Lilac Editors Area [OPEN]

《Rayne》Lawless Heaven

AUTHOR: AshlynLynx
EDITOR: -stqrlighttragedy
TITLE: Lawless Heaven
EDITED CHAPTERS: 10

Moonlight stretched shadows from trees bordering the east of the village. Great oaks and redwoods towered like watchmen to the colonials. In the witching hours of the night, restless children peeked pale-faced through windows towards silhouettes emerging from the forest. Dancing shades, fleeting between the trees, flailed their limbs to a rhythm the villagers feared until the night waned away.

One autumn morning, the villagers gathered beneath the Orator's balcony. The Orator, a tall and refined man, made his way onto stage. His latchet shoes thumped hollow across the wooden platform; the august gale rustled his salted beard. Below, the crowd bickered. Dressed in greatcoats for the autumn cold, their volume grew as rumors circulated.

The Orator's eyes, silver like a freshly sharpened axe, fell on the audience. Their attention shifted between him and their own conversations. As the sun rose, it bled the horizon a tinge of purple and crimson. The Orator found his thoughts lost in this vivid, red reality.

"We will need three this year," the Orator's words echoed. The crowd's volume grew again, but like a gavel, his voice thundered down, silencing the throng.

"It is inevitable." He paused. "Which children will sacrifice themselves for the sake of the village?"

Their eyes scrambled amongst each other; then a small hand amidst the thrall sprung up. A smooth faced youth with a head too large for his torso walked to the front of the crowd. The Orator examined the swain. Raven-haired, big brown-eyed; the boy's face was as broad and innocent as a cabbage.

"Eli, is it?" the Orator confirmed. The boy nodded.

"Two more," the Orator continued.

A cool, sleek fellow with ebony hair and a tobacco pipe loosely held between his fingers answered. "I will join the boy." The crowd shrieked—no adult had dare venture beyond the forest.

The Orator grimaced. "I do not understand." Pensively, he tapped his finger on the balcony's railing.

Slim with a tilted brim, the Fellow smiled beneath the shade of his hat. "The decision is yours, Orator."

The crowd murmured in their corners. 

Do you want your child to go? 

The Orator watched their eyes flitter between him and their own chop and change conversations. My boy is only twelve. An adult tribute was unprecedented. Observe the Commandments. The Orator reasoned groups were more immoral than individuals. Jesus, he's already volunteered himself! Likely, they'd permit heresy to retain their individual lives.

"One more," the Orator continued. The crowd hushed and an older boy stepped forward.

"I'll go," Amias said. His storm grey eyes focused on the Orator.

"Depart at dawn. Today's gathering is adjourned. We thank you for your sacrifice," the Orator concluded.

The colonist dispersed to their routines—weaving textiles, tending acres and farm animals. The adults toiled till dusk; mothers held tears back like rain clouds. Hovering over bleak gardens, the children thought their parents would turn to water if they could. They would lament and nourish the barren furrows until spring came, but they didn't, and autumn blew cold as ever, wilting their ashen faces.

The Orator returned to his books. He recorded studiously the numbers of the crops and livestock. He accounted for this year's drought, the incoming supplies and even medicinal needs. He arranged preparations for the boys' and the Fellow's funeral. He accounted for everyone. And as they toiled beneath the fall sun, the villagers reminded themselves: For it is by faith we have been saved.