The offering

Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses

John William Waterhouse, 1891

In the old days in many villages they threw animals into bonfires as offerings. Today, most are limited to burning garlands of flowers and aromatic herbs. We stay true to tradition and sacrifice one of our own. A female will give her life at the stake so that the long night is over and the cycle continues. Before, in good times, sisters volunteered for the common good; dying at the stake was an honor. Today, in this age of selfishness and lack of faith, we are the ones who choose; the ones who beat, tie and throw into the flames a woman who, if we do not drug her before, resists and kicks. What can we do? Since there are not enough of us, we have to resort to unbelieving and nameless women. Not only do they not thank us, we have to tolerate them spitting on us and calling us murderers. We must hide as perverted predators since no one believes in us or in our sacred duty anymore. This is how sad these times are. How sordid. And yet, without our sacrifice there would be no light behind the darkness.

 

Yule is coming and this year we still don't know who will be the chosen one. Every day I walk in the village and look around me. I see the young woman who runs to not miss the ferry in the morning and the one who enjoys coffee without sugar in the Green Cottage and hides a look of loneliness. But none of them quite fit; none except you. I think you would be able to understand if we explained it to you, but we are not willing to risk it. If I'm wrong and, in the end, you resist and kick like the others, you could spoil everything. So better to stick with the plan.

 

We'll do it tonight, I already have a copy of your house key. We will say that you left the island, that you returned to your country. You would be surprised how easy it is going to be to make you disappear.