“I should find my family,” Colette said, squeezing my arm before releasing it. “May the forest’s choice fall far from thee, Isabeau.”
“And from thee, Colette.”
She disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with my basket of herbs that suddenly seemed so trivial, so pathetically inadequate against the horror of what was to come. What use were healing plants when someone would soon be beyond all mortal aid?
More villagers arrived, forming a semicircle around the stage. Each family stood together, fathers with protective armsaround children, mothers clutching hands in silent prayer. Young couples pressed close, as if proximity could somehow shield them from being chosen. Elders stood stoically, having witnessed this ritual too many times to count, but they didn’t have to fear their own names being drawn for they were exempt due to their ruling stations.
At the center of the stage sat a large wooden box. Inside it would be the leather pouch containing all our family crests—small tokens that each household kept year-round, flinching at the day they would place them in that pouch. One would be drawn at random, sealing a family’s fate.
Father Simon raised his hands for silence, though no one had been speaking above a whisper anyway.
“Citizens of Thorndale,” his voice boomed across the square, “we gather on this Harvest Moon as our forefathers have done for generations. The forest demands its tribute, and we must provide, lest the beast that dwells within its shadows comes for us all.”
A murmur of fear rippled through the crowd. Everyone knew the stories…of how, long ago, the village had failed to provide a sacrifice, and the beast had rampaged through Thorndale, killing a dozen before returning to the forest.
“Let each family now present their crest,” Father Simon continued. “Let none abstain, for the choice must be fair, and the burden shared by all.”
One by one, representatives from each family climbed the steps to the stage, placing their family crest into the pouch held by Father Simon’s assistant. Each returned with heavier steps than they had ascended with, their faces masks of weary hope and painful dread.
I still didn’t see Papa, and panic began to flutter in my chest. Where was he? He needed to be here to place our crest in the pouch. If we didn’t participate—no, I couldn’t think of that.The punishment for trying to avoid the drawing was worse than being selected.
Then finally, I spotted him. He was making his way toward me through the crowd, his white hair and mustache catching the torchlight. Relief flooded me, followed immediately by renewed fear. Now that he was here, we were part of this terrible lottery.
“Isabeau,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I had hoped to find thee before the drawing began.”
“Where wert thou, Papa?” I asked, noting the worry lines etched deeply around his eyes.
He shook his head. “It matters not. I am here now.” He squeezed my hand. “Listen to me, my little bell. Whatever happens tonight—”
“The Dubois family,” called Father Simon’s assistant. “Arnaud Dubois, present thy family crest.”
Papa’s face went ashen, but he squared his shoulders to do the noble thing. “I must go.”
I watched as he climbed the stairs, his movements stiff and deliberate. From his pocket, he withdrew our crest. A small wooden carving of a rose, crafted by my father in honor of my mother. He hesitated just a moment before dropping it into the pouch, then returned to my side.
“As I was saying,” he continued in a low voice, “whatever happens tonight, thou must be strong. Promise me.”
“I promise,” I whispered, though my voice cracked on the words. His urgency frightened me, as though he knew something I did not. His eyes kept skirting toward Father Simon with a darkness I never saw my father reveal.
The last family crest was added to the pouch. Father Simon took it from his assistant, making a show of mixing the contents thoroughly. The crowd held a collective breath as he reached inside.
Time seemed to slow. I could hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears, feel the sweat beading on my palms despite the cool evening air. Papa’s hand found mine again, his grip painfully tight.
Father Simon withdrew a single crest. He looked at it for a long moment, his face betraying nothing. Then he held it up for all to see.
“The forest claims the Dubois family.”
The world collapsed around me. I heard gasps, murmurs, perhaps even sounds of relief from those whose families had been spared. But they all faded away as my knees buckled beneath me.
“No,” I whispered, sinking to the ground. My herb basket toppled, spilling its contents across the dirt. “No, no, no.”
Papa was still standing, his face frozen in an expression of grim acceptance rather than surprise. It was as though he had expected this, had known it was coming.
“The family will now choose who among them shall cross the bridge,” Father Simon announced.
But there was no choice to be made. Our family consisted only of Papa and me. And I would not come of age until tomorrow. By village law, only those of age could be sacrificed to the forest.
That left only one option.
