The Law (short story)

 

 

 THE LAW

by

M.P. Conn

 

            Small rays of light seeped through the night that still reigned outside. Morning seemed hesitant, shy, lingering behind the trees, its faint blush painting the sky’s pale cheeks. I did not resent the night; I had always woken early to watch the light pursue and banish it. But today, peace eluded me. Soon winter snow would arrive—like a hesitant bride advancing down the aisle, her trailing veil spilling over the earth, cloaking it in white. With her would come silence: nature sleeping, laid down in her frozen bed, waiting for spring to breathe her awake again.

            This was meant to be my favorite season. I ought to have been happy, snug within my little one-room cabin. I had stacked enough wood for the fire to burn all winter. I had lined the cellar shelves with jars and preserves to last until spring. And yet, still, I felt no peace.

            Two nights ago, it came. I had been reading by the fire when I heard its mournful cry. Rising, I went to the window and gazed out into the dark forest that encircled my home. At first, my mind refused to grasp what my eyes discerned: a towering, elongated silhouette, vaguely human yet impossibly tall, impossibly thin. Then I saw what it carried, and a cry escaped my lips as I staggered back from the glass.

            I had heard the tales since childhood. I knew who waited in the shrouded trees. They said if you saw it—if you heard its cry—there was no escape. Time would accelerate; days would shrink; food would turn tasteless. You would find yourself adrift, losing minutes, hours, unmoored from the world until, suddenly, you noticed all that had slipped away.

            The tales promised three days. No more. I looked down at my coffee—it had gone cold. Dawn had chased away both the night and my visitor. Today was my third day. Tonight it would come to the door, and I must follow. A tear slid down my wrinkled cheek, yet it was not born of sorrow. The peace that had deserted me two nights past now returned. Why grieve? There was no one left but myself. None to mourn my passing. I had lived well, loved deeply. I had raised my children only to watch them die. I had borne much, and now all was to be relinquished. One day, someone else would inhabit this little cottage—love here, labor here, raise children here. I could almost hear their laughter already, echoing through these walls. Smiling tenderly, I busied myself with my morning chores, leaving everything in order for when my visitor came tonight.

            As dusk fell, I heard the cry from the woods. The last thing I recalled of the day was deciding to tidy the house, my cold coffee cooling in my hand. I looked around me—yes, everything was as it should be. The cry came again, nearer now, almost at the door. I rose from my chair by the fire. I looked down at myself: a plain white nightgown, bare feet upon the floor. I would need no shoes where I was going. A scratching at the door—slow, deliberate. I walked to it, lifted the latch, and opened it onto the cold, dark night. Before me loomed the trees, and there it stood, waiting—bathed in moonlight, its figure stark against the gleam of new-fallen snow. Closing the door softly behind me, I stepped forward into the night, towards the moaning figure with the scythe in its hand.

***

            Rachel and Thomas followed the trail into the forest. Neither spoke. The council had told them a cabin would be vacant today. They had been wed that very morning, the council in full assembly bestowing its blessing upon them. Rachel gazed at the lovely house, a plume of smoke still spiraling from the chimney. Thomas had already gone inside, brimming with delight, but Rachel lingered. She glanced at the footprints imbedded in the snow leaving the house towards the forest. The old woman must have been barefoot. A shiver rippled down her spine. Her eyes roamed the dense woods, searching for the lank, shadowed figure she had been warned of since childhood—the one that came to make way for the young. She remembered once asking where it took the old, and the stinging slap her father had given her in answer.

            Thomas came bounding from the cabin, grinning, declaring he would check the back of the house. He darted away, laughing like a child at Christmas. But Rachel’s gaze was still drawn to the forest. An awful, irresistible urge compelled her to follow the footprints, though it was forbidden. Breathless, she ran, the cold air burning her lungs, the wet snow treacherous beneath her feet. She heard Thomas calling after her, but she did not stop. She had not far to go. Ahead, men’s voices carried through the trees—familiar voices. She slowed, straining to silence her steps, her heart pounding with a dangerous curiosity.

            Then she froze. At first, she could not comprehend what she beheld. Two councilmen—two of the kindest, men who had smiled upon her wedding that very morning—were walking into the dark of the woods. One held a pair of long stilts and a dark cloak under his arm, while between them they dragged the corpse of a woman. What struck Rachel dumb was the fact that the body had no head.

            Bile rose hot in her throat; she dropped to her knees, retching into the pristine snow, unable to contain the convulsion that betrayed her presence. When the heaving subsided, she lifted her head—only to see the two men in dark tunics, with Thomas standing between them, his gaze fixed solemnly upon her. One of the men extended his arm, offering something to Thomas. Rachel’s eyes widened. It was a bloodied scythe.

            Her beloved hesitated but a heartbeat before taking it, raising it high. The blade fell with terrible swiftness, nearly severing her head as her eyes clung, bewildered, to her beloved husband.

            Thomas returned to the cabin with the men. Before they parted, the elder placed a hand upon his shoulder, conferring strength, conferring duty. Thomas nodded. He knew The Law. All men knew it. When he came of age, he had performed his first cleansing, clearing the way for the new. He had heard the tales as a child, learned their truth as a man, and sworn obedience to The Law.

The Law was simple. Those who could not provide—those no longer young, strong, and fertile—must make room. And if the veil was pierced, if an innocent, especially a woman with her delicate sensibilities, glimpsed what lay beneath, she too must be removed. The cleansing was necessary. It had always been so, it was The Law.

 

THE END