The Crimson Tradition

It came from the Northlands, this sleek, callous beast. It wandered the barrens, the cedar barrens, surviving on scrub berries, small animals, and the offerings we made. Most of all, it was the offerings — the sacrifices — our unlucky brethren who pulled the short straws; they went upside down, mouth first onto pikes, ornamented, engraved with the likeness of the beast itself.

From the cedars, across the snowy field, in the night it would slink, taller than tall, thinner than thin. Those trees, cones of shadow, a palisade of stoic watchers, remained behind it. 

Two of the offerings had already died, cold limbs splayed and stiffened as the bluster of winter churned deep, gray clouds in the night sky. The third man, still twitching, had only downward to go. The point of the pike, its sharp, round hat, seemed to grow taller, protruding from his anus. At the bottom, he choked down on the base, gouts of blood, strings of snot and spit shined on the snow drifts beneath. The beast took him first, then the others. It snatched at the meat leaving only sharp bones and gristle. Satiated for now, it slithered away. We knew we were safe, for a while, until next Noon-Star Eve when the ritual would begin again.

A memory: “It will take our children! That’s what it will do if we don’t. If we try anything other than what we have done all our lives.” The wizened man waved his arms furiously behind the altar of stone. “It’s our curse,” he wheezed. “Our death curse.” The cords in his neck stretched tightly. He pointed a crooked finger and let it waggle, drawing invisible lines across our throats. 

He warned us incessantly, dogmatically, about staid traditions. He coughed blood into a rag. He would die soon; we knew it. And who would replace him? His voice played like a dirge in the backs of our heads. With time this voice might diminish, leaving us potentially reckless and ignorant to the wrath of the beast. Without children it could take very few years to decimate our civilization.

Just as we had decimated the civilizations we had crossed.

Our ancestors arrived long, long ago. Nomadic in nature, they sought greener pastures, more promising lands, places to settle and thrive until the restlessness set in and they moved on seeking more. And on. And on. Until here, at the crest of the barrens, they found themselves trapped. Behind them, plundered lands, desolate, marauded, only enemies remained. Ahead, sandy scrub, only scrappy cedars and briars grew. From first sight they witnessed a beautiful yet sinister, elemental magic. Within the trees, flitting about the snow dusted branches, were multi-colored wisps, making ice crystals glow, ornamental, almost festive. But they knew this to be an unholy celebration as they saw the dark god part the trees open and step forward to sniff a new savory smell on the crisp, winter breeze. 

The smell of young flesh. The smell of children.

Long legs, arms, and fingers with crackling, knobby joints — lanky and slender it stood bolt upright, as tall as the trees. It was clothed only in brownish-red blood, neck to ankles. Its torso stayed mostly hidden behind a long, pointy beard, white like the fur of a nascent, albino fawn. The eyes, they glowed, hot coals indicating a soul scorched in fire.

It maintained a tight rictus, jagged teeth shining in the flames of their torches. It spoke only in the heads of the elders. They counseled. They bargained. They begged. Finally, a deal was struck, and the deep clouds dissolved overhead revealing a bright, white star, twinkling jaggedly in the high noon position. 

The Noon-Star. A promise. A covenant. Three of us would be chosen to die every season as the bright star appeared. Leading up, each male youth nearing sixteen winters, would carve his own pike in a rite of passage that signaled eligibility for the sacrifice selection ritual. Required, we were, to finish and display our carved pikes before the holiest of unholy nights arrived. These pikes maintained the character and form of the tall, slim beast with long beard engraved in a twist to the base. Reluctantly, we had to carve in the details of our own faces in a typical visage that showed our relationship to those sacrificed long before us. The pointed end served as a hat, sharp and conical, similar to the helmets of war long abandoned by our people. In honor of these fallen soldiers and the fortitude that drove them across many wild territories seeking only the best in food and shelter, we called our pikes “nomes” like the nomads we once were.  Each house had at least one “nome” planted outside the front door, awaiting that unlucky call to duty for a male family member inside.

As the morning sun swept darkness away from the sky, putting Noon-Star to rest for the season once again, the mothers wept silently holding sleepy children tightly in gratitude and reverence for those sacrificed in their place. They returned to the houses and the warmth and safety within. 

We fathers stayed. 

The carnage in the field before us brought scavengers and wolves to the cedar’s edge. We held our axes ready and watched them choke on the same poison we had hidden in the bodies of two of our three sacrifices. Why two? Because one had to wiggle, to suffer and protest. Three motionless, cold bodies would arouse suspicion. The beast was hungry, but it was also smart. 

And strong.

We had no doubt that upon feeling the churn in its gut, the head-spinning nausea of its own body turning against itself to unsuccessfully eject the poison from its system, the beast would fly into a rage. It would lash out — hopefully in a weakened and sick condition — for our sake. 

The wizened man, in his prophetic doom voice, harangued us over and again. He finally collapsed in a pile right before us when the beast charged blindly from the cedars. It swung its long arms in deadly scythe arcs taking heads and limbs from the slower fighters in our ranks. Blood rained from the sky as each of us charged forward, axe high, to cut down this scourge that had plagued us for far too long. The beast fought hard, spitting up blood and vomit, and pieces of the half-digested sacrifices. It grabbed one man then split him in half, using each part to further beat and disfigure the others below chopping valiantly at the stumps of its legs and ankles. Soldier bones snapped like tinder, the jagged edges tearing at skin from inside, then the patter of their blood, feces, and urine hit the ground. The beast went down too, crushing more soldier bodies beneath it. Their eyes popped out. Ribbons of crimson painted the white snow on the field all around. 

One of our strongest, our bravest, sprinted deftly up the length of the fallen creature, over the long, white beard, to the gasping maw of its black-tongued mouth. Axe raised, the metal caught a sliver of sunlight before it plunged deeply between the dying beast’s coal-embered eyes.

None of us were ready for the silence that followed. 

Unable to believe it was truly dead, we each took turns chopping deeply into the fallen carcass, only stopping when the mangled body beneath resembled nothing of its former self. We cut some of the smaller cedars from nearby to build a pyre on top. The flames shot high almost licking the clouds of a newfound heaven above. The wisps and luminescent elementals danced wildly in the barrens backdrop. 

The mothers re-emerged with their children on hips and shoulders.

In the first of a series of newly established traditions, we, the strong-hearted nomads who would once again traverse unexplored lands, celebrated our victory by joining hands, ringing bells, and singing full-throated hymns about kindness, peace, and joy on Earth. Henceforth, the Noon-Star would only be a symbol of celebration. Our “nomes” would stand vigilantly, never leaving the gardens outside our homes. And the memory of bloodshed would only remain in shining ribbons of crimson wrapped tightly around offerings — not sacrifices — freely exchanged between family and friends.

©2023 J. Brian Reed

Originally published on Crystal Lake Entertainment's Patreon site.