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alasanonThe chanting grew louder as the ceremony drew to a close. There was little enough for me to do at the beginning--set the incense, light a few candles, wash the altar--but now that it was nearing the conclusion, I could only sit and wait. A light flashed across my vision and I glanced up, startled. The high priest had just accepted the great knife from his assistant. I could remember being in that place, proud to be the one chosen to hand over that gleaming instrument. At the thought I had to swiftly repress a dry chuckle; it would not do to interrupt at so important a point. He swiftly performed the ablutions, washing the blade and drying it gently in a stained cloth rumored to have been passed down through six generations of priests. Now it would be passed around the circle, and each man would prick the tip of his left index finger in salute to our god. It was a sign, you see, that they would continue to obey his commands for one more year, at the end of which the compact would be renewed. I myself had shown my well-scarred finger to the god at the start, by way of promise.
Nothing to do but wait as the knife went around. We had practiced this ritual until we could do it in our sleep--even the youngest member of the circle could wield that graceful weapon as gently and cleverly as a butcher. Six, seven, eight men now held their hands to the sky, showing the blood trickling down their palms clearly, their loyalty assured. The ninth faltered a moment, but at last completed his part with a trembling furor. Only four more...three...two.... The high priest was last, and began the crescendo as he twisted the knife, now lifted high in his right hand.
Two men, both burly (though each was known for possessing a gentle nature), separated themselves from the circle and walked clockwise around it, passing each other precisely as the high priest intoned the final incantation. The second pass was completed in silence, and they bowed to each other, to the high priest, and then, lastly, to me, sitting and waiting in my throne.
This was my signal, and I responded as I was supposed to, rising and bowing in return. They walked to me, and each took one of my arms. Together we walked to the center of the circle. There they pretended to force me to my knees; I made it easier by dropping as soon as they had each laid a hand on my head. I knelt there in the circle of my brethren, waiting for the knife to fall.
Nothing to do but wait as the knife went around. We had practiced this ritual until we could do it in our sleep--even the youngest member of the circle could wield that graceful weapon as gently and cleverly as a butcher. Six, seven, eight men now held their hands to the sky, showing the blood trickling down their palms clearly, their loyalty assured. The ninth faltered a moment, but at last completed his part with a trembling furor. Only four more...three...two.... The high priest was last, and began the crescendo as he twisted the knife, now lifted high in his right hand.
Two men, both burly (though each was known for possessing a gentle nature), separated themselves from the circle and walked clockwise around it, passing each other precisely as the high priest intoned the final incantation. The second pass was completed in silence, and they bowed to each other, to the high priest, and then, lastly, to me, sitting and waiting in my throne.
This was my signal, and I responded as I was supposed to, rising and bowing in return. They walked to me, and each took one of my arms. Together we walked to the center of the circle. There they pretended to force me to my knees; I made it easier by dropping as soon as they had each laid a hand on my head. I knelt there in the circle of my brethren, waiting for the knife to fall.
