Traditions, Michael Sullivan [learn to read activity book .txt] 📗

She seized the big butcher knife from the kitchen and slashed the air violently. The weight felt good, but it was miserably small. Her fingers ran over its worn, cracked handle. What she needed was a sword, preferably, an enchanted one with a jeweled hilt and long shimmering silver blade etched with mysterious magic runes. Something impressive, something big, something with stopping power. She turned the knife over in her hands; it would have to do. Picking up a dishtowel, she rolled the knife up and clutching the bundle to her chest slipped out into the night.
Pausing to check the street, she spotted the bright eyes of the old mill cat watching her from its perch on the lower branch of the old willow. Down by the livery a dog sniffed the fence. Nothing else moved—the path was clear. She ran from the shelter of the doorway, her bare feet slapping the dirt with dull muffled thuds, the sound of her passing so quiet only the cat took notice.
Halfway across the common she heard movement behind her. Terrified, she spun to see her sister racing across the commons. The little girl in her nightgown ran with arms outstretched, her eyes glistening, tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Amy! You should be asleep!” she scolded in a whisper.
Tiny arms squeezed her waist. “You’re going to do it!” the little girl cried.
“I have to.”
“You’ll die,” Amy told her.
It was a foolish thing to say, but she was young.
“You know I would go in your place if I could—you know that don’t you?” Amy asked. “I would sacrifice myself to save you!”
She took her sister’s hand holding it to her cheek. “I know.”
Amy sobbed.
“Don’t—you’ll wake everyone. I have to go.” She pried herself from her sister’s grip. “Goodbye Amy!”
She felt horrible, but she had no choice, any moment doors would open, lanterns would light and they would stop her. She left her sister crying in the street knowing they would never meet again, knowing the last thing Amy would remember was how she pushed her away. Her feet felt heavy, but she ran just the same. When she reached the gate, she paused only briefly. Looking back, the village was still asleep, oblivious, all except Amy who had fallen to her knees in the middle of the road, weeping pitifully in the dark beneath the willow.
She fled up the road into the wood, her long blond hair and white gown fluttering in her wake—a pale ghost, racing through moon-scattered shadows. With her heart pounding, her lungs bursting for air, at last she stopped. This was far enough away. If her parents found her missing, if they reported her gone, it would not matter. Amy would never betray her. The elders would search the village first, then the road south, perhaps west as far as the lake, even east toward the valley, but they would never look north into the woods—never that way. Nothing could stop her now.
Wind blew through the trees swaying them in a violent dance straining the leaves, displaying their pale backs. Torn free, they flew through the air, battered about, driven on toward an unknown fate helpless to alter course. A storm was rising. It did not matter. She brushed her hair from her face and walked on into the dark feeling her way with her feet. She only wore shoes in winter leaving her feet tough as leather. She liked the texture of the dirt under her toes and the feathery brush of grass. She loved the feel of the wind on her skin, the way it played with her hair. Is this the last time I will feel it? She hoped the coming storm would not cloud the sky before she cleared the trees. Having already said goodbye to the sun, she wanted to see the stars one last time. There was so much to miss, so much to regret.
The simple things struck her the hardest: Making pies with her mother, swimming in the lake with her sister, lying in the sun listening to the drone of bees. It was so hard to accept that she would never do any of it again. How she would miss it all. She would miss Robert the most. He would never understand why she did it. He had the whole problem solved. In his mind, he already saved her. His plan was simple, but though she loved him, she could not do it. It was not the shame she feared, she could live with shame; she could not do it for the same reason she could not run away—they would just pick another.
Amy was too young, but that would change; her time would come. That was why she could not run and why she could not sleep with Robert. He was waiting for her down by the creek. She wished she could have said goodbye, but he would have stopped her. He was a boy and thought only of her while she saw the future.
It had to stop.
She held no illusions of her prowess; she was not so arrogant as to think herself as special—to the contrary, she knew she was not. There was scant hope of victory. What did she know of fighting? She was a girl, a child of fifteen and all she had was a puny kitchen knife; all that protected her was a thin linen dress. She moved ahead without a plan, or clever idea, she lacked even a wildly insane possibility. She merely knew that she had no choice but to try. The alternative was to give up all hope. That was the one thing she did have—hope. She was too young to understand the impossibility of the challenge she faced. Ignorance joined with youthful optimism and gave birth to the blind trust that fueled her feet.
At last, she cleared the dark of the forest and reached the end of the road. From here on, the trail snaked up through the rocks of the hillside. She paused looking up. Clouds gathered, but she could still see the stars.
“Farewell,” she whispered to the twinkling lights. “Watch over my family; watch over the world, for I shall never see you again.”
Unwrapping the knife, she lifted it up to the glimmer of the heavens. The dull steel caught the faint blue light. She imagined she wielded a great sword—a magic sword. It helped...it was something at least.
Casting the towel away, she took a step up the trail then paused. Perhaps she should keep the towel; she might need it to tie up her wounds. She shook her head and pushed on; there was no need. If she were lucky, she would emerge unscathed, if not, she would be dead. A middle ground did not exist.
She followed the little trail cut through the rocks, climbing higher and higher. The trail was old. The elders read the books and proclaimed the ritual began in the first year of the village. Gravestones near the willow dated back a thousand years, but the early grave markers were of wood. How many rotted? How many lost in floods. How old was it really? How long had the trail been there? How long had it been feeding at their table?
The trail grew steeper and narrower. The wind gusted now that the trees were gone. Here only small bushes remained struggling to hold on to the mountainside—left stunted by the constant blow of the harsh highland. Rock and rubble, dirt and dust, swirled and scattered. She fell to climbing with her hands, shimmying up through crevices and along cliffs where she could not see the bottom. She held tight to the knife. It reminded her of her father, of him carving holiday meals, how happy those times were. She thought of her parents and hoped the elders would not punish them. It was not their fault, besides what difference would it make if she died? And if she didn’t—it was hard to imagine what the world might be like.
She had never been this high up the mountain. Only the elders came this far—at least they were the only ones who came back down.
The trail was clear enough, gouged deep by dragged feet. She halted suddenly, her breath catching in her throat as she spied a torn bit of cloth fluttering in the wind caught on a thorn bush. Her hands shook as she plucked it off the nettles. It was thin linen. Had it been there all year? Once again, she held up the knife before her. They were not dragging her, she reminded herself. She was not going to her death wrapped in chains. Finding courage she did not know she had, she took another step, and then another. She would meet the beast with eyes wide open. She would return its murderous glare and bravely show it the knife and it would know that for the first time in a thousand years here was a proud woman, facing it, not some helpless martyr.
She climbed the last ridge and when she cleared it, she saw the cave. Dark and sinister, covered in hanging vines, its depths, an open maw that swallowed little girls like her. Before it, no more than fifty feet stood a tall, thick post of stone. The rock lurched at a slight angle, marred and chipped, blackened and burned. Around the base lay coils of iron chains, rusted. The soil beneath it stretched out dark and spoiled—splattered black.
She stood upon the ledge before the cave’s open mouth, before the pillar feeling the wind coursing down the mountain, howling in its fury. It staggered her, but she held firm. Her heart thundered in her ears as she gripped the knife so hard her fingers lost feeling. She held it out before her with both hands now as if it were a religious icon to ward off death. She took a step forward. Beneath her feet, she felt and heard a crack! There was no need to look down to know what it was—there were no branches here.
She took another breath and another step. From within the depth of darkness, she heard a rumble, a deep resonance that shook the ground and chilled her heart. She held her breath.
Until now, she had hoped it was all a tale, a made-up thing, a fiction to frighten the young and timid. She was wrong—it was real! The shock froze her. She could not think or move, held as helpless as if she were chained to the post, locked in place feeling her dress and hair flapping—a human surrender flag. Seconds slipped by—she remained petrified. At last, she