Feast of Sparks

by Sierra Simone

  “I’d always assumed that you loved it.”

  “Of course,” Auden says bitterly. “Why wouldn’t I love it? Who wouldn’t love to be a Guest?”

  “Auden . . .”

  He shakes his head. “No, it’s fair. It’s more than fair, actually. I’ve had every privilege in the world, and this house is one of them. And anyway, I feel differently now. I have since Poe came, and you—” he breaks off again, but this time it’s with a small, shy smile. “You’re here too,” he says after a minute. “How can I hate any place where the two of you are?”

  That shy smile might as well have been a kick to the stomach. I can’t breathe, can’t look at him, can’t anything for a minute.

  “My point is,” Auden says, as we turn into the final leg of the maze, “I always knew Thornchapel was different. I didn’t like it, but I knew it. And then you and Poe came, we were all here together again, and the Thornchapel I thought I knew, the Thornchapel I hated . . . I didn’t hate it so much anymore. Then we had our Imbolc night, and for the first time since I kissed you and Poe in the ruins, I felt like things made sense. Or like I made sense. Who I was, who I could be, how I fit together. Imbolc changed me.”

  “It changed all of us,” I say heavily. “But now you’re a believer? In what—goddesses and horned gods? Magic?”

  “Do you not find all of this curious?” Auden asks, as we step into the center of the maze. “Is there not a part of you that wonders if it could be real? That there’s a forgotten way to look at the world?”

  “Yes,” I admit.

  When I’m there, in the thorn chapel and in the woods around it, it’s almost more work not to believe. But I don’t tell Auden that. Not yet.

  “But Becket would say that it’s probably the psychological effect of the ritual,” I add. “Becket would say that a ritual is supposed to reinforce identity, reinforce belief.”

  “Becket also believes in God,” Auden points out. “So believing that a ritual has a practical way of producing the effects it does is not antithetical to also believing the ritual is a real way to touch the divine.”

  We stop in front of a crescent-shaped basin, full of water reflecting empty sky. Adonis and Aphrodite are gone, also taken away before the maze demolition, and their embracing shadow no longer falls over the secret steps down to the tunnel.

  “You didn’t answer me,” I say. “Do you believe in this? These same traditions that your own church tried to crush out—and when they couldn’t crush them out, they stole them for their own?”

  Sir James starts lapping at the water in the fountain, and Auden looks at me.

  “Yes,” he says. “I think I do. I think I do because I’m Catholic, if that makes any sense, because when you’re Catholic and you grow up venerating the Virgin and there’s a saint for nearly every spring or wood or hill—well, it doesn’t sound all that mad, does it? That there’s a goddess, that there are actually many gods and goddesses. Why can’t this be one expression of the ineffable along with all the others?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Don’t hmm at me. And you still haven’t answered my question. Why do you go to Mass? Why do you pray when you don’t believe in prayer?”

  I toss my hair out of my eyes and puff out a breath. “I don’t know, Auden.”

  He gives me a look, and I cross my arms defensively over my chest. “I really don’t. In fact, if I had an answer, I probably wouldn’t need to do it.”

  He sighs, but then he smiles a little. “That’s very wise, actually.”

  I didn’t say it to be wise, I said it to be honest, but the feeling of being complimented by Auden is too good to risk by correcting him.

  “Maybe that’s how I feel too,” he says. “I don’t have answers about Thornchapel or horned gods or anything else. But I guess I feel like I have a chance of finding them if I play the part of believer.”

  Sir James jumps in the basin and splashes around for a moment before jumping back out again. “No—” Auden begins in a stern warning, but the dog doesn’t listen. Instead he plants his paws and shakes his entire body, sending spray everywhere.

  “Ugh,” Auden says, wiping his face. Sir James sits back down and pants happily at us, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

  “This is a very abstract conversation to be having before we spend the night fucking in the woods,” I say.

  He laughs. “I know. But I think I really just wanted to know, before we began, how real you think it all is.”

  “The Great Rite?”

  “All of it. The feasting and the sex and the hunt before it.”

  I have the sudden image of Auden in the forest, standing over me with a bared, sweaty chest and sides heaving from the chase. A thick erection waiting for me and antlers coming from his head. His hazel eyes wild like the wood itself, all green and brown and feral pleasure.

  If I were caught by the stag king . . . if he stood over me like a god accepting his sacrifice . . . would I really be capable of not believing then?

  I pull my lip piercing into my mouth once and then let it go. “If I think it’s real enough to put on antlers and let you chase me through the woods, then does it matter about all the rest?”

  “Fine, fine,” Auden laughs, and turns toward the stairs. “Play your cards close to the chest. I suppose I’ll see how much you believe when I’ve caught you.”

  “What are you going to do when you catch me?” I ask. It’s the one thing we haven’t discussed, and I assumed we’d just walk back to the ruins to join the others, but now seeing the hunger in Auden’s expression, I’m beginning to doubt it’ll be that simple or easy.

  “Why, whatever I want,” Auden replies and then disappears down the steps.

  When we get to the chapel ruins, everything is prepared and ready. Rebecca has gathered together branches of nine different kinds of wood—birch, rowan, ash, alder, willow, hawthorn, oak, holly, hazel—and wrapped them in different colored ribbons. They decorate the hollow tower of logs that will become the heart of the bonfire tonight.

  There are buckets of water and a fire extinguisher, which Auden brought up earlier, and deeper into the ruins, our platform is piled high with fresh blankets and pillows. Two cool boxes and a basket attest to Abby’s contribution, and I know no one will go hungry or thirsty tonight. Sir James included. There’s already a dish of dog food and a big bowl of water set out for him.

  Someone—Becket maybe—has brought a hand drum.

  Someone else—Delphine almost certainly—has brought some bottles of good champagne and wedged them in a bucket of ice. A bottle of Auden’s favorite Scotch sits next to them.

  With the essential matters seen to, it’s impossible not to notice how deeply and profoundly the ruins have changed since Imbolc. Not only the altar at the end, which is now half-exposed, and the spot behind it, which is covered in conspicuously new grass, but the affectionate kiss of spring has made everything green and shady and staggeringly idyllic. Bluebells carpet the forest floor and push up everywhere inside the ruins, and the roses covering the crumbled chapel walls have begun blooming, white and pink pushing out among the deep green of the leaves.

  The silence of the chapel in winter has been broken. Birds chirp and the breeze rustles at the flowers and grass and branches. Distantly, in the gaps between breezes, one can hear the burble of the river and snatches of May Day music from the village. And maybe I can hear . . . snoring?

  Confused, I look around the chapel again, and then I realize that the pile of fresh blankets is actually a pile of fresh blankets plus Proserpina, who’s tucked into a nest of pillows and fast asleep. Seeing his best friend, Sir James runs over to the platform and settles himself into a giant puppy crescent next to an oblivious Poe. With a happy sigh, he closes his eyes and falls asleep too, as if he didn’t spend the morning asleep under Poe’s favorite chair in the library.

  “I’ll wake her up before we start,” Rebecca says, joining us by the platform. She’s wearing a loose white dress and has h
er braids down and her feet bare. She looks more relaxed than I can ever remember seeing her. “But it’ll be a late night. I thought it best to let her sleep.”

  “Was she okay earlier?” Auden asks in a low voice. “When she got here? The last time we did this . . .”

  Rebecca gives a nod that is very Domme-to-Dom. “She cried a little, but she said she thinks tonight will be good. Making good memories and all that.”

  “If we need to stop or she needs to leave, I’ll see to it,” Auden says. “But while I’m on the hunt, will you . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Rebecca says. “We will, Auden. We all love her too, you know. We’ll get her home if it’s too much.”

  Assured, Auden nods, and then squints up at the sky. “When should we start? We said five, but if Becket and Delphine aren’t here yet—”

  “They’re down by the river,” Rebecca says. “There’s some spot down there where Delphine wanted a picture of herself, and Becket allowed himself to be pressed into service. They should be back any moment now.” She pauses and then looks at Auden and me. “Do you know where you’ll run?”

  Auden nods. “We’ll start there—” he points at the place in the woods directly across from the entrance to the stone row, “—and then arc back toward the river. If I haven’t caught my quarry before then, we’ll aim back for the ruins.”

  Quarry. I’m to be prey today. Auden’s prey.

  Dear God, I know I’ve been a very bad and fussy agnostic, but please let me be Auden’s prey forever.

  Rebecca eyes me. “I hope you’re ready for this,” she says. “I think your hunter is eager to hunt.”

  I look over at Auden, who grins. A wide, imperfect grin that makes my heart beat faster.

  “I’ve been ready for years,” I say. And it’s the truth.

  Chapter 29

  St. Sebastian

  Present Day

  * * *

  I’m to have a head start.

  Stripped to the waist, I’m facing the forest and holding my headdress in my hand. Delphine made it earlier this week with a surprising and hitherto unrevealed ability for crafting, and Auden helped by gleefully unscrewing and sawing into the old velvet mounts they’d been attached to. Watching the two of them work together at the library table, Auden making low, witty remarks that had Delphine erupting in peals of laughter, I could see why they’d been engaged. They made each other happy in an easy, friendly kind of way. They knew the same people, the same places, the same jokes.

  I knew then, with as much jealousy and relief as anyone can know something, that if Delphine hadn’t ended things with Auden, they’d still be together. It’s hard not to feel strange about that.

  Insecure.

  Tonight, after the hunt, all of us are supposed to come together by the fire, and I wonder what jealousy and relief I’ll feel then. It’s hard enough to think of Poe and Auden together without me, but watching them with the handsome, lemonade-dispensing priest who believes all the same things they do? With Rebecca, the Domme-genius? Or Delphine, who has literally millions of people who want to have sex with her? The one I can still see Auden marrying?

  People think it’s easy, loving more than one person. They think it’s an excuse to avoid fidelity and deprivation, that it’s a way to absolve cheating, but really, the truth is much more miserable than that. Loving more than one person is fucking hard.

  Maybe this is normal, I reassure myself. Maybe the jealousy and the relief are normal. The selfishness. Maybe it’s what everyone in this position feels.

  I blink at the antlers in my hands and snort.

  Jesus Christ, what the hell about any of this is normal?

  Delphine had screwed the antlers to a sturdy strip of leather, and then sewn ties to the ends of the strip so that the whole thing could be tied securely. The antlers are not large, only about ten inches long, but they still rest heavy on my head when I set them there.

  Warm, slender fingers brush my neck, and I know without looking that it’s Proserpina.

  She slides her hands around my naked chest and pulls me close, her palm over my heart and her cheek resting against my back. I want to drop my head down and close my eyes and melt into the girl behind me, but I have to hold still to keep the antlers in place. So instead I cover the hand over my heart with one of my own.

  “I’ve been having dreams about the hunt,” she says. Her voice is light and melodious enough to sound like it comes from the trees themselves, or maybe over the wind from the village, more music on the air. “I don’t know if it’s you and Auden I dream of, because sometimes it feels older. Like I’m seeing something from so long ago that all the forest remembers is the running itself. But no matter who’s doing the running, they’re all afraid at first.”

  “And at the end?”

  She kisses my shoulder blade and slides her hand free. “I never get to see the end.”

  “You could do this, you know. You could take my place.”

  I don’t really mean it, it’s just nervous talk—but also maybe this shouldn’t be me, maybe it should be someone else. Someone who hasn’t already betrayed Auden once by running away from him.

  “Is that what you really want?” asks Poe as she starts working on my headdress.

  No. It’s not what I want. We’d talked about it extensively as a group, because Auden wanted to be the hunter from the outset, but any one of us could have been the hunted and no one jumped immediately to volunteer. Becket in particular was worried about revalidating the hunt as a masculine space, and suggested drawing names again, like we’d done for Imbolc. But I knew from the beginning that if there was anyone Auden was chasing, I wanted it to be me.

  With a sigh, I shake my head the tiniest bit.

  “Okay,” Poe says. Her fingers move fast and sure as she anchors the leather band around my head. “Too tight?” she asks when she’s finished.

  I swing my head back and forth like I saw the boys do in the village. The antlers stay tight to my head. “It’s perfect.”

  She kisses my shoulder again, unable to resist petting my exposed stomach as she does. “I’ll be waiting for you,” she whispers. “At the end.”

  “I know. It’s just a game. I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s more than a game to you, Saint. Even I can see that. But Auden will keep you safe.”

  “Maybe I don’t want him to.”

  And to that she doesn’t have an answer. She kisses me a final time and then I hear her soft footsteps on the grass as she walks away.

  I’m tempted to turn around right then. Call her back. Tell her that if I don’t run I’ll die, but running might be the death of me anyway.

  Tell her I’m scared that this is another moment that can’t be undone. A stitch that can’t be unpicked.

  I don’t have easy answers about belief. For all that it sounds inauthentic to do something without believing in it, I think maybe the opposite is the real sin. Believing without doing. And if there is a chance that I could believe in this, that maybe I already do, then the cost of not doing it is just too high.

  I can feel the others behind me, standing at the entrance to the stone rows. They’ll watch me run and they’ll watch Auden follow. And while we rouse the forest to life with the ancient chase, they will light the fire and begin to dance. While the forest has its sacrifice and the Stag King is anointed with it.

  What are you going to do when you catch me?

  Why, whatever I want.

  I take a deep breath.

  And then I start running.

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  The first few hundred meters are easy. The woods around the chapel are park-like and nearly tame, all wide spaces between the trees blanketed in leaves and moss and bluebells, and light shafting in through the branches above and burnishing the air itself into a deep, golden haze. Birds trill and there’s the occasional flurry of movement through the leaves as I run, as if I’ve disturbed the small, happy creatures that just wish to trund
le through the flowers in peace. And still I can hear the music from the village, faint but definite, and then I think I can hear something else, something closer. A drum.

  I risk a look behind me and see nothing—the trees have closed in and hidden the standing stones from view—but I do smell the light singe of smoke on the breeze.

  They’ve lit the fire.

  Auden will be coming soon.

  I know the point is to be caught, the point has always been to be caught, but the farther I run, and the more scatters and cracks I hear behind me, the more my mind seems to forget. The more it feels like I’m being chased for real, that the danger behind me is undeniable, that if I’m caught, it will mean something dire beyond reckoning. Chemicals start pumping through me, erasing all doubt, silencing the small voice that says why am I doing this? Why am I wearing antlers and running half-naked through the woods?

  There can be no doubt now, though. I’m running because I’m being chased.

  I’m running because I want to escape.

  I speed up, easily vaulting a fallen log and dodging under branches. The woods are closer together here, tighter and darker, the stretches of golden haze growing farther and farther apart until the forest floor dims to an isolated twilight, a gloaming pierced by the occasional spear of sun.

  Faster, instinct tells me. Faster.

  Just like it did then, eight years ago.

  Flee. Death. Flee.

  You have to run to live.

  An explosion of noise from right behind me, and a scream nearly tears out of my throat, because all I catch is movement and size—and then Sir James Frazer bounds ahead of me. He scares up a protesting flutter of birds, which seems to startle him as much as it startled the birds, barks once at them, and then wheels back around and lopes past me, looking like the happiest dog in the world.