The elders parted and moved slowly toward the head-high wall of wheat stalk. The unbound person entered the clearing and moved to the center of the freshly tilled soil. Even as the “Chosen One” walked grimly towards their fate, the cloak continued to obscure the person’s facial features.
Just inside the edge of the clearing, the voice of the chief elder echoed, “This is our ‘Chosen One.’ This person comes forth to meet the ‘Harvest’ without coercion or threat. They meet this destiny of their own free will to ensure our town’s prosperity in the coming year.”
Slowly, the first elder’s voice was joined by the other elders’ voices as they began the ritual blessing and prayer.
The choir of the elder’s mantra rung out in eerie unison. “We embrace and sanctify this year’s ‘Harvest’ as has been our tradition for generations, both here in our new land and in England previously. We give our ‘Chosen One’ as an offering to the ‘Great Lord Death,’ through his eternal servant, the ‘Death’s Maid.’ Through this act we pray for a mild winter and a rain-filled spring, preparing the way for a plentiful summer and fertile fields.”
The elders bowed their heads towards the pair in the clearing. They then slowly turned about; seeming to disappear into the forest of wheat as the thick shadows quickly concealed them.
Once the last elder vanished from the clearing, Rebecca took a step closer and lifted the heavy stone in her hand to shoulder height.
“‘Chosen One,’” she whispered in a voice that sounded older and wearier than usual, “Have you come here today of your own free will?”
Forbidden to speak after entering the sacred clearing, the white-hooded head bobbed forward and backward as the “Chosen One” nodded in reply to her question.
“Then it is time,” proclaimed Rebecca.
That said, she flung the stone aloft. With a loud thud, the rock struck the person just where the neck meets the shoulder. Rebecca grabbed up another stone while her victim fell to their knees from the force of the first blow. After a few minutes of being pummeled by stones, the “Chosen One” fell forward. Just before the person hit the ground, he shot his hand out and caught himself.
In that instant Rebecca’s life came to an abrupt halt. The person’s hand was now visible beneath the frayed cuff of the wool sleeve. On the back of the hand, at the base of the thumb, was a crescent shaped scar—a scar that she would have recognized anywhere.
Suddenly, time rewound and she no longer stood in the tilled clearing. She was crouching in the middle of the dusty town street in the hazy afternoon spring sunlight.
