Blood Diamonds

Chapter 6

The Swamplands—1820

The sagging trees howled, bending willingly to the force of the destructive winds which battered them. A menacing cloud of bats circled around their heads, screeching wildly with excitement to create a tornado of monstrous, furry wings. Nature had leant its thunderous voice to their rite, a good sign for the old woman and ragged Randy who stood shielding his face from the chaos that whipped about them.

It was detrimental news for the unfortunate, living sacrifice who lay bound, face-up, to the ground. The trapped girl smelled of herbs and spices, an ancient recipe passed down from generation to generation, made primarily from the roots of the swamp fauna and the ground on which she lay upon.

The Wise Folk had long inhabited those lands. The damp earth was a part of their Pagan lineage. Modern people who did not know better, with their era of mechanical advancement, called them the "primitive people" because of their reluctance to seek a path that deviated from their Old Way of living; their reluctance to leave their heritage and precious swamps behind. No more! Years of callous planning had finally culminated to this—a brutal showing of their prestigious power. The world wanted them to integrate into its rising brutality, to change and evolve, so integrate they shall, but on their own terms.

A bolt of lightning lit up the eerie scene as the old woman shouted her chant louder. The world will know the depth of their power and realise what they had created soon enough. "And now, Great Blood Goddess of the Red Moon, we sacrifice this lamb to thee! We humbly ask that you honour our wishes. Bless this rite!" she howled, then walked towards the girl, who thrashed about wildly within her restraints. The old woman moved with unnatural ease within the powerful storm that almost toppled over a bulky Randy. Her glistening athame was in one hand, polished sharp to deadly perfection. She bent down to the girl and with one swift, brutal swipe she sliced the girl's wrists open. The blade cut deep, to the bone, and the dark blood that gushed from the wound spilled to the sandy earth.

The girl screamed in anguish, but the sounds were muffled by the cotton cloth stuffed strategically in her mouth. With one hand, the woman ripped the cloth from the girl's mouth so that her terrified wails could ring forth into the night and further fortify their dark ritual, but her tearful sobs and screams were lost in the riotous storm. Not flinching, ignoring the poor girl's pain, the old woman dabbed her forefinger in one of the wounds that she had created and drew a sigil on her victim's head in her own blood. The sigil was a cross, not unlike the one adopted by the Christian faith, almost Celtic in design, with a half-moon crescent sitting atop its vertical line. The old woman raised the dagger, tightly clenched between both hands, above the girl's abdomen. "From blood we came, from blood we thrive!" she shouted as loud as her shrill voice could go. The bats screeched louder in reply and the wind seemed to be at its strongest. The old woman, knowing that the time was right, brought the dagger down with brutal force, burying the sharp tip deep within the bowels of the frantic girl's belly. There was no hope for that poor soul who writhed, convulsing in pain. She uttered not a sound, giving up, knowing that her fatal destiny was sealed.

"My child... my baby..." she mouthed softly.

"Mama, she's saying something," Randy cried out, but his mother's attention was lost in the madness that surrounded them. He crept towards the dying girl, pressed his ear to her quivering lips and listened intently to her last words, her final will and testimony.

"You stay away from my baby," she whispered before her eyes glossed over. She was dead, wide-eyed, staring blankly into the starry night.