Following one of our Advent Train Story writers pulling out, my partner generously agreed to step in and write a piece.  He is a great writer though he rarely does it so I was super happy to showcase one of his pieces.

The Annual Giving

Those too young for the contest busied themselves at building the great bonfire, watched over by those too old for it. Others – still fecund with a desire to win – agonised over their gifts. Each hoped this final shaving-off of wood, a drop of inlay or an inch of filigree would be the thing to elevate them to the winners’ table.

The thirteen volunteers sat idle, their first duty completed two months prior: selecting the tree for the Annual Giving, felling it, breaking it into logs, and distributing one to each household on Samhain night. Their second came tonight: judging the gifts produced from the Samhain logs and selecting the
winners. Those not selected would be returned to their makers to be carried home and burnt in their own hearths. Winning gifts would be cast into the bonfire in full view of the woods, in full hope that the Unseen One would take notice, approve, and reward the winners.

Niamh regretted volunteering – giving up her chance for a wish to the Unseen One. Volunteers were recompensed by receiving grain and eggs from the town’s stores from Samhain through the winter until Ostara and, now solely responsible for her household and siblings, she could not overlook this secure food source for the dark months. Even so, moving towards the now-roaring bonfire with neighbours who bore their votive logs like swaddled infants, she could not repress her disappointment. She tried to cheer herself: no one really knew if the Unseen One did grant wishes for the winners.

The townsfolk placed their gifts on tables within the clearing, then retreated to the tavern, to await the decision. Most were too excited to eat, but all wanted to drink. The clearing, now empty, the judges
began their slow march around the tables.

* * * * *

Usually, the judging concluded in the small hours. Tonight, however, the judges entered the tavern when most of the townsfolk were on their second ale. Though typically greeted with shouts of excitement, the judge’s appearance so early was met with confused silence. Satisfied the town had noticed them, the thirteen turned and exited, walking towards the winner’s table while the others followed.

Trudging through the clearing everyone glanced around in disbelief. This year’s entry from O’Hara the ‘smith (who had reached the winners’ table for the last three years) was a meticulously carved horseshoe, carefully blackened in the forge, inlaid with the finest silver wiring and coated with powdered carbon which shone in the firelight.

Someone else, likely Saoirse the butcher’s daughter, had carved their log into a perfectly lifelike scene of two wolves fighting over the carcass of a stag. Neither had been judged worthy, it seemed, but no one could remember another gift which matched the quality of these two.

At the head of the clearing the crowd broke into nervous laughter, seeing the joke, they thought: a single log reigned on the winner’s table. It could have been cut fresh today – no carving, no painting, no adornments. Some townsfolk nudged each other, grinning; others noted the judges neither spoke nor laughed, and were standing apart from the winner’s table – refusing to look at the gift, but also unwilling to turn their backs to it.

The uneasy atmosphere was gently broken by a soft weeping from the winner’s table, from no obvious source. Several of the youngest and boldest, seeking to solve the mystery, crept forwards.

Nearing the table, they noticed the light cast by the bonfire writhed over the log, painting it with a twisted, horrified face which melted in and out of the wood. When it flared into view, golden knots-for-eyes appeared to spin wildly, and peeling bark, dried and cracked like lips after a long sleep, seemed to smack open and closed as though gasping for air.

The youths retreated to the safety of the crowd as the sobs became weeps, became screams of terror, confusion, agony. The fire’s warmth without and the warmth of ale within did not abate the infernal chill in the hearts of the townsfolk. With the mystery of the voice solved, all stood frozen, too awed to leave the Gift’s presence. After some minutes the tracks laid by years of ritual let the weight of tradition force motion through the tableau.

“Winners…Winner. Step forward,” cracked Niamh’s voice.

Ryan and Aoife Hegarty emerged. The husband and wife dwelt alone on the edge of town where they grew willow, sold Aoife’s herbs and tinctures (the most effective medicines to be found for miles around, it was said) and benefited from Ryan’s skill at fishing, for swamp eels in particular: he was the only man willing to spend nights alone in the deep woods’ mire. The townsfolk, who regarded the Hegartys well before today struggled to comprehend the how and why of their gift and eyed the couple
with suspicion and fear.

“This is your Gift?” Niamh asked flatly.

The winners nodded.

“Give.”

The couple retrieved the Gift, their faces contorted against its screams. Approaching the bonfire, the screams grew steadily louder until cast into the flames, they rose to shrieks of such a pitch they forced everyone to their knees, clutching their heads and wailing in hideous harmony. Not until the last shred of bark-skin had peeled from the Gift did the noise subside, replaced with the crack of splintering wood like breaking bones.

All ears continued to ring and whistle, hearing phantom echoes of the Gift’s bean sí swan song, so no one detected, from deep in the woods, from the mire, a noise unheard in centuries. A noise unheard since the first Annual Giving; subtler and calmer than the Gift’s shrieking, but no less terrifying: a roar of violent gratitude from something unseen.

As the unwilling penitents shakily regained their feet, Niamh, her heart cold and breath ragged, stole a glimpse at the Hegartys. Aoife’s belly had swollen in the last few minutes. Ryan, exhausted but smiling, stroked his wife’s bump. Aoife beamed and, even knowing he could not hear her, whispered to
him, “Thank you for my gift.”

© Dread Pirate 2022