As for any anxiety over what he was about to do? He was afraid of getting caught. That was all. Seanna Walsh had earned her fate the day she’d bewitched him. He could not rest while she lived, so she could not live.
Main Street was dark and deserted, leaving only the embers of the bonfire to guide him. It was enough. He went straight to Seanna’s stone. He snatched it up and put it into his pocket. Resisting the urge to run, he backed against the brick wall of the bank. Then he pushed one trembling hand into his pocket and found the smooth stone. As his fingers caressed it, he smiled.
Come morning, the townsfolk would gather early, stomachs too knotted to drink their morning coffee. One of the elderswould go around the dead fire, collecting stones, one by one, and calling out the names. If any were missing…well, they all knew what that meant. At next year’s Nos Galan Gaeaf, that person would not lay a stone at the fire. They’d be dead under one, rotting in their grave.
Or that was the story. But there was a trick, and Lance knew it.
When Cainsville children were young, no one told them exactly what the rite of Coelcerth meant. That would be cruel—ruining the night for them as they lay in their beds, terrified that a parent or other loved one might not hear their name read out the next morning. Lance had been twelve when he overheard older kids talking, and the very thought of it had been a shockwave through his brain. It was as if all of his personal talismans and rituals had coalesced into simple perfection: a ward against the ultimate uncertainty. Would he survive another year? This rite would tell him. Every year, he could answer that question.
Last year, having passed his thirteenth birthday, he’d laid down his stone…and plummeted from the heights of absolute control to the depths of darkest doubt as he realized he had to wait until dawn to find out if he would live.
He couldn’t wait.
He’d snuck back to the bonfire and found his stone. Then he’d hidden in the shadows, waited and watched the spot where his stone lay. Several times, he thought he saw a flicker in that ring of stones. Thought he saw one disappear. He’d been about to check when he’d heard footsteps.
As he’d hid, a figure had appeared. Hooded and dressed in black.
The reaper. Death. Come to claim his due.
In terror, Lance had watched as the figure circled the bonfire. It crouched, reached into a pocket of those voluminous black robes and pulled out a rock.
Next it pulled out a felt-tip marker, wrote something on the stone and laid it in one of the empty places. Twice more the dark figure did that. Then it stood and under that hood, he’d seen the wizened face of one of the elders.
Lance had held himself still until the woman left. Then he’d fled all the way home.
Over the next year, Lance realized what he’d seen. The trick of Coelcerth. The truth about fate and certainty.
The elders didn’t take stones. They replaced them. Some of them, at least. Every Calan Gaeaf morning, a fewwouldstill be missing. When the rite finished, the elders would speak. They would warn.
If you did not hear your name, the die has been cast. But remember this: there is no fate you cannot undo. Take heed. Watch your health. Examine your life. Find out why your stone has vanished, and correct it while you can.
And those whose stones were missing? The absence rarely surprised anyone. They were people who ate too much, worked too hard, exercised too little, drank to excess, or had otherwise entered into a life too dangerous to survive.
The elders used Coelcerth not to frighten people, but to shake them out of their complacency.
Death is on your doorstep. Do something about it.
Some heeded that advice; some did not.
As for the stones the elders replaced, those were the deaths that could not be prevented. Accidents and tragedies. No one ever wondered why the rite of Coelcerth did not foresee these. It was presumed they were unforeseeable, that the rite did not guarantee you another year, but merely suggested you were on the right path.
Lance knew the elders would replace Seanna’s stone. She would think she had another year. But she did not.
He smiled again. Then anxiety began gnawing at his gut, the one that insisted he had to be sure he hadn’t made any mistakes. He took out the stone and held it up in the moonlight.
Seanna W.
This stone was her grave marker. Seanna Walsh, R.I.P.
Lance snickered. Never had the epitaph been more accurate.Hewould rest in peace once Seanna Walsh was dead and gone.
He pocketed the stone again, making sure it nestled deep in his pocket where it couldn’t fall out. Then he headed down the passageway beside the bank. As he reached the end, his steps hitched, as ifHwch Ddu Gwtawould leap out at him like it had for the fleeing children.
He smiled at the thought. The adults who played the role were long gone, the passage silent and empty, the park equally quiet. He took another step and?—
A shadow slid over him.
Lance looked up to see an owl gliding over his head. The raptor landed on the playground fence. It perched on one of the cast-iron chimera head posts. He kept walking. The owl’s unblinking gaze followed him into the square.
