The Village of Lire
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He had tethered his own daughter to his cross, saying goodbye as she remained unconscious, mercifully...
She might have seen her father underneath the dark hood.
There had been the ritualistic feast, the entire village gathering and imbibing the ancient blend of herbs and wine.
Except for the elders..
They made the selection after the great joining.
Lire lay on the coast of Scotland, above the Shetland Isles, discovered and yet still strange and apart, subsisting in a pastoral and unchanging Celtic past.
Each year the harvest came.
Each year the elders made their dismal selection.
Condemning one of their most comely daughters to the god.
It had been this way for centuries, a secret known only to the hundreds of this tribe, but the truth of the selection remained known only to those tortured men of the tribe.
Men like Dorran, who year after year watched as their overly fertile wives produced girl after girl, knowing that one day Lire could claim their child.
It was long after the feast.
As one for the last time, the bonfire had consumed them, the drums hypnotic, the drunken and dazed orgy spilling out until every one succumbed to the building lust.
Woolen garments were discarded as the women took turns with the vastly outnumbered younger men and each other, abandoning any sense of decency in a deliberate exclamation of lust and longing.
Each daughter and each mother joined each other in deflowering the sons, swapping and sharing indiscriminately, every forbidden and carnal fantasy expressed in this one bacchanal. In one final goodbye, the tribe truly knew each other, every last caress, touch, and kiss treated as if it might be a last goodbye.
Cara had been covered and dripping with seed. Every hole had been explored. Every taste and temptation experienced until her sated sex had begged her to cease and sleep.
The other elders would help him, but Dorran would fasten her to the cross himself.
He had drawn the black stone.
There came a time in each man's life when his virility faded. He became one of seven guiding elders, reigning over this prosperous village, uncommonly plentiful and pleasant compared to its surroundings in the dark, cold seas of Scotland.
It was his first year...
It was his daughter...
In the morning, no one would ask, but they would know Carra had gone to be with the gods. And secreted away, there would be tears...
The iron chains fastened around her unconcious wrists, strapping her into position as the cloaked elders retreated towards the temple, Dorran watching, waiting for the end.
