A Village Ritual

I

'Are we really staying here?'

'What's wrong with it?'

They'd pulled up outside a mock-Tudor B&B. The Gothic-lettered sign stretched up through a layer of pink roses. The grave-silent, residential street leant down towards a picnic area on the edge of dense forest. It all made Sally feel that she was at the last resting place before Nowhere. 'It looks like where old people go to die.' Paul rolled his eyes. 'Don't be stupid' he said, and opened the driver's side door, getting out. 'You know it's another long stretch to mum's and I'm not showing up at three in the morning. It's not fair on her.' Julie sighed and got out.

'Fine. You get us rooms, then, and I'll be at that pub we passed.'

Paul found her ten minutes later, having booked them a room each from a pleasant old man with almost blindingly white hair. He dressed like a teacher, with brown elbow patches on a green coat. He talked about how the town, called Tandy, had been visited by many officials in the Church of England, including an archbishop who'd stayed in this very hotel. On the upper landing Paul noticed a crucifix above a stand, on which stood a brass pot of daffodils beside a rotary phone and a dog-eared directory. The wall paper was of an ugly green hue and peeling at the top.

'You were right about the old people quality' said Paul, ordering himself a pint.

'Still, it's only one night.'

'Did you see the sign out front?'

'Of the B&B?'

'No.' Paul squirmed. He knew what she was referring to the second the question was asked. The pub had a sign swinging from an iron brace above the door. On it was printed 'The King's Slave'. Below it was an offensive caricature of an African man. 'They've got a fucking slave as the pub mascot' said Sally. 'You're making us stay in the village that time forgot.'

'Please, Sally, it's just one night. Can you cut the woke crap?' Sally grinned. Paul narrowed his eyes at her. 'That sign's already on Instagram, isn't it?'

'300 notes already.'

'Fucking hell, why? Couldn't you have posted it after we left? Do you want us to get lynched?'

'You mean like the black people these inbreds hate so much? Stop worrying. They probably don't even have smartphones.'

'I notice you're quick to slap white people with slurs.'

'Oh, grow up, Paul. No wonder dad got on so well with you...' Paul met her gaze and held it. After a second, she looked away and mumbled an apology. Paul sighed.

'Look, let's not fight. I'm not crazy about being here, either, but it's not like we have a choice. Not if we want to make things as easy on mum as possible. We're going to drive to her house tomorrow morning and get there just before lunch, refreshed and happy, and then spend the day doing something other than worrying about a backwoods little place like this.'

Sally nodded her ascent and looked around. The pub was a long, low-roofed room with portraits of game birds on the wall. A couple of middle-aged men in flat caps sat sipping their bitters at a nearby table. 'You've got to admit, though' she said, 'it IS like something out of a TV show.' Paul snorted. 'They wouldn't let a sign like that on TV.'

The bell for last orders was rung. The two men in flat caps exchanged glances with each other and the barmaid, who was a large woman barely contained by a gingham frock. Paul and Sally made for the door and were gone before the rest of the pub's incumbents had gone their ways.

Paul knocked on the door of the B&B and it was answered by the same white-haired man, who had a coat on. He looked flustered. 'I trust you don't need me for anything' he half-asked, half-stated.

'Oh no' said Paul, 'I can show my sister her room.'

'Good good.' And with that he brushed past them without further explanation and walked up the hill towards the main street. 'Where do you think he's going?'

'No idea' said Paul, 'maybe they're having a town meeting about the millennial bitch who humiliated them on social media.'

'Very funny.'

Paul noticed with annoyance that the old man had turned off the lights, leaving him to grope about unfamiliar territory before giving up and using the torch app on his phone. They made their way up the narrow staircase and Sally came to sit for a while in Paul's room. Outside, the last fringe of light had been burnt a dusky orange. Of those he could see, no windows apart from his own were lighted, Paul noticed. Early risers?

'I hope you didn't unpack my suitcase' said Sally, helping herself to the tea things on a davenport. On one wall was a portrait of a chubby, apple-cheeked bride clutching a bouquet and smiling down at two boys who held her train. 'It really is like something out of Lark Rise to Candleford' Paul muttered. A small brass plaque was attached to the portrait. It read:

To Dolly,
lost in the reaping,
but found in the evening.

'Well' said Sally, 'I'm gonna get some sleep. Don't stay up too late. Not that this shithole's likely to have Wi-Fi anyway. There's not even a TV.' She took her mug of tea next door.

II

She could hear Paul snoring next door. She didn't know how his fiance stood it. Or how he'd even scored a fiance, given that his idea of women's rights was letting her choose what to cook for him. Some women just didn't question what society told them, she supposed.

She climbed out of bed and pulled her coat on. Taking her phone and a packet of cigarettes, she left the B&B and made her way by the light of the moon to the picnic area down the road. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, enjoying the cool night air and the poisonous but lovely warmth being pulled down her throat.

She listened for a moment as the sound of distant singing struck her ears. She checked her phone. It was almost midnight. She'd been lying on her bed scrolling through social media for just over two hours before making this excursion, she realised. Still, what else was there to do? She couldn't sleep. Especially not with the worry about tomorrow on her mind. Backwoods village or not, she was happy to be in Tandy rather than at the family homestead right now. She got on with her mother well enough, but the death of her aunt had dealt her mother a significant blow and she never knew how best to comfort people.

She tried to imagine what it would feel like if her own sibling died. Devastating, probably. She might have little in common with Paul, a taciturn IT guy who couldn't care less about social issues that didn't affect him, but she loved him and still remembered all the moments of kindness or protectiveness that he'd given her. Like when he punched her high school boyfriend to the ground because he'd hit her.

The distant singing came back to her, disturbed her thoughts of the past and family. It was coming through the trees, she realised. She walked along a path that led through the woods, feeling either brave or stupid or just sensing that no-one was around to harm her. Not in the woods, anyway.

She came to a clearing. There was a grey stone church in the centre, and Sally recalled passing its driveway three hours ago=. 'Tandy House of Worship' the sign had said, in the same Gothic lettering as that outside the B&B and pub.

The tall arch windows were lighted and the singing was more distinct now. Sally couldn't make out the words, but she supposed that it was the usual Christian nonsense. She checked her post on Instagram. It had almost a thousand notes now, including one by an influencer. 'OMFG' it said, 'anyone who says white privilege isn't real needs a f@!$ing REALITY CHECK.'

If she could get close to the windows, maybe... As she approached the church, she began to feel the cold on her legs beneath the denim shorts. She hadn't planned to be out so long or walk this far.

The windows started just at her neck and were plain of design, but with an iron criss-cross. She held up her phone and peered in. She could just about see congregants (the entire village, it seemed) filling each pew, end to end. They were all stood up, apart from a couple in wheelchairs, and singing from hymnbooks. In a pulpit to the right of the altar stood the reverend. On the altar itself was something red, black, and amorphous, a blob. She narrowed her eyes and thought she could make out horns, as if...

She felt a sharp pain in her neck, dropped her phone, and slapped at the area. Her last thought before losing consciousness was that people don't get stung by bees or wasps at night, do they?

They carried her on their shoulders, down the nave and up past the altar, behind which was a trapdoor. The tunnels underneath the church were roughly hewn, with lamps bracketed to the walls where they met the arched roof. Finally they arrived at Hell's Doorway, their name for the circular chamber where sacrifices were burned. They lashed her to the post, surrounded by sticks which were then lit. She woke as the flames licked her bare legs. She didn't have the energy to scream. The last thing she saw was a man some way down the tunnel that led to the chamber, wearing a buckled hat and seeming to rub his hands together as he approached.