Pegasus2001

The Last Sacrifice
Katie Jones
Second Place, Prose
Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College

My village has known for many days that my sister is the chosen one. She has sat in the temple of the goddess while the  bring her  beautiful beaded necklaces, robes, special herbs and roots, and the rarest fruits and flowers. My sister no longer has to work or trouble herself with anything. For her remaining days, all her needs and desires will be met. I see the unspoken sorrow of some of the elderly women as the duck inside the temple and sit looking at her, whispering among themselves. They have seen many young women honored like this in the temple. Some have been their daughters, granddaughters, and yes, even their sisters. They understand my rage and the heartbreak I feel in the face of losing my loved one, for they have also struggled with such feelings. Yet it is hard for them to fathom why I resent the great honor my sister has received. The names of sacrificed girls live on through the generations, and their families are highly respected in the village. When these women were young virgins, they longed for this moment for themselves, hoping that they would be the one on whom the goddess would bestow favor.
        I have seen girls involved in this ritual throughout my life, but only recently have I begun to understand the tragedy of this period of adoration. Horror has possessed me from the moment I learned it was my sister who was chosen to be the yearly sacrifice to the unseen goddess of our tribe. I have begged her to leave the village and run or to do something, anything, to disqualify herself. I want to help her, but she refuses to respond to my pleas. How can she act as if she doesn't know what will happen? Doesn't she remember our conversations only months ago when we spoke of how evil this practice is? We said that we would be different. But what girl would  find appeal in being adored by young men and women her age? Her former playmates and companions worship her as the offer their gifts. The young men are in awe of her as the personification of the goddess. Some of the older boys might have ignored my sister before this time, but now she is the center of their attention. The priests may think they have won another generation, but I am not convinced.
        When the day arrives, the priests come inside the hut and take my sister to the platform where she will sit until night as the villagers dance and chant in front of her. I have not slept in days. Instead, I have spent the many dark hours continuously begging my sister to flee. My cousin tells me I must stop. I will be killed for insubordination to the goddess if I am heard. I am too frightened to protest as the priests tell me to carry gifts to the platform. The day is both long and swift. I should dance and chant with the others, but I sit at the foot of the platform weeping. I am scolded by the priests, but they have learned through the years that neither they nor devotion to the tribe's goddess can stop the tears of a mother or a sister.
        Then it is time. Because she is not allowed to walk, my sister is carried to the river on the shoulders of the priests' apprentices. They wade in and lower her until her feet meet the river bottom. The high priest steps forward and gives the incantation. Then, placing his hand on her head, he pushes my willing sister under the water. There is a long period of silence and then a huge uproar as the people praise the goddess for another sacrifice accepted. Other gifts are thrown into the water around her floating body.

*               *               *

        Now, two weeks later, all the signs of the sacrifice are gone, except for a few "rejected" gifts that have washed up on the riverside. Most of the people pretend as if they have forgotten, especially the priests. The goddess is pleased for another year, and that is all that is important to them. Standing here beside the river, I try to think of some memory of my sister other than her murder. My eyes catch sight of movement in the distance, and I can see a jeep approaching the village. It halts in front of one of the huts, and the driver, a man, a woman, and a young girl climb out. the villagers slowly group around the strangers, staring. I keep my distance, but I can hear as the driver introduces the newcomers. He struggles with the missionaries' foreign names, Bill and Tessie Hutchinson. He almost forgets to introduce their daughter, Nancy.

*               *               *

        Almost a year has passed, and the Hutchinsons are sill with us. Bill Hutchinson spends his days in his hut studying the words of our language that he has painstakingly gathered. We don't understand why he so desperately wants to learn our language and our ways. From the Hutchinsons' hut we can hear singing and talking, but there is no one who dares to go and see what they are doing. They have begun to speak about their God, but these attempts are met with the rage of the priests. They are even angered when Tessie visits with the women who are grinding corn outside their huts. However, setbacks are not failures to the Hutchinsons. Though obviously heavyhearted, they continue to work in the small and simple ways that they can. This touches me, and I have felt a great desire to understand their God, the force behind their passion. I have long believed that our goddess cannot be real, and I know that it is not she who has chosen the young Nancy Hutchinson to be the next sacrifice. Instead, it is the perverse desires of the priests that have taken the life of my sister and so many others through the years. Since Nancy returned from boarding school this summer, the people in obedience to the priests have been bringing her gifts. I have thought for many days about how I must tell the Hutchinsons what I    know. 

*               *               *

        The family is startled and horrified. It is clear that my tribe has succeeded in hiding from them any trace of the ceremony. After a long moment of silence, Bill Hutchinson suggests that we pray. Kneeling with them, I listen to the faith of these people as they pray first for the salvation of the tribe and our priests, that we might be freed from the power of darkness, then for my protection, and then for their own safety tonight when they will try to flee the village under the cover of darkness. I feel an amazing peace as the prayer ends, but as we lift our heads, we can see the shadow of the priests outside the hut. Once again, the time has come.

*               *               *

        I stand with the Hutchinsons,  watching as the jeep speeds across the sand towards us. It halts, and the driver climbs out. He has come as he does every month to bring the Hutchinsons supplies and take letters out. The moment he sees our faces, he knows something terrible has happened. The Hutchinsons explain that their daughter was killed three nights ago. The driver awkwardly  offers his condolences. He tells the Hutchinsons that if their things are packed, he will take them away from the village. Then shock registers on his face when they tell him their answer: they aren't leaving. The driver doesn't understand. Why in the world do they want to stay? Tessie Hutchinson answers that their daughter is buried here, and when they die, they will be buried here with her. There is still so much work to be done. Besides, why should they want to leave when they've had their first convert to Christianity just the night before? They turn to me and smile.

*               *               *

        Fifteen years have passed, and all of the priests and elders in our village have died, except for one who is a respected leader of our growing Christian church. The ritual has been abolished willingly by the people as they have been freed, slowly and one by one, from the dark bonds of evil tradition and self-gratification. The Hutchinsons and I can finally breathe a sigh of rest now after so many years of labor. Our desire, born out of grief, to see this village changed has been fulfilled a hundredfold. The Hutchinsons, who never had more children, can now call my children and the tribe's children their own. I still mourn my sister, but I can understand now that God had a plan. Because of my sister's death, I became willing to fight for change. The Hutchinsons can also see that Nancy's death made them better understand the village people and find ways to reach them. Knowing this, we can thank God that our loved ones were the last sacrifice.