Twelve winters, Runi stood among the gathered. Each year, the day returned—mute and bitter. When it came, light was colorless and full of shame.
Today was no different.
Smoke drifted from the firepit at the center of the square. It offered little heat, more memory than sensation. The villagers wore red. That was the custom. Scarlet threads at the wrist, dyed wool stockings, a crimson sprig tucked behind a beggar’s ear. Upon their faces were white masks that bore no mouth.
No words were spoken. There would be no speech until dawn. At moonrise, after the chosen was taken into the red doored barrow, would drum and lute play. There would be dancing, screaming, weeping—but not a single word.
Not until the light returned.
Leader Oscric raised the velvet bag in one hand and a torch in the other.
The wind quieted. The fire cracked once, then held its breath. Crows in the eaves did not stir.
From within the bag, a name was drawn. The parchment unfurled like a tongue. Its ink ran red.
Near the rear of the square, Runi stood with his kin. His gaze flicked to the barrow beyond the fields. Bran had climbed it that summer, barefoot and staring into the trees. Such signs often preceded selection. A pity. Bran had been well-liked.
When Runi turned back to the crowd, the eyes were on him.
His mother’s hand settled on his shoulder. His father’s palm pressed against his crown. Both were heavy.
The name was not spoken aloud. It did not need to be.
A sound broke the hush. His mother, an open mouth, a raw wail, and a silence deeper than before.
They sent one every year. Always a child. Always in silence. Never to be seen again. The red-doored barrow would remain shut until the next year. It was all that lay between the village and the all-consuming forest. So, the barrow should remain well fed. Whosoever the barrow called, should be brought forth.
By the light of the next morn, things should have returned to as it was.
But this time it did not.
In the first day of the grey morning, the sun’s pale light reached the valley. The crows called. The trees stirred. The world was cold and hard. The people kept their eyes to their tasks: they drew water from the well, they tended the sheep, they swept their floors.
The air bore the weight of a thing gone wrong.
In the night of the first day, the wolves howled and
the door
the door
the door to the barrow shook.
They asked Oscric, their leader, what this meant, but he hid his face.
Bran stood in a trance at the edge of the village. He watched the forest. “It’s coming, now,” he’d whisper to anyone who came near. Arms by his side, jaw slack, he would stare.
On the second and third day, the rats came. They crept from the creek and between floorboards. They found their way into sacks of flour and grain.
On the fourth night, the forest watched them back. Creatures emerged, their red and unblinking eyes gleaming. Crows gathered. Trees rocked in the wind, their boughs aching heavily like the gallows.
Still the barrow’s red door rattled.
“We must’ve chosen wrong!” cried the people.
Bran fell flush with fever. Yet he remained standing. They could hear his calls at night in a language no one could understand. The wolves barked and howled. The birds cried in anger. And all through the night the pounding,
the pounding,
the pounding upon the barrow’s red door.
On the fifth day, the wolves fell silent.
The treeline crept nearer still.
The sky held no moon.
That evening, Oscric walked alone past the barrow. In the morning, there were new prints beside his in the snow, but they did not match his boots.
On the sixth, the sheep would not leave their pens. The hens would not lay. The well water turned black.
On the seventh, the wind came from the forest, and with it the smell of ash. The children were kept indoors.
The door to the barrow no longer shook. It stood wide, it’s darkened and empty gullet open for all to see.
Bran let out a cry and fell to the ground. He did not move again.
On the eighth, he returned. He came from between the pines at dawn. Runi, barefooted, walked with straight back. His grey eyes did not blink. He was followed by beasts of the forest and birds of the air. Upon his white-blond head was a wreath of laurel and bright red berries.
He did not speak.
The people parted as he passed. Silent, Runi walked through the village and out the other side. He walked on past the gate, moving North.
No council was called.
No judgment was given.
But they now knew.
The people kept to their houses, and their doors were barred.
On the tenth day, the forest crept nearer. The wind carried voices none would answer. The cattle tore at their tethers until they bled.
On the eleventh day, the trees crossed the field. The snow lay deep, but their roots found the earth beneath. Walls splintered. Roofs cracked. The sheepfolds vanished in green shadow.
On the twelfth day, no smoke rose from the chimneys. Not a red sock in sight.
The forest had taken all.
Only the barrow remained.