XXXVI: The Last Leaf Falls

A line of gray rises from the woods, but smokeless chimneys draw him to the village.

No guard walks the wall. The smithy forge has gone cold, and courtyard braziers full of wood stand without flame. Pigs slumber in their pen, tightly packed mounds unmoved by his investigation. Knocking on doors yields no one, so he sets off for home under the fading day.

Along the main road, he spots the villagers filing down the ridge.

Two-wheel carts break up their procession, pulled by young men and full of small children. A covered wagon leads them into the orchards, their pace set by the old ox pulling it. He sprints down the hill and stealthily joins their number, idling behind the last man in a parade that winds through blanketed fruit trees.

Under twilight, they cross the dirt road and enter the forest.

Naked branches click softly in the weak breeze, and footsteps go unheard without crunchy leaves littering the forest floor; early winds had swept the browning husks away, forming steep piles along the walls to be burned for mulch.

Dusk gives way to darkness and the sweet scent of burning oak.

Two lofty torches mark the clearing, sentries offering an array of wooden masks neatly arranged within their light. These painted faces depict bears, squirrels, deer, beavers, snakes, and colorful insects, even a few birds of prey alongside many birds of song. Children speedily take hold of the smaller ones, their excitement failing to infect their elders, none of whom smiles or laughs when choosing a face.

He waits until the last person moves along and finds that one mask short of a dozen remains. A fish, five female deer, two house cats, and a brown bear. Two lions, one small and the other large, complete the group.

These face covers are for those living in the Servii household!

Unafraid, he chooses the larger lion and slides it over his face. He gathers the others and slips them into the back of his tunic before rejoining the line.

He follows them through a narrow crevasse and into another barren clearing. A mighty bonfire gives warmth and light, its timber bones higher than most men can climb, its crown untouched by the flames.

Behind it stands the mountain, its face lined with noiseless veins of glistening water, while spillover from the unseen aqueduct splashes rowdily nearby.

Outside the flickering light stands a low stage of hastily cut timber. Hovering inches above its deck is a wooden wheel larger than a man, the iron axle holding it hidden in the shadows. Smaller wheels like this litter Mediolanum’s gaming booths, and while those wheels boast jovial colors, this one bears a deep gold, winter’s gloomy sun.

Born and raised in this place, he suddenly feels like an interloper.

None of these people built the village of his childhood, all of them Gallic strangers, time’s replacements for the Roman sharecroppers who taught him everything he knew about the land.

Still, he joins them, his unclean odor lost within their mix of florals and spices. They divide in the light, with women near the fire and men by the stage. Between them come the children, little bodies grouping, small masks pivoting about; like the interloper, they too are novices.

Steady, hollow thumps begin.

Two young bodies in arcane horse masks sit with fat drums between their legs, batting sticks capped with cloth balls. The fiddlers behind them, their masks shaped like clouds and thunderbolts, stand with bows on the strings of their teardrop instruments.

The blue-skinned hornblower sits on a wooden chair, his lips inches from the lips of an immense horn, its twisted pipe more Gallic than Roman.

A man enters the glowing space between the masked villagers and the stage. His long, tight braids curtain an ivory fox mask adorned on the rim with red peonies. Sinew cords strung with smooth river stones drape his white linen shoulders, and a long snowy foxtail dangles from his waist.

The leather belt securing his red and brown tartan skirt displays a silver medallion that doesn’t belong to him. He raises his arms and speaks the Alpine tongue in a voice known to the interloper.

The lord of our dark year comes, but he doesn’t come alone.

A shadow rises along the rock face, the antlers of a lone elk that grow mighty the closer they come. Soon, the pair of horns becomes many. Gasps ripple through the crowd as the drums make this phantom herd’s trampling a reality.

The drums stop, the herd vanishes, and a druid rolls onto the stage.

Uneven trilateral ears and a hooked beak define his feathery mask, its two glassy yellow eyes reflecting the firelight. The druid in his owl mask cartwheels from the stage, his white tunica cut up the sides, revealing his blue-black tartan pants. He lands alongside the Fox, having earned none of the five medallions adorning his belt.

The interloper’s blood simmers at the sight of him, but he takes no action, not when there’s more to be learned of this night.

A heavy beat starts with a lighter echo that follows, and the horn blows long and low. Fiddlers drag their bows across strings, a swaying melody that binds the song.

The only lion among woodland creatures, he moves as they do, joining hands in a large circle around the Fox and Owl. They move left, one step on the heavy beat and another on its echo. He takes part in this slow orbit around the two masked men, who lock arms and turn in the opposite direction. Suddenly, the horn rages, and the children break free.

Fox parts from the Owl, walking several feet away as little bodies rush in and form a nest around his legs. The Owl takes up his staff, a long rod topped by a wicker ball. He twirls it in hand, strolling to the ring, examining every mask that dances past him.

The interloper averts his head as he approaches, the hands clutching his tightening when they pass the Owl. Then, the limber Owl vaults from the circle, only to return holding a wooden bucket by its thick rope handle.

The tempo grows, and the circle moves faster.

Fox steps from the children’s huddle. He walks to the Owl and thrusts both hands into the bucket, coating them to the wrists in something dark and gleaming. He returns to his human nest and presses his hands onto every tiny mask.

Once every child bears his mark, Fox takes the bucket from the Owl.

Silent goes the horn, but the fiddles whine faster, and the circle listens, forcing the lion to keep pace when their jog becomes a sprint.

The Owl stabs the round end of his staff into the bucket, giving it a stir before yanking it out and striking an invisible opponent. Each swing anoints the masks of those racing past his position, and the interloper is soon struck, the oil’s warmth splashing across his neck and eyelids.

This doesn’t smell like oil—it is blood—lambs blood by the stink of it!

Disgust courses through him, nearly toppling his gait. The men holding his hands pull him steady, their eyes glassy like those of soldiers about to enter battle.

A throaty growl from the druid silences everything. Hands together, the adults rush the children, falling to their knees around them. Those who can, take hold of a child. Drums begin anew, and the druid tumbles into the dark.

Fox stands before them like stone, holding the bucket in his arms, but the back of him proves a poor distraction from the horror that comes next.

Free of its yoke, the poor ox stands unaware by the bonfire.

From the shadows above, the druid comes down like an eagle, his spindly arms the talons that wield a long serpentine hatchet. He cleaves the ox’s thick back at the neck with one strike. A painful howl comes as its legs fold, but before its drooling maw can touch the earth, the nimble druid slides by on his back, cleanly severing its head.

Blood soaks the ground, a gleaming black puddle in the firelight.

Children cry, many turning their masks into their mother’s breasts. Some gasp when the Owl uses his slender hatchet to bat the bloody head into the fire. It punches a hole in the flames, bringing enough air to make the bonfire swell.

Rage seizes the interloper’s heart at seeing the druid’s theatrics. Two little hands gently box his ears as the girl in his arms brings calmness.

It’s all right, she whispers in Latin, innocent brown eyes holding him from the holes in her daisy-adorned snake mask. Betina gave her blood so that when the horned one comes to eat his meal, he’ll ignore us.

Old Betty, the ox given to the village by his grandfather.

He holds her tighter as more animals join the fire. A prized ewe, their best wool-giver, and the white goat, their best breeder. Next, an endless bounty of squealing meat rabbits fly into the flames, the Owl’s bloodlust, a frightening reminder of his Brythonic soul.

Fire consumes the last timber, and the scent of burning meat awakens a growling monster in the interloper’s stomach. The girl child in his arms giggles softly and touches his hard belly.

The Owl faces the fire with his arms open.

Lord of the Dark Year, come!

His demand in the Alpine tongue is not a request.

Karnunos, the true lord of Darkness!

This word, Karnunos, terrifies those around the interloper.

Karnunos, come, the Owl screams again.

A mighty wind rushes the clearing, kicking up fine dirt that stings the arms. Its chill invades the interloper’s fur trousers before catching the bonfire. The flaming pillar expands and retracts, a fiery beating heart that holds them in its thrall.

The druid turns on them, shouting from behind his Owl mask.

Lower your eyes! He is not for you to see!

All heed his command, even the interloper, whose mind returns to that small wicker shack on the edge of a chalk-white cliff. A red line grows across his father’s neck. A burning torch looms, revealing his bound uttering of surrender.

It’s all right, she whispers, petting his neck. Light dances across the scales and petals of her mask, and her shoulder bone feels like iron in his grip. She presses her mask into his chest, and the tunic’s rough linen awakens his long-healed burns.

Murmurs ripple through the huddle, whispers behind masks surround him with prayers for absolution, apologies for lives taken, and regard for fortunate times.

Smoke rises from the soil under his crossed legs.

Grass replaces hard ground, its long dark blades forming a soft meadowy shag. The smoke thickens to white, and a child’s cough makes him check on the girl, but she isn’t the one hacking. More coughs and wheezing echo around him, young lungs struggling to breathe. Little fingers push through the grass like pale worms, scratching at his legs.

Please forgive me, he whispers. I didn’t know babes would be in those tunnels. I didn’t know—I should’ve known. Forgive me.

He rages softly against his mask.

 Ceres, forgive me for returning without my father!

Ceres, please remain close in your longing for Proserpina. Grace our orchards on your search to find her, and stop any ills from entering the bodies of those in my house–

Then, the drums go silent.

The breaths of those crowding together in the windless night are what remains of his imaginary smoke. Stillness reigns until jovial whispers crop up around him. The bonfire still stands, they mutter. Joyous sobs give thanks, and elderly hands rise in gratitude.

Two burly men walk past, their wolf masks dotted with blood. Each takes hold of the Fox’s shins and hoists him over their heads. They deliver him to the stage as if setting a statuette on a shelf.

A naked man lays spread upon the wheel, his skin white from hair to foot. The interloper places the poor bastard’s face, and his heart slows, knowing how the scar between his hips got there.

The man’s head slowly rolls, but he cannot scream with the thinnest of cords suturing his lips. More wolf-mask brutes carry bundles of sticks to the bonfire and begin laying them out as the Owl appears on the stage alongside the Fox.

Karnunos, we stand before you, offering the filthiest guilt.

Owl speaks their Alpine tongue like a native.

We, two imperfect souls, offer you this vilest meal in return for your favor. We know that our time in your woods is short, and when the end comes, we will not fight.

Fox sinks to his knees and offers the bucket up to the Owl.

The Owl takes it and hurls what remains at the wheel. Blood flies across the stage, splattering the bastard’s middle. Weary eyes take in this predicament before shrills rise from the depths of his throat.

A rangy foot strikes the wheel, turning it, and it spins faster with each new kick. The Owl stands before the revolving fool, close enough to touch him. A whip of his arm cuts a line from the man’s scarred pubis all the way to his flabby tits.

From his belly spills a suckling pig tethered by a thick umbilical. The dark, fleshy cord lays unmoved though the wheel turns. Another whip slices the man’s throat, silencing his groans.

The Owl stands before this gruesome shower with his arms raised before facing the villagers, his mask and body dripping red. His open hands ball into fists, a signal to the hornblower, whose low, long howl draws their attention. A loud crack returns their eyes to the stage when the Owl breaks his staff in two.

Drums beat frantically as the druid’s limber legs crouch while his narrow arms drag both sticks, one behind him and in front, across the planks to set them ablaze. Fiery batons swirl to the percussion, their light creating circles that hover above the Owl, whose dancing body defies the earth’s pull.

Fox backsteps to the stage’s edge, where the brutes collect him again by the shins and set him by the stick pile.

The Owl hurls both batons at the wheel, and they strike its wooden surface like daggers. Fire swallows the butchered man as crackling flames spread. Chest heaving, the Owl presses his foot onto its smolder, dislodging the wheel from its axle.

It rolls across the stage, hitting the ground with a bounce that sends it bounding toward the bonfire. Fox stands unflinching when the fiery disk topples beside him in a gust of embers. The group rises to their feet, the interloper handing over his little snake girl to her mother.

A line forms, and all take a stick offered by the Fox.

Each touches the wheel’s flames with their stick, tossing their masks into the bonfire as they pass it. Torch after torch enters the forest, their holders eager to put this gut-wrenching ceremony behind them and their children.

The interloping lion pulls the masks from his tunic. Raising his head, he finds the Fox and the Owl staring directly at him. They know him, even before he removes his face cover, defiant. Silence falls when those in line also see him.

The Fox takes a step, but the Owl stops him with a raised arm.

Lord Servius, a gentle woman’s voice behind him, whispers, You must light your winter hearth with the Dark Lord’s fire.

He takes a stick from the pile and touches it to the wheel, the stink of burning flesh fouling his empty stomach. He tosses his mask into the bonfire, examining the others before surrendering them to the flames.

Among the trees, occasional hands come out of the dark and pat his arms and back as they pass. Skipio is no longer their master, he is their Roman son.