“I am here,” the girl says, sobbing into her hands.

“We have been expecting you, dear,” the women say as one.

They tug her through the cottage, door shutting snugly behind them.

“’Tis not fair. ’Tis not right!” the girl cries.

Dirt can be seen all along the hem of her dress and underneath her nails, as if she had been clawing her way through the forest.

“We know, dear. We know,” they say, encircling her, a huddle of women and aprons. Wolves to a carcass. Eyes calculating. Delicately patting her with hands stained red from the meat they’re cooking.

The hard thwack thwack of the hatchet echoes from the outside.

“There, there, dear,” the women say with more pats. “It’s alright.”

Her tears leave a murky trail down her cheeks. The aproned women exchange glances.

Peer at the girl, their faces smeared with the flesh of the harvest. Then they smile, take her by the hand, patting her on the arm, and guide her away from the door, the hatchet’s echoes fading into the distance.

“Why don’t you sit down, dear,” the women say.

They move her to the kitchen, the air filled with the fragrance of the dinner splayed across the table, the aroma of something pungent permeating the air.

The girl moves to sit at one of the sides, out of the way. Her hands are shaking.

“Tsk tsk,” they say, chiding her. “Not that one, dear,” they say in unison. “You are the honored guest.” They usher her to the head of the table. “Sit here, dear,” they say, eyes shining black.

They pull out a single chair, wicker groaning against the floor.

The women watch with anticipation as she sits, and tuck her firmly against the table, the girl’s chest pressing hard to the faded wood.

They set a large silver platter in front of the girl. Close enough she could lay her head on it. It is empty. She wipes her palms on her soiled dress. The blackness of night mixes with the candlelight, leaving the women’s faces half obscured. Their eyes glint beadily at her from the shadows.

The table is dressed in the decor of the harvest. Candles illuminate dishes full of apples, a steaming plate of baked pears, breads, butters, honey, and cherry pies. The hearth crackles merrily behind them. The women’s bonnets are tied perfectly tight around each head. The beeswax from the candle bleeds downwards, hardening into white glossy entrails.

From the front of the cottage the door heaves open as another one of the women enters from the outside, her apron covered in a moist scarlet. The echoes of the hatchet have ceased.

“’Tis almost time,” the woman says excitedly.

“’Tis almost time,” the women chime again. They encircle the girl.

“Remember, dear, now that you’ve sat, there’ll be no getting up,” the women say, nodding in unison. “There’ll be no getting up,” they say again, heads bobbing, watching the girl.

She nods. She shifts in the knotted seat, the chair moaning painfully beneath her. The large silver tray sits just in front of her. Its emptiness gleaming.

“Shan’t be long now, dear,” they say.

The women scuffle around each other to the remaining seats. They stand in front of their designated chairs, watching her. Then of one accord, pull their seats out, the chairs scraping against the worn wooden floor in harmony, some of the silverware clanging bell-like with the movement.

The girl stares at the food display. The floured breads and bowls of butter, creams, and pastries. Pies so full the fruity innards glisten wet and red. The girl sits rigid, hands quavering, the empty silver platter glinting.

“Let us say grace,” the women say.

They clasp their hands around the table in a circle. The girl hesitates, looks at the women pleadingly. A woman on each side of her hold a hand out to her. Slowly she places her hands in theirs and they grasp it tight.

The women begin to pray as one. They do not close their eyes. Instead, they keep them open to watch the girl.

“We thank the earth for the bounty of the harvest. We thank the earth for the cycle of life and death. May that which takes be taken, that the cycle may be complete. Bless the blood of the feast.”

The room around them is silent save for the popping of something cooking in the fire. The girl does not move.

“Eat until your heart’s content, dear, but keep this plate empty.” The women gesture to a small silver dish next to the vacant platter. “’Tis nearly time.”

They pass the girl the breads, the butter, cheeses, and pastries. The apples roll in the wooden bowl like heads as they are passed around. The girl maneuvers around the platter as she is handed each item. The women do not take any food.

“Take more, dear,” they say. “The feast is for you, after all.”

Behind her the fire pops and the girl jumps, knocking a delicate piece of pie onto the floor, the crimson insides splashing the wood. The girl tries to stand.

“There will be no getting up, dear,” the women say. “You are the honored guest. The guest does not get up.”

The girl remains seated. There is a silence as the bowels of the pie coagulate on the stone

floor.

“’Tis nearly time for the main course, dear,” they say.

The light from the fire flickers, licking over the dessert’s scattered entrails. The platter

glints knife-like at her. The girl stares at it.

“Aunties, what is to be on the platter?”

“Why, ’tis a surprise,” they say. Their faces glow wicked with delight.

“You shall know it when you see it,” the women say.

The shadows cast sinewy shapes and figures along the stone walls. The fire makes another loud popping sound.

“Tis time,” one of the women says and stands, brushing her palms against the table.

“Close your eyes, dear,” the women say. The girl closes her eyes. “And lean forward so you don’t make a mess,” the women add.

The girl closes her eyes, trembling. A metallic sharpening sound is made from in front of

her.

“We hope you like it, dear,” they say.

Sounds are made of the platter and silver dish being arranged. The girl keeps her eyes closed, leaning forward.

The women raise a knife, the edge dancing in the candlelight. A thick slicing sound cuts through the air followed by a heavy thud, and a clink of the small silver dish at the girl’s side. There is a sound of thick wet dripping. The kitchen fills with the odor of iron. Wild and wet. The silver platter is full and ready.

“The feast has begun,” the women say.

One of the women wipes the knife blade on her apron, with splashes of blood matching the red stains on her hands. Fresh splatters on her cheeks duplicate the old blood from the cooking, mirroring the smudging on the rest of the women’s faces and clothes.

“We hope you enjoy the feast, dear,” the women say.

There is a pause, so for a moment only the dripping can be heard. Then slowly the girl sits up, opens her eyes, and stares into the face of the feast.

The man’s severed head stares back at her, two blackened eyes of familiar nightmares. Voids the girl could never forget. The skin is taught around his face, just cooked enough. The face of the man who hurt her. The face of a monster. Then the girl sees for the first time the new contents of the small silver dish at her side.

“Thank you,” she says in the softest of whispers. Her voice comes out in a grateful choke.

“We hope you like it, dear,” the women say, their bloody faces beaming with pride. “We used our best hatchet for the chopping.”

The girl reaches into the dish, slowly lifting the dully thumping thing to the dim light.

“It is very lovely,” she says, then opens her mouth to take a soft bite.

“Do you like it, dear?” the women ask.

The girl chews deliberately, tasting slowly. The fluid slipping down her chin, her mouth bloody and full.

“Oh, I do!” She smiles and her teeth are crimson and wet. She pauses. “I have forgotten my manners,” the girl says shyly. She lays the heart back into the silver dish, then taking her knife and fork, she splits the meat to fill her mouth with another rich bite.

“’Tis perfect.” She sighs in ecstasy, and the shaking in her hands ceases.

“The earth mother returns what has been taken,” the women say. “Bless the blood of the feast.”

“Bless the blood of the feast,” the girl says. She smiles again, taking another sinewy bite.

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