H.V. Patterson
Mom’s ragged scream woke me. I turned over in bed and locked eyes with my twin sister, Lia, as the scream became a wail. And then I heard Dad’s voice, a rumbling baritone, comforting her.
“Jana?” Lia whispered, voice taut with fear.
“It’ll be okay,” I said, getting out of bed. “Come on.”
Lia, ever my shadow, followed me to the front door. It was slightly ajar, and our parents huddled just inside, clinging to each other. They didn’t stop us when we stepped onto the porch. We’d turned twenty last week; we were old enough to see.
The headless hare hung from the door, a nail through each paw. Its blood was dry already, hours old. A jagged line ran down its belly, and its eviscerated guts and organs lay coiled in a stinking spiral on the welcome mat. Flies and ants feasted on the hare. Their quiet buzzing jarred my ears.
Two guards stood at the foot of the porch. They nodded at me, rifles respectfully lowered. I pulled Lia back inside, shutting the door behind us.
“No!” she said. “Why us? Why our family?”
“It’s Ostara’s will,” said Dad. He and Mom reached for her, but she turned to me.
“You said it would be okay!” Lia said, starting to cry. “You lied!”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
I held out my arms, and she collapsed into me. I held tightly while she wept, her tears dampening my nightshirt. Mom and Dad closed in around us, and the four of us huddled together, mourning.
Eventually, the shock wore off. Lia was the first to break from our huddle.
“I want to bury Harvey,” she said.
I hadn’t recognised Harvey without his head, but I’d never cared for the hares like Lia did. Lia had raised Harvey when his mother rejected him, and he’d been her special pet. I thought it was a mistake to name the hares, to grow so attached to something you knew would die to feed you. Besides, the hares unnerved me. When they stretched, they were longer than seemed decent, and when they stared at you, they saw too much.
“Sweetheart, are you sure?” Dad said. “You don’t have to.”
“I have to do something,” Lia muttered, sniffling.
Lia wore her heart on her sleeve for the whole world to see. I felt things as deeply as she did; I just hid my emotions better. It was hard to be strong all the time. But I was the older sister, even if only by a handful of minutes, and it was my responsibility to make the tough choices.
“I’ll help,” I said. Unlike me, Lia wasn’t used to handling dead bodies.
“I want to do it myself,” she said.
“Fine,” I said, a little shortly.
Our hands were the only thing about us not identical: Lia’s were soft, her palms smooth; mine were calloused and rough from my lessons with Dr. Fetch and working in the fields. Digging would hurt Lia’s delicate hands. She’d regret not accepting my help.
While Lia dug Harvey’s grave, I helped Mom make pancakes with huckleberry syrup and fatty strips of salty bacon. I savoured the tastes of smoke, salt, sugar on my tongue.
We ate no hare. No one ate hare on the sacred day of Hare Moon.
After breakfast, we spent the day together, playing board games and downing endless cups of coffee, tea, and cocoa. We didn’t say much, but our eyes spoke volumes, every glance a declaration of love. Instead of lunch, we wandered in and out of the kitchen, nibbling on cheese and crusty bread with butter. Somehow, I’d never realised before how lovely salted butter was, the blessing of it spread on soft bread. I licked my fingers, savouring the sensation.
In the afternoon, I made cookies, desperate for something to do with my nervous hands. Baking wasn’t as satisfying as practising stitches under Dr. Fetch’s astute eye or grinding up plants for medicine. Dr. Fetch taught me anatomy as part of my training. She’d shown me skeletons of hares, humans, cats, and dogs, pointing out the similarities in structure all mammals share. Harvey’s paws and my hands both possess carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges. I loved watching the miracle of my fingers, my flexor tendons beneath my skin, all fifty-four bones and forty joints in my hands and wrists working together as one, just as every member of our community did.
As God in his Heaven and Ostara in the Earth willed it. Amen.
The hours bled through my fingers more quickly than I thought possible. Soon, the sun was a searing ball of orange fire setting the tops of the hawthorn trees alight. We dressed in our finest clothes and headed for Church, flanked by our guards.
I couldn’t help looking back over my shoulder. The moon was rising behind our house, painting it silver. Lia squeezed my left hand, and Mom took my right as Dad pressed gently against my shoulders, urging me onward. We were all thinking the same thing as our home vanished from sight: one of us would never see it again.
* * *
We walked into our Church’s cool vestibule, down the centre aisle to the very front of the congregation. As I settled into my seat, I held myself straight and tall, my thoracic vertebrae pressing against the hard, juniper pew. My mind turned over what would come, what Dr. Fetch had whispered would happen if our family was selected. What I needed to do to survive. I wasn’t sure if I could make the choice if the moment came. My heart beat quickly, in time to my racing thoughts, and I was grateful no one could see the fear and grief lurking beneath my composure.
A stranger, a young man about my age, pulled me from my thoughts. He smiled widely as he seated himself in the pew beside me. Outsiders were rare, but we received them graciously when they arrived in our community, guided by the hand of Ostara.
“Hello! I’m Isaac,” he said.
“Hello,” I replied. He waited, but I didn’t give him my name.
“I’m really excited to be here today, on the Feast of Ostara! I’m writing an article about it,” he said, gazing around the Church. “This is a gorgeous building. It’s so similar to my grandparents’ Church!”
I smiled politely. I don’t interact with many outsiders, but Dr. Fetch said they’re always surprised that our Church looks so familiar. I don’t know why. Our ancestors were Christian, and we still honour God the Father who created the world and Christ the Son who died that our souls might be redeemed. We sing the same hymns and read the same Bible our forefathers brought ashore after The Second Flood.
Dr. Fetch arrived, clothed in dark grey, and sat on Isaac’s other side. Her silver-white hair was swept into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck, and her worn but vital hands were folded devoutly in her lap. Isaac introduced himself and started asking her questions about the Church and the significance of ‘Saint Ostara’. Dr. Fetch answered politely and neither of us corrected him, though it was hard to sit there hearing the Holy Mother stripped of Her divinity. Rendered a mere saint.
“The Crucifix is…interesting,” he said, gesturing to where it hung above the pulpit. “Do you know how old it is? Who carved it? It’s very…expressive.”
“It’s been with us since the founding,” Dr. Fetch said.
During my lessons, Dr. Fetch often spoke to me about suffering. She’d told me that many outsiders shy away from Christ’s suffering. They minimise the holiness of pain, rendering Christ’s body without the stigmata or even displaying a bare cross without a body. Our Christ doesn’t hide the truth, the holy agony of his death. His face is contorted, and his crown of thorns drips painted blood. The wound at his side gapes wide, a loop of intestine trailing from it, slithering down his left leg, like the serpent twisting round the Tree of Knowledge.
Reverend entered, cutting short Isaac’s impertinent questions. The congregation hushed. Reverend wasn’t a harsh man, but his very presence demanded respect. He’d led us through many trials and tribulations, as had his father before him, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father, all the way back to the second drowning of the world. His brown eyes were kind but firm. The rustling of his black vestments was the only sound as he ascended to the pulpit and began to speak.
“Brethren, we are gathered here on this most Holy Day of Hare Moon, when we give thanks not only to God in his Heaven and Christ the Redeemer, but to Ostara, the Hare Mother, the Earth Mother, the Warren Mother, whose bounty nurtures us in this life, on this Earth.”
“Hail Ostara, the merciful,” we chanted as one.
“Ostara feeds us—”
“—and we feed Ostara,” the words slipped from my lips. Beside me, Isaac scribbled furiously in a notebook, and I tried to ignore the disrespect, the blasphemy. He would be punished soon enough.
After Hare Moon service, everyone filed out of the nave and into the community hall in the basement where the feast lay waiting. Despite my trepidation, the hall was still a cozy, protected space, filled with the delectable scents of food. Great platters dripping with every kind of meat but hare. Bottles of wine, cheeses, nuts, loaves of fresh bread. Salads heaped with all the bounty of the Earth, great steaming plates of roasted vegetables. Eggs in every form. The dessert table groaned beneath a wealth of cakes, cookies, brownies, and even specially imported chocolates.
But I couldn’t enjoy myself because this year wasn’t like other years. My family walked to the raised dais at the front of the hall and sat at the table of honour with Reverend, Dr. Fetch, and Isaac. The guards brought us platters of food that I didn’t feel like eating. No one at our table had much of an appetite. Except Isaac, who sat between Lia and me and wouldn’t stop stuffing food and wine into his mouth, smiling between bites.
“I haven’t eaten a meal this good in years,” he said, grease dripping down his chin.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” Lia said, looking down at her plate.
He probably thought her shy, but I could see the tears shimmering at the corners of her eyes. My heart twisted. How could I bear to lose Lia today, to lose any of them? I silently prayed to Ostara to make Her will known without my intercession, to take the choice from me.
Our guards returned with dessert: piles of cakes, cookies, chocolates, and sweet wine. I bit into a chocolate. It was chalky and bitter on my tongue.
There was no clock in the community hall, but I felt the press of time, of minutes passing. Some people danced, unable to control their exuberance. The young children started to fuss, their faces and fine clothes stained with chocolate. A couple argued, faces flushed with wine. A chair clattered to the floor. Grease and crumbs and icing smeared the walls, the ground, the very air. From the dais, above and apart from it all, the scene grew increasingly nauseating to behold.
I was relieved when the bell rang, silencing the hall. A thousand pairs of anxious, curious eyes turned to us, wondering who wouldn’t return. Reverend stood and made a short speech I didn’t pay attention to. Finally, the hall drained, leaving us alone on the dais.
“Isaac, we’re having a special afterparty celebration,” Reverend said. “Would you be so kind as to join us?” His benign smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Sure,” Isaac said, swaying a little as he stood. “I think I’m a little drunk.”
“It won’t take long,” Reverend said, holding out his hand.
Isaac beamed back at Reverend with all the trust a boy has for his father. He took Reverend’s hand, sealing his fate.
Reverend led Isaac to a small door half-hidden by shadows. Dr. Fetch and my family followed, and the guards trailed behind. It was an ancient door hewn from white oak and secured with a padlock. An image of three hares running in a circle was burned into the door. Their sightless, ancient eyes watched us approach. I’d seen this door dozens of times, but I’d never seen it opened before.
“Remove your shoes, everyone,” said Reverend, letting go of Isaac’s hand.
We obeyed. Isaac fumbled with his laces and needed help.
When all were barefoot, Reverend pulled out a brass key and forced it into the battered lock. The door creaked on rusted hinges. Lia grasped my hand and squeezed. I squeezed back. We saw a dark, narrow tunnel sloping downwards into the earth. Dad wrapped his arm around Mom, and she sagged against him. They looked as if they’d aged ten years in a single day. I gazed into Lia’s haunted eyes, identical to my own. My future grief looked back at me.
Ostara, please, I thought. Please spare her.
“Single-file,” Reverend announced, lighting a lantern. Behind us, the guards and Dr. Fetch lit lanterns as well.
I dropped Lia’s hand as Reverend started down the tunnel first, followed by Isaac. I took a deep breath and followed.
Reverend’s lantern flickered, casting fantastic shadows on the walls as we descended. The tunnel wound in a tight spiral, like a serpent coiling deeper and deeper into the earth. It smelled strange, not like dirt or musty air, but like dew-drenched clover on an early spring morning.
Finally, we entered a small, roughly oval room. At the far end stood two wooden thrones and a small table. The thrones were tilted back, like lawn chairs. On the table were four small boxes wrapped in green and silver paper, a tray of Dr. Fetch’s surgical equipment, freshly sterilised and gleaming, and a large, golden wine glass. Reverend led Isaac to one of the thrones. Isaac blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but Dr. Fetch stepped forward smoothly and pressed a small, liquid-filled vial between his slack lips. Startled, he coughed, then swallowed.
“What—” he tried to rise, but Dr. Fetch pushed him and he slumped onto the throne. Dr. Fetch’s tinctures worked quickly. Her scalpels gleamed in the lantern light. I knew Isaac would not rise again.
Reverend set his lantern on the table and gestured for us to stand before it. The guards stood behind us, illuminating the room. I could see a half-dozen tunnels, none of them more than three feet high, branching out around us. I wondered where they led. I hoped we wouldn’t have to crawl through them; the very thought made my skin prickle.
“We are gathered here beneath to give thanks to Ostara, the Hare Mother, Queen of the Earth,” Reverend said. “Blessed be God in Heaven, and Blessed be Ostara in the Earth.”
“Blessed be Ostara,” we said.
“We honour and love you, Ostara. We obey your Word and eat of your Flesh. For you, the flowers grow. For you, the Earth is fruitful. You are the nourishing of our bodies.”
“Blessed be Ostara.”
“We remember your mercy, Ostara. We were cold and adrift on the sea, and you rescued us. We have fed from your bounty, and now we will feed you.”
He nodded to Dr. Fetch, who began threading a suturing needle.
“We sew shut the mouth of the Outsider,” proclaimed Reverend. “We sew shut his eyes and his ears, for these secrets are not his to speak, his to behold, his to hear.”
Isaac’s eyes widened, but he couldn’t move. Dr. Fetch started with his mouth. I admired her skill, the precision of her stitching. I’d practised on leather, cuts of meat, and the occasional injured animal. It wasn’t easy work. But her weathered hands were clever and sure, never missing a stitch. She only stopped occasionally to dab blood from her fingers. Blood is slippery. I’d dropped more than one blood-coated suturing needle during my training.
She sewed up his pretty eyes next, and I wasn’t sorry. He kept staring beseechingly at Lia, and though she stood steadily beside me, I could hear the uneven catch in her breath. It was hard for her, hard for all of us. But that was the nature of sacrifice: it wasn’t supposed to be easy.
A few quick stitches closed his ears.
“We now sanctify this offering,” said Reverend. Dr. Fetch picked up her scissors and cut away Isaac’s shirt. His chest was startlingly white and hairless, like a boy’s. Dr. Fetch grasped her scalpel and began the incisions.
I admired her work as she made a long, smooth cut from navel to groin. She cut through epidermis, dermis, subcutaneous fat, and muscle, then made a few vertical slits and carefully pulled the skin and abdominal muscle back in two flaps. Isaac’s exposed viscera glistened, untouched by the scalpel. Only the angle of the throne kept everything from spilling out onto the floor. Isaac was still living when Dr. Fetch dipped her hand into his abdomen and carefully examined the intestines. After a few minutes, she turned and smiled approvingly to Reverend, who nodded back. Whatever she’d seen augured well. Someday, I too would gaze into the hidden, secret places of a living, breathing body and discern what lay ahead: a good year, or a hard one.
Carefully, she slid Isaac’s intestines from his body and arranged them in a spiralling coil on his lap. The smell of dying overwhelmed the room. My parents winced, and Lia covered her nose and mouth. I didn’t move; I was accustomed to the stench of death.
“Have you sanctified this offering?” Reverend asked.
“I have, praise Ostara,” Dr. Fetch said.
“Then proceed.”
She picked up the knife, and Reverend picked up the cup. She stepped to Isaac’s side and drew the knife across his carotid artery. As his life’s blood poured out, Reverend caught it in the cup, filling it almost to the brim. Isaac died sightless, unhearing, and in great agony.
“Blessed be Ostara,” Reverend said.
“Blessed be Ostara,” we repeated.
Reverend turned to us next.
“Martha Abraham, Mathias Abraham, Jana Abraham, Lia Abraham. Do you come here, to the sacred Warren of the Hare Mother, of your own free will?”
“We do.”
“Do you accept the fate Ostara decrees for you?”
“We do.”
“Then step forward, Martha, and choose.”
He gestured to the four boxes on the table behind him. Mom walked forward with her head held high, but I saw her hands trembling as she chose a box and returned to her original position.
“Step forward, Mathias, and choose.”
I swallowed as Dad stepped forward, steeling myself. In my chest, my heart raced like a hunted hare, but I kept my face composed and my breathing even. I was the elder daughter. Only by a handful of minutes, but the elder still. I was next.
Please, merciful Ostara. Take the choice from me.
“Step forward, Jana, and choose.”
I walked to the two remaining boxes. They were covered in a pattern of green leaves and grass intertwined with leaping, silver hares. I stared hard at the boxes, praying that they were identical. At first, they seemed to be, and I felt something loosen in my chest. But then, I saw the left-hand one had a single speck of dark red on its lid.
My hands clenched and unclenched. The red drop of blood watched me unblinkingly, waiting to see what I’d do. I could feel Dr. Fetch’s eyes burning into me, could hear her whispered instructions. The marked box held death; the other held life. This ritual was supposed to be a game of chance, fate directed by Ostara’s will, but Dr. Fetch had interceded for me. And now, despite my prayers, I was being punished by Ostara: mine was the hand which held my sister’s fate.
I wanted to stop time, to reveal the deception, to demand we start over. But I knew better. We’d begun the ritual, and we must see it through. My heart thudded painfully in my chest, a snared hare. It broke something inside me to make the choice, to know that Lia stood behind me, waiting her turn. I reached for the marked box, hesitated, then picked the unmarked box instead. I stepped back, avoiding Lia’s eyes.
“Step forward, Lia, and accept what remains.”
Lia took the last box and walked, trembling, back to her place.
Reverend nodded to Mom, and she opened her box and pulled out a bright, red apple. Next, Dad opened his box. It held a loaf of bread.
Reverend turned to me. I reached into my box and pulled out two large, white eggs.
Lia looked at me, understanding and anger in her face. She knew that I’d cheated, somehow. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but hesitated. Her face became still and resolved. Guilt, fear, and sadness rushed through me. But someone had to die, and it couldn’t be me. Lia had to understand that, didn’t she? The community needed me to replace Dr. Fetch when Ostara called her body to the earth, and God took her spirit heavenward. Would Lia understand, or would she halt the offering?
Lia pressed her lips firmly together and looked away from me. She reached inside the box. Slowly, hands shaking, she pulled the hare’s head out by one ear. His eyes were half-closed, his mouth open in surprise. Through blood-clotted fur, I could see the pink-white edges of cervical vertebrae.
When Harvey was born, he’d been the runt of the litter. Lia had bottle-fed and tended him before he’d even opened his eyes. Now, she held his severed head.
Tears ran down her face, down Mom’s and Dad’s faces. My own cheeks were dry, though I knew the tears would come later. Behind my ribcage, my heart shuddered. Bile flooded me, and I hated myself, hated that Dr. Fetch’s cheating and my desire to live had sealed my sister’s fate. But even as my heart broke, I curled my fingers tightly around my box and did not regret my choice.
Reverend and Dr. Fetch moved towards Lia. She trembled but didn’t flee. Reverend offered the cup to Dr. Fetch, and she added a medicine I recognised, one I’d helped make. It removed pain from the body and made the mind go calm and far away.
“Do you, Lia Abraham, of your own free will, take this cup?” Reverend held the cup filled with Isaac’s blood and Dr. Fetch’s medicine to her lips. “Do you, of your own free will, accept the death within it?”
“I do,” Lia said, voice barely a whisper.
“Then take it and drink.”
Hands shaking, she reached out. Her nose wrinkled at the taste and smell, but she drank.
Reverend offered the cup to Mom, Dad, and then me. His eyes were firm, but kindness softened the firmness.
“Do you, Jana Abraham, of your own free will, take this cup? Will you bear witness to the death of Lia Abraham?”
“I will,” I said.
“Then take it and drink.”
Despite all the times I’d assisted Dr. Fetch while she set a bone or pulled a child from a screaming mother’s womb, I’d never tasted blood before. The blood was warm and thicker than I’d expected, thicker than water. The ancient saying was true. Salt coated my tongue and throat. I pushed down my nausea as I swallowed. A wave of calm washed over me. Reverend walked past me and offered the cup to the guards. Only he and Dr. Fetch didn’t drink.
“Lia, please step forward,” he said, gesturing to the empty throne opposite Isaac’s remains.
Lia looked at me again. Love, anger, and resentment burned in her gaze. Then she turned away. Reverend took the box and Harvey’s head from her and set them carefully on the table. Lia stood, gaze unfocused, as Dr. Fetch picked up her scissors and carefully slit her dress open from hem to collar. Barefoot and wearing only her undergarments, she must’ve been cold, but Lia didn’t shiver. Dr. Fetch guided her onto the unoccupied throne.
“The Hare Mother honours your sacrifice, daughter,” Reverend said. “She does not wish you to suffer unnecessary pain.”
He held the cup to her lips again, and Lia drank deeply until her eyes went soft and unfocused, and she sank against the back of the throne.
Dr. Fetch stepped to the table and picked up a clean scalpel. Reverend bowed his head, hands folded in front of him. Lia stared straight ahead as Dr. Fetch’s practised hands moved down her stomach, and the scalpel slid through her skin like it was butter. Blood trickled out in red rivulets. Dr. Fetch made three precise cuts, forming a rectangular window around her belly button, much smaller and neater than the hole she’d made in Isaac. When she eased the skin and muscle away, I could see Lia’s stomach. Dr. Fetch gently pushed it aside, leaving a bloody cavity. Reverend stepped forward and handed her Harvey’s head.
The head fit into the cavity like a child curled inside its mother’s womb. Dr. Fetch took up a new suturing needle and stitched Lia closed with care. My own fingers twitched at my sides, my hands mirroring her movements. Someday my hands would be that skilled and precise.
The entire time, Lia didn’t look at Dr. Fetch or at any of us. Her breathing quickened as her body slid into shock, probably from blood loss, but her face was blank, serene. I’d never noticed before how large and dark our eyes were, the colour of earth after a summer storm.
Dr. Fetch finished the stitches and took up her sharpest knife. The light gleamed off its unsullied edge. Her arm moved in a single, decisive slash across Lia’s throat. Lia convulsed once, twice – then went still.
Seeing my twin dead before me, her sightless eyes still gazing serenely at the dirt ceiling, should have throbbed like an open wound. I knew that tomorrow I’d mourn her, that I’d despise myself, that I wouldn’t be able to look Dr. Fetch in the eye. Tomorrow, the whole community would honour and mourn Lia. Her funeral would be beautiful, though the casket would be empty.
But now Dr. Fetch’s medicine filled me, leaving room for nothing but the taste of salt and the smell of blood. It was done; there was no turning back time. We had done what was best for all. Praise Ostara.
Reverend began a familiar scripture, one I’d heard so many times my lips moved in tandem as he spoke.
“In the beginning was the world, and the world was wicked,” he said. “And so, God sent a flood, and humankind was humbled. But we forgot the lesson, and so God sent a second flood, humbling us further. If not for the mercy of the Hare Mother, our ancestors would have perished.”
“Hail Ostara, the merciful,” we recited automatically.
“Ostara sent us to this rich and fecund land.”
“Hail Ostara of the Fields.”
“She sent us braces of hares to eat.”
“Hail Ostara, Hare Mother.”
“As the hares have fed us, so too do we feed the hares.”
“Accept our sacrifice, Dread Ostara.”
“Amen.”
Reverend fell silent. My gaze drifted from Lia’s body to the dark corners of the room. To the tunnels, spiralling off into darkness. I wondered how far they went: how far out, and how far down.
The sounds were faint at first, so faint I thought I was imagining them. The scuffle of small bodies moving steadily across the dirt floor. Then I saw eyes gleaming in the lantern light, one pair, two, a dozen, a multitude. Hares poured into the room, hares of every colour. They surrounded Lia and Isaac, concentric circles of hares, spiralling unending lines of hares. Hundreds of gleaming eyes studied us. And more kept coming, pouring from the tunnels.
Reverend bowed low to the hares. I found myself folding too, my spine curling against my will. And then Reverend was retreating, and we fell into step behind him, heading back the way we’d come.
As she headed past me, Dr. Fetch paused to whisper in my ear.
“I know it’s hard, Jana, but you made the right decision. The community needs a doctor, and I am too weary to train another. Ostara understands and honours your sacrifice.” She squeezed my wrist then turned and followed the others out of the room.
I was the last to leave, and though I knew I shouldn’t, like Lot’s wife I looked back. Lia was covered in an undulating sea of twitching fur. I could hear the hares gnawing at her, see the blood staining their paws and twitching noses. From the tunnels, thousands of bright eyes approached, waiting for their turn at communion. I turned and followed the others, my mouth dry and coated with salt.