no-one better came along. Then, as the years rolled by, they all turned their attention elsewhere. All but one.

Charles Worthing had never learned to accept my decision and move on with his life. Certainly it is unusual for a woman like me to be still single at 25. I know my choice has baffled him more than anyone else. I think he has always believed that, if he waited long enough, I would eventually accept him. He was probably the last person to look at me, the look of hurt, anger and bewilderment burning in his eyes as he watched me prepare for the night. He is a good man, maybe even a kind man. But of course he, like the others, have no awareness that I made my choice seven years ago and I have never wavered. I have never been the sort of woman who does.

I am wearing a simple red dress; the colour at least a touch of honesty, a symbol of what I am expected to surrender tonight. Several of the local women have spent the last week making it. The same women who silently plaited my long, unruly red hair as if I am a teenage girl all set for the dance. I am naked beneath the dress and the cold night air is easily able to penetrate the thin cotton fabric. That's fine, I have never really minded the cold. It is not a chaste dress, far from it. I am meant to be desirable; an offer to be accepted. Although the hem of the dress is just above my ankles, exposing my bare feet, there is a slit almost to my upper thigh and I notice several of the village men risk furtive, sidelong glances at my exposed legs as I walk. I ignore them and their hypocrisy

The procession takes it's time, keeping the pace slow, and I feel my frustration bubbling up inside me. Of course this is all part of the performance, the façade. I can hear Father Haley's subdued voice as he prays in a wavering, monotone voice lacking all conviction. Who is he praying for? Me? The village? Most likely himself. I think he knows that I am way past redemption. I quicken my pace, hoping to hurry the procession along. I can't wait to get to where we are going.

I am afraid of course, I would be foolish not to be. Although I know more about what waits for me in the glade than those who deliver me to it. I am only human. But mainly I feel a strong wave of nervous anticipation, as I imagine brides feel on their wedding night. The sharp thrill of someone who has waited far too long for this. It is not an entirely unfamiliar emotion. I remember, long ago, in what seems like another life, waiting in the woods at night.

Waiting for Justina.

We had so few nights together before they took her away from me. But I believe I remember every detail of each one. I hold the memories tight like precious stones and the seven years distance has done nothing to dull them. I close my eyes as I walk and I can hear, in the night-stirring of the wind, Justina's soft but urgent breathing. It is as if her sound has been echoing around the woods down through the years and has never really gone away. And with that sound, some other sensations: the smell of lavender in her hair, the touch and taste of her skin. It's always there for me, whenever I need it.

We were never discovered, although I am sure now that there were suspicions about us. That was why she was chosen and taken to the tree, I am sure of it. And then there is the other sound that it always there, just behind the natural noises of the forest: the sound of Justina sobbing as she was marched from the village. She was so afraid. I will never forgive any of them for that.

Of course women are not allowed in the glade, not on festival nights, but it was easy for me to steal away from the village. I ran through the forest to the glade but I was too late. Justina had already been claimed by the time I got there. I stayed hidden beyond the tree-line as I watched what had come for her. There were no thoughts of rescue on my part, I just sat there in the dark and watched. I saw what came for her, and how she welcomed it.

I knew then that, when festival night came again, it would be me standing in that glade welcoming the night. A decision from which I have never wavered, despite the seven long years I have had to wait. Seven years of plenty, from the view of my neighbours. The crops grew plentiful and there was hope that no more festivals would be necessary. But this year, when the corn harvest failed, I believe I was the only one who secretly rejoiced for I knew the elders would demand a sacrifice. An offering.

I was happy to oblige.

There was some doubt about whether I was a suitable candidate. Some of the more older and, to my mind, more sadistic elders believed that the fact that I had volunteered would make the sacrifice unacceptable. Others, among then dear, naive Charles, argued that I had clearl taken leave of my senses and so should not even be considered as a candidate. However, there were enough mothers and fathers of eligible daughters, who were afraid that their own offspring would be selected in my stead, to win the day.

I would be the Maiden of the Glade. Despite my age - 25 is seen as too advanced an age by some for a worthy sacrifice - and the fact that many doubted that I was, in truth, a maiden. They were right to doubt this, although not for the reason they often harbored. Their menfolk held little interest to me and never had, but I was not an untouched innocent. Justina had seen to that, as I had for her, and the glade had accepted her willingly enough. That was clear from what I had seen that night.

They have never trusted me in the village. My continued refusal of potential suitors is only part of it. I am aware that the amount of time I spend wandering the woods at night unnerved and confused those around me. I have even heard whispers of witchcraft cast in my direction. I think in this sense, they will be relieved to be rid of me.

As I will of them. I have seen a glimpse of another world and I ache to be part of it.

I was so lost in my thoughts I did not initially notice that we had stepped out from the trees into an open space under the stars. We had come to the glade where the tree, ancient and silent, stood waiting for me.

Part Three: The Offering

I have been to the glade many times over the years. Always in secret and mostly under the cover of darkness. For the village the glade is a place of horror, a place to be referred to in hushed whispers if it is mentioned at all. It is a rough oval made up overgrown weeds and grass. The tree at it's centre is what draws the eye, it's thick trunk rising up to a dense, spreading foliage. There is no sense of how old it is; only that, for as long as we in the village have been here, it has been here, waiting.

Similarly there is no agreement about how long the festivals have been part of our life. It is simply common knowledge that this is the way things are done. Sometimes the gaps between offerings has been decades, sometimes months. There is no routine, just an acceptance that when the land begins to die a village girl must take her place on the tree. Of course if had been men who were required this would have been challenged and changed years ago.

Of course, no-one knows what happens to the women left here and so it has become a place of shame, never to be visited. I felt much the same before that night but, ever since then, I have visited the glade often, wanting a second glimpse of the world that had been shown to me.

As we crossed the glade I steal a glance upwards. The stars are breathtakingly numerous and bright. I can see a river of stars, cold and beautiful, strung out across the night sky and the full moon glares down. Before I can fully take in the view a shadow looms above me like a dark cloud closing off the sky. It is the canopy of the oak and, as I am taken into it's shadow, and for the first time this evening, I feel a momentary stab of fear and uncertainty.

Hammered into the bark high up in the tree there is a heavy ring made up of wrought iron. Again, no-one knows who did the hammering. These things are not questioned.

My hands are untied by someone unseen and I am pushed toward the tree with an ungentle shove. Clearly they want to get this part over with. I know enough about what is expected of me and I stand with my back to the trunk, the sheer size of the tree looming over me makes me feel very small. I feel the rough bark press into my back, the flimsy material of my dress no protection against the tree's uneven surface and sharp edges.

Without being prompted I raise my hands above my head. Father Haley, refusing to look me in the eye even now, mounts a wooden stool that has been brought specifically for this use, and my hands are again tied, only this time the thick rope has been fed through the iron ring above my head. The rope is pulled tighter, but not so taught as to lift me from the ground.

No sooner is this done then the men start to make their escape. I had expected there to be some kind of ritual to this part, some wordy incantations from the gospels perhaps, or maybe the use of holy water. But no-one here is even keeping up the pretence that they are doing God's work and wordlessly they begin to file out of the clearing. The priest holds back and, for a moment I believe he is going to say something, an apology perhaps, but then he joins the others in silently skulking from the clearing. They leave two torches, pressed into the ground, one on each side of me. The flickering light at least means that I am not left in the covering darkness of the canopy although it does mean that the world outside becomes lost in shadow.

It is on my tongue to call out to them and yet, when I open my mouth, I find I have no sense of what I want to say. Part of me wants to call them back to free me, to beg for mercy, but I have enough pride to hold my tongue. Unlike the other women brought here I am fully aware of what awaits, or at least I think I am. It occurs to me that I should curse them as they cravenly sneak back into the safety of the woods. I should call them out for the hypocritical cowards they are. And yet, I find my anger toward them waning, as if they are already becoming irrelevant to me. What is about to happen tonight has nothing to do with them. It never has.

And then I am alone. It takes me a few moments to realise just how alone I am. Down through the years the one thing I have learnt from my frequent trips to the woods was that, day or night, they are never quiet. Even in the darkest part of night the forest is a restless thing, full of stirrings and far-off cries. But not now. Now, the woods are as a tomb. Not even the wind makes a sound. I have a strange sensation that I have been submerged into deep water where sound cannot travel.

I realise I am holding my breath and I let it out in a long, slow exhale. The sound seems unnaturally loud in the silence. Added to that is the steady drumbeat of my heart and the creak of the ropes binding me to the ring above my head. I realise, with a sharp thrill, half fear and half excitement, that, as I am the only thing making any noise, I am undoubtedly drawing attention. I hold still, the rational part of my brain winning out, and I try to control my breathing. It isn't easy. As much as part of me is afraid of what is to come, a much bigger part of me is eager for it to begin.

Any sense of of time narrows down to the increasing ache in my up-stretched arms. My neighbours have at least left me some slack, so that my arms are not drawn tight, but the position is uncomfortable nevertheless. Any kind of movement relieves the discomfort but only temporarily and it also results in a loud creaking that seems to echo around the glade. I lean back against the rough part of the tree, wait and think of Justina.

The first sense I have that anything has changed is the rustle of the leaves above me, as if disturbed by an unfelt breeze. I look up, my wide eyes trying to pierce the darkness above me, but I see nothing except the shifting branches, the darkened leaves and the lighter glimpses of mistletoe.

Mistletoe, how appropriate.

I have a sense of shadows shifting in the glade beyond the reach of torchlight. The dim outlines of trees on the ground begin to twist, turn and then stretch out toward the warm glow of the torchlight. Then the first shadow reaches out like a finger, seeming to touch the base of the upright torches and then darkness fills my eyes as they are silently extinguished..

It takes me a few seconds to regain my vision; seconds which it takes every fibre of my strength to resist screaming in terror. But then details begin to emerge and I see that there is a faint glow washing the glade in silvery light. The trees stand out bright with a lustrous shine. Is it simply moonlight? Or something else? The gaps between them appear to be a bottomless darkness. The shadows of the trees stretch out across the ground, only now they are bared of leaves, and the shapes of branches make a complicated cobweb across the ground.

And amongst those shadows, a more solid one moves slowly toward me, a hunched mass of darkness creeping along the ground.

I am no longer alone in the glade.

I freeze at the sight and I feel a dull pressure in my chest as I realise that this is all very real. The shape glides nearer. From the dark mass an arm appears, slender and seemingly bone-white, stretching out as the figure crawls toward the tree. My heart beats hard in my chest at the realisation that my waiting is over. There is something undeniably feral about the it's movements. It is the careful stalking movement of an animal on the hunt. A second arm, as sinuous and pale as the first, emerges to paw the ground. I know I am being stalked.

The figure continues to move close to the ground and I begin to make out it's form. She is a woman, tall and slender, clothed in a long black dress that leaves her muscled arms bare. Her face is hidden by a mass of long, curly hair as black as a midnight pool. As she nears the edge of the canopy she looks up for the first time and I can see a face, starkly pale and beautiful, lit up by the strange light of the glade. She has her eyes closed and she seems to be sniffing the air. She is close enough that I can see her full, dark lips, and her high cheekbones. She is an entrancing mix of the regal and the animalistic and I drink in the sight of her. I last saw her as a shadow when she came for Justina, but even then I sensed her power, particularly when I had seen Justina accept her fate. Nothing, however, had prepared me for this. Power and hunger and need radiates from this creature before me in waves that leave me powerless before her. She was not human, that is clear from the almost feline grace with which she moves. Neither is she animal, but something lost in the darkness between.

I remember having to fight the urge to step out from my place of hiding and join them. I resisted the desire, and have spent the last seven years regretting my decision.

But at least it was seven years of learning. I know now who she is, this dark huntress. But all of the whispered rumours and legends are nothing compared to the sight of her, and I feel a need of my own rising up in my body in response to hers.

The rational part of my mind continues to reject my own desire and I hold myself still, as if hoping to remain unnoticed. I watch, in a mixture of terror and fascination as she looks up into the night sky, exposing her long, slender neck, the smooth swell of her breasts. she opens her dark mouth and lets out a long, drawn out moan of longing that I feel as a physical pressure in my chest and, much lower, between my legs. I see her teeth, sharp and wolf-like, and I shiver in anticipation, all rational thoughts abandoned.

She opens her eyes and looks at me, and all thoughts of evading her attention were forgotten. How could I ever have wanted to deny this? I stand there, helpless in my long red dress, my hands tied above my head. I feel deliciously presented to her and I feel my excitement rising as she continues to crawl toward me. I see her sharp nails paw the ground as she approaches.

It seems to take forever for her to close the distance between us, as if she is taunting me, teasing out every last second of anticipation, every inch. The closer she gets the more beautiful she appears, but it is a fierce, cold beauty. I am aware that there is a side of me, the rational side no doubt, that is screaming to be heard. A voice that tells me to struggle, to scream, to fight this creature slowly making her way to me. It is a voice that I easily dismiss.

Her body is lithe and powerful and I have no doubt that, even were I to free myself and run, she would easily take me. I knew coming into the glade that there would be no escape, nor do I seek one now.