Reprisal

I remember our wailing. Our shouts ringing out into the chilled night air, our bitter tears streaking freely down our veiled faces. Some of us wept silently, still shocked by what had happened. Most of us cried aloud, sharing our pain together as a community. And still yet, a select few howled in anguish, shrieking out to whichever of our Gods still listened. We marched through the winding forest with no rhyme nor reason. There was no light. The stars had forsaken us, and the moon was nowhere to be found. We found many to trip, fall, stumble, but they rose time and time again, pushing our procession of grief onward.

We had lost one of our own.

She laid there with her eyes closed, her face to the sky and her hands crossed soft above her heart, as if she had just only fallen asleep. The pallbearers, robed in black as they were, never misstepped, never dropped their charge, even among the mourning mob. They drove forward to our destination with unearthly purpose. Eventually, we did arrive. We came to the sacred grove where the great tree stood. Only here do we lay down our dead, and even then only at its roots, so that even in death they may still serve life. Many mourners dropped flowers, gifts, mementos; memories from a past life. But a select few dropped knives, swords, axes; symbols for what was to come. When she was buried, a single candle was placed at her head, and the funeral call went out as we who grieved filed away.

~
And Lords, did You forsake us?
After all that You have done?
Did You grow for us the sacred green,
But to turn away from one?
~
​

I remember our chanting. We drank first, but this was a sacred drink, meant to bring us closer to our Gods. We treated it with the pious reverence it deserved. Consumed without prayer, it was a dangerous brew easily abused. But we were faithful, and consumed only what we needed. Our chanting was soft, as first, matched with the slow roll of the drum. Call and response. Call and response. The Elders minded us, masked as they were, walking as watchful guardians as the fire-lit grove became a choir, a flock of faithful arranged in a half circle. But at the center of the flock were two beings. The first, an Elder masked as a spirit of war. He lead our prayers, standing in front of the great bonfire. The second, an effigy of a man with its head bent up, its neck exposed, staring towards the half-moon. And we cried out towards our Gods, praying to them, hoping that they might answer.

We prayed for death.

As our chanting grew in volume and the drum quickened in pace, so too did the flames climb in height, burning hotter and brighter as our hymns were shouted towards the heavens and the beating of the drum became furious. This continued for quite a time. But then, at the apex of our frenzied calls, when we could chant no louder and the blaze at our center could climb no higher, all became silent. All became still. The Elder of war took up a flaming branch from the blazes. The glint of blades and spear points in the inferno's light revealed their carriers. These ones who first gave weapons to the dead. They too were masked for war. The warriors stepped forward. Three times did the Elder of War called upon our warriors, and three times they responded with feverish hoots and shouts and hollers. And the Elder of War turned around and set the effigy alight, and a great roar went up around the fire from all our throats.

~​

Grant us Justice, O Lords!
Grant us Justice, O Lords!

O Lords, we come to you today, grieving, praying!
Hear our cries to you!
Grant us Justice, O Lords!

You are our lights, our salvation!
You are our swords and shields, our bows and spears!
Grant us Justice, O Lords!

Though we walk through this valley, blind and unknowing,
Give us your Gifts, so that we might See!
Grant us Justice, O Lords!

We have lost, O Lords! Lost our spirits, our faith!
Give us the strength to rekindle our flames!
Grant us Justice, O Lords!

We have lost, O Lords! We have lost one of our own!
Give us the power to remember them!
Grant us Justice, O Lords!

We have found, O Lords, our killer!
Give us the ferocity to destroy them.
Grant us Justice, O Lords!

~
​

I remember our singing. The very stars seemed to twirl, mirrors of our dancing below. Our grove was lively, lit by the warm golden glow of braziers set all around. Mothers embraced daughters, fathers congratulated sons. Gifts were passed from one pair of hands to the next. No one could escape the infectious joy that took hold of all in our camp. Even the Elders, now unmasked, mingled among the crowd, drinking and dancing and singing just like any other. And at the center of our joy, beneath the great tree and at the feet of the slain, was a curious sight. The head of a man, speared through by bronze point, bloody and brutalized. His glazed eyes were rolled upwards, towards the bright full moon.

Our prayers were answered.