Posted by Sawney Beane on May 17, 2006 at 23:50:20:
The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #24
THE SACRIFICIAL LAMB
by Sawney Beane
28 March 1995
2,080 words
DISTRIBUTION NOTICE and DISCLAIMER: Sawney Beane requests that any distribution of this work of fiction remain within the realm of social responsibility. This story is suitable neither for minors nor for the seeming majority of adults who have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. It is pure fantasy, which means that, for whatever reason, someone has found it interesting to think about the events depicted herein. It does not in any way mean that the author would like to see this fantasy become reality, so if you are the type of person who might be swayed into doing something irrational by reading a work of fiction, the author respectfully requests that you decline to read further.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sawney Beane, originally a native of Edinburgh, lived for twenty-five years in a cave on the coast of County Galloway, subsisting on the flesh of unfortunate travellers, roughly a thousand of them all told. He and his wife raised a large family of eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grandsons, and fourteen granddaughters. Eventually, the family was captured, and the whole lot was brutally and unjustifiably tortured and executed without trial. Since his death in the early 17th century, Beane has reformed his ways and now confines his atrocities to his literary endeavours.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of consensual female snuff and cannibalism. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is another of my reluctant murderer / eager victim stories. This time it is a liberal king and the virgin that tradition and public opinion forces him to sacrifice. Nice enough but another short story put out on a whim.
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She came into the room without hesitation and stood before my throne submissively. "The sacrifice presents herself to her sovereign. She is prepared for anything that her destiny demands," said the young blonde woman. She stared at my shoes throughout her brief pre-programmed speech. The thin white gown clung alluringly to her round shoulders, and I was filled with pity for this beautiful little unfortunate.
Many people believe that being King gives you complete freedom of action, but this is far from true. A King has no power over tradition, and, as I stared at the doomed nymph before me, I was cursing my ancestors. I have no idea when or why the sacrifice of virgins became an immutable tradition of my realm, but I liked it less and less each year I was forced to perform such abominations.
I only had to do it twice a year. One female virgin died for the Winter Solstice, and one virginal male life was snuffed out for the Summer Solstice. The evil gods whom this carnage is designed to please are no doubt imaginary, but gods are unfortunately more powerful than mere kings, even when said gods are fictional. As much as I wanted to eliminate our archaic traditions, I could not risk the total collapse of society from fear of offending Mlluk and Kdama. Even the small changes I attempted to implement brought about uproarious protests. Such is life.
So, I stood and walked down the three steps to the floor and placed my hands on the waif's shoulders. "Welcome, honourable one, have you any desires that I may grant." This was my nearly disastrous improvisation.
"A sacrifice has no desires and no wishes. Her body and being is devoted to her purpose. She is pleased to obey the wishes of her sovereign and his proxies."
She was still staring at my shoes, so I placed a hand under her soft chin and raised her head. I almost cried when I looked into those big brown eyes. While I have not the ability to stop the selection committee from performing its task of collecting sacrificial lambs, I could have some say in what physical characteristics it looks for. Perhaps I should request candidates with small beady eyes. Those large soft expressive eyes puncture my heart more effectively than any sword.
I looked deep into her being, and I saw only total innocent devotion. I could not detect a trace of fear or sadness. She had successfully denied all of her contradictory feelings. I pitied her all the more.
"How old are you?" I asked.
"Nineteen years old," she replied calmly. She'd wasted nearly two decades trying to live, and now her only purpose was to die. This bothered me, but I suppose that is, in a way, no different for anyone's situation. And maybe it is best to waste only nineteen years rather than sixty-nine years on the folly of life.
"What is your name, my dear?"
"The name of the sacrifice is irrelevant." She seemed genuinely confused. She had a right to be since she'd spent the last three months being trained to deny that she existed at all. It was, in a way, cruel for me to hint that she might be in some way still a person.
"I would like to know what you were once called, so that I can remember such an exemplary sacrifice."
"The sacrifice was once named Emily Moffet." I detected a hint of nostalgia as she heard her name for the first time in months.
"Emily, do you want to be sacrificed this afternoon?"
"The sacrifice does not protest her destiny. She was meant to be a sacrifice."
"Did Emily know that last Winter Solstice?"
"No," she said simply with a hint of uneasiness in her voice.
"Did she want to be selected last year?"
"The sacrifice does not know the answer to her master's question." She was probably like most people: torn between the great honour of being sacrificed and the natural desire to live. Deep down, most people seemed to desire the honour received from the sacrifice of a few close relatives. This was a bit less extreme than loss of their own lives. Nonetheless, once the selection committee picked someone, that person had no choice but to desire their doom and its attendant honour. The only other realistic choice was death without honour. Even if I had been able to free her, her life would be ruined, and she would be forever an outcast.
"Would you like me to release you?"
She suddenly became very emotional, "No, no, no, please Your Highness, don't do that to me!" My heart broke.
I was confusing her, and I wanted to stop, but I couldn't. Those dark eyes forced me to desire to free her, but I knew that I would not be able to do so in any case. So, it was horrible of me to try and talk her out of her doom.
"You desire to die on the sacrificial altar?"
She misunderstood me and hung her head in shame. "Your Highness has caught the sacrifice in a desire. She is deeply repentant and will submit without objection to whatever punishment is proscribed."
I smiled slightly at the absurdity. "What possible punishment would be appropriate for one who has less than an hour to live?"
"Thirty lashes with the bullwhip is the traditional punishment," she said objectively.
I looked uncomfortably up at the wall to my left and the hooks there for hanging a person to be whipped. The metal hooks were getting a bit rusty with disuse. That's the trouble with liberal kings like myself, or so they say. "No, Emily, you have done nothing wrong. I will not punish you. Your only desire is to do your duty."
"Yes, Your Highness, but the sacrifice is permitted only to obey. She must not desire anything."
This seemed impossible to me. "We'll overlook it this time. You need not feel ashamed."
"Yes, Your Highness." Her eyes betrayed relief.
My page announced the arrival of Emily's family. The traditional farewell was always a bit troublesome for me. In walked a typical lower-class family. The father had the look of a habitually shabby man dressed up as much as possible for a big event. The mother was overweight and carried a baby. She tried to pretend that her tears of sorrow were actually tears of joy. Then came a little boy in patched clothing and dishevelled hair, a little girl in a faded blue dress and long blonde curly hair, and a teenage boy with sloppy attire and forced nonchalance.
Emily, my unhappily-fated flower, stood in stark contrast to her family. She was scrupulously clean, dressed all in white, and dignified in her posture. Her family was dirty, though not for lack of effort. It was dressed in a motley assortment of dark colours and was marked by a slouching posture. I politely ignored the emotion in Emily's eyes as she bade farewell to each of her family members. I spoke encouraging words to each of them, but my heart wasn't in it.
The time was fast approaching, and Emily didn't seem too concerned when we proceeded out into the courtyard to the altar. It was a statue of Kdama, the great god of snows. The statue was mounted atop a wooden platform in the centre of the courtyard. Several of the most prominent nobles were assembled on the platform, some having already made speeches to the assembled masses all around.
The crowd cheered enthusiastically as I led Emily onto the platform. Her family waited below in the front of the crowd. They would be afforded an excellent view of Emily's demise and would take heed of the dignity and calmness with which she would leave this terrible world.
She stood in the centre of the platform facing the crowd. I, standing behind her, unfastened the sash around her waist and slipped the gown off her smooth shoulders. The white gown, the only piece of clothing she wore, dropped silently to the floor of the stage. The crowd cheered appreciatively.
Seeing her naked for the first time, I was impressed by the beautiful figure that complemented perfectly her lovely face. She was a small girl and quite thin. Small breasts and soft white skin were paired with gorgeous muscular legs and a petite bottom. One of the nation's art treasures would be lost on this day I feared. Sadness made my chest feel heavy.
Emily raised her hands for silence and turned toward the statue of Kdama. She knelt before it and bowed her head in prayer that Kdama would use her soul humanely. Then she rose and stood with her eyes closed and her hands clasped behind her back.
The head priest handed me an extremely sharp and ornately decorated sacrificial knife. I placed a hand on the back of her neck and gently tilted her head back. Then I touched the blade to the smooth white curve of her throat. The crowd remained deathly silent.
"Good-bye, Emily," I said in a nearly inaudible hoarse whisper, "I'm sorry."
"Good-bye, my sovereign," she replied, "don't fear for me. Kdama will treat me well."
With that my hand moved almost imperceptibly, and a dam broke. Torrents of red fluid bathed the statue. I held the expiring martyr in my arms until the flow had stopped. A tear ran down my cheek as I stared at the pale lifeless body a few moments later. Behind me, the crowd cheered loudly, but I failed to hear it. So many possibilities had been extinguished in my hands. The head priest lifted her out of my arms and carried her corpse away.
Why must it be this way? How has society gotten into such a terrible tradition where no one involved is truly happy? Emily didn't want to die, at least not until her fate became a certainty. Her demeanour might be misleading, but I doubt that it was her first choice of careers. Likewise with her family; they surely hated to lose her, despite the consolation honour and status that would be showered upon them for some time. For my part, I despised having to destroy that which I would most like to preserve. Who gains from this? Do the crops grow any better? Is the winter any less frigid? Yet anything I do to try and stop this ridiculousness is met with panic. The citizens fear the wrath of Kdama and Mlluk. They'd rather kill a few friends and family members than stand up to their fairy tales. But the successful tradition is one that ostracizes any who oppose it, and ours surely fits this description. It is our burden to bear. It must be stopped, but it cannot be.
The next time I saw Emily Moffet, she was lying on her stomach on a big silver platter with an apple in her mouth. Her once white skin was now a dark golden-brown. Most of her insides were now outside and strewn about her body on the platter. They were replaced on the inside by a tasty bread stuffing. She was the food of the gods. What the gods passed over was left for the Royal Family and the nobles to consume at the Solstice feast. That left us all but her soul. Her flesh was tender and delicious. But I couldn't eat it without a deep sense of loss accompanying every bite.
Emily was probably lucky to get out early. The two things none of us can avoid are life and death. She's getting a head start on the latter while the rest of us continue to struggle with the former. What does it all matter in the end? I can't help but pity the darling girl, but perhaps I would do better to pity myself. After all, it is I who am doomed to extract the life from sacrificial victims semi-annually for the who knows how many years it will take for me to die myself.
What did we get in exchange for Emily Moffet's soul? Kdama is supposed to give us a mild winter and an early spring to facilitate early planting. Does he? It's hard to tell since we never go a year without sacrificing to him. Who knows if it makes any difference at all. Even assuming that Emily's death will give us what we are promised, was it worth it?