The heat
hung over the village like a smothering blanket.
Rowen
watched his neighbors carry buckets of water out of their hut, the image
dancing in the heat waves that wavered off of the baked clay. The entire
village was preparing for the daily gathering, always necessary during a heat
spell. The gathering was a time for people to spread out precious goods like
water and pit seeds, which would cool down the body and prevent heat death.
In normal
times, goods were traded as per their worth. During a heat spell, however,
nothing could match the worth of a simple bucket of water or a single pit seed.
As a result, all shared, carrying the village through the spells that sucked
the life out of the area.
Rowen had
nothing to share. He only benefited, and he knew others resented him for it. He
walked to the gathering with a heavy heart, his scalp burning from the sun as
though his red hair were aflame.
The others
who passed him glared, their eyes full of suspicion. None offered help when he
stumbled in the heat. His store of food, the food he hunted for himself, had
grown small, and the water bucket in his home was mostly dry.
He would never steal water, but
no one would believe him. Not after what happened.
Alain, the
village elder, called the meeting to order, his powerful voice carrying over
the throng. There were fewer people here
today than the day before. A bad sign.
“Report any
losses.” This was how the meetings always began. Heat spells killed the young
and the old first, and in the first week of this one there had been dozens of
deaths. This heat spell was in its third week, the longest Rowen had ever
experienced.
Hands went
up, and Rowen looked down at the shady ground. “Talia.” An eight year old girl
who had loved to play outside in the rain during winter. “Edericks.” An older
man who dyed fabrics. “Abigail.” The seamstress.
Had they
died during a normal time, they would be cremated. Fires were too dangerous
during a heat spell, so they would be buried on the edge of town instead.
“This is
day 22 of the current heat spell, the second of the warm season.” Alain
intoned. “We have suffered greatly so far.”
“Too much!”
A man cried out. Rowen looked up. He had lost his infant daughter in the first
few days.
“Something
must be done!” A woman cried.
“There is
nothing that can be done.” Questions like these always arose. People yearned
for the old times, when belief in mythical rituals that could bring the
breaking storms was rampant. The old beliefs had fallen out of favor, people
realizing that the advent of the storms was unpredictable, but the longer the
heat spells stretched on the more desperate people became.
“Erik has
measured the temperature currently at 134 degrees, dropping to 100 at night.”
Alain continued. “This is unusual, but it should only mean that the storm will
come soon.”
“The heat
spells are longer and hotter. We should go back to the old ways!” A man on
Rowen's left stood up, redfaced in anger. Andrew, the blacksmith, who's shop
had lain abandoned for the last three weeks. “This would never have happened
when I was a child!”
“There is
no point in wasting energy on a ritual that won't work.” Alain didn't bother
raising his voice. “The best thing to do is to wait and keep calm. Exertion
will bring death.”
“We must do
something!” The same woman who had been ignored before yelled again, louder
this time, and people responded, turning to her and some agreeing, whispering
under their breath.
Rowen's
heart picked up speed. The mood of the crowd was turning, from a tired group of
people willing to help each other to get through hard times to something else.
Something dangerous.
“What would
you have us do? The dances will only cause heat death faster.” Alain was trying
to quell the crowd.
“There is
no need for dances.” A man spoke up from the back of the throng, an accent
shading his words. Rowen didn't recognize him until he turned to look.
The speaker
was a man with pale hair and eyes, a traveler who had settled here from the
north only a year ago. The heat had been unkind to him, his skin burned red
from the sun. He always told tales of his travels, and people naturally paid
close attention to him when he spoke.
“Where I
come from, heat spells never last this long.” He spoke slowly, calmly, with a soft
commanding voice that bade you listen. Rowen immediately didn't trust him.
“How?”
Andrew asked, some of his belligerence gone.
The man
chose his words carefully. “Where I live, heat spells are...harsher. Everyone
fends for themselves. We are not as quick to share.”
A few
people seemed concerned, and the man quickly picked up his tale. “But we have
found a way to deal with that. Some people are not worth sharing with, after
all.”
Someone
glanced at Rowen. He swallowed, looking away.
“Surely
this is not necessary.” Alain spoke up. He too sounded nervous. “We will begin
the dispersal of water and seeds-”
“Where I
come from, we give up the people who do not deserve resources.” The man
continued, ignoring Alain, and the crowd hung on his words. “Sacrificing them
to the Storm Gods brings the storms faster, and makes those who survive more
comfortable.”
Rowen took
a step back. People were nodding, smiling. Someone behind him grabbed Rowen by
the arm.
“This one
killed his parents by stealing their water!” Andrew yelled. Rowen opened his
mouth to deny it, but of course no sound came out. He had never been able to
speak, not since it had happened.
“Criminals
make perfect sacrifices.” The man said, looking at Rowen but not meeting his
eyes. “The Storm Gods are vindictive.”
