Manipukou

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The villagers knew that the time of the summoning had come. A posse of some of the leading members of the village were sent to the ramshackle structure early in the morning. The mayor, a short, stout woman strode up to the window.

“Manipukou,” she called. “Give us a sign. Tell us how many must go.” The flame blazed forth in orange and yellow splendor, then, like a vacuum, it extinguished itself before once again blazing to life. The pattern continued until the candle’s flame returned to its original size and strength. With a nod, the posse turned from the cabin and fled back to the village.

Eight. Eight lambs for the slaughter. More than it had ever demanded before. But, the cabin had spoken, and who were they to refuse? So, the villagers gathered together in the center of town, mothers wailing and children pacing in anticipation. The mayor strode through the crowd and up onto a small podium that had been erected for this occasion. The village elder clutched a washing bucket in her arms. Inside were thin pieces of ribbon. They were all silky red except for the chosen eight, which had been dyed red using a mixture of raspberries and sheep’s blood, as was the tradition. A black cloth was stretched taut over the top with a slit in the middle, preventing anyone from seeing the contents inside.

The mayor cleared her throat and the crowd fell silent. “Manipukou has spoken,” she shrieked over the crowd. “We have been summoned, and the people must heed!” Still, the crowd was silent. “As is tradition, it is up to fate to decide who must go to satiate Manipukou.” She motioned, and the elder stepped forward, holding the bucket up into the air. “I shall draw the first ribbon.” The mayor plunged her hand into the slit and grasped one of the silky strips. With a nervous breath, she withdrew it and held the white ribbon above her. “I have not been chosen!”

A murmur of “not chosen” echoed through the crowd before all of them fell quiet once more. One by one, the villagers withdrew ribbons. The first person the crimson thread had chosen was Helen, an eight year old girl whose mother screamed and begged for someone to trade ribbons, but no one dared. They all knew what would happen if they challenged fate. One by one, the crimson threads chose the lambs, and soon, the herd for the slaughter was complete. They were taken into the local grand hall, where they were seated at the center table, along with the mayor and the elder. The table was covered in food, and as was the tradition, the chosen ate well.

They sat together until the sun had sunk low over the hills, bathing their village in a red light. The mayor led the procession out of the grand hall and back into the center of town. The area was now deserted. The villagers had all hunkered down in their homes, weeping for the chosen and praying that their sacrifice would be enough to pacify Manipukou for now. The red ribbons were tied around the chosen’s left wrists, and the party set off into the forest.

Jurgis, an elderly man and the fifth that had been chosen, led the way. He held Helen in his arms as she wept openly. The moon was bright that night, and filtered in through the canopy. No one dared run away or venture too far from the group. They knew what would happen if they did. Little by little, the cabin came into view. The candle still blazed in the dirty window pane, casting its warm glow into the darkness that now enveloped them. The forest around them seemed to buzz with sound, as though the creatures were ignorant of what was to come.

Jurgis set Helen down and beckoned the rest of the group forward. One by one, they lowered themselves onto their knees in front of the cabin. Brittle grass crunched under their weight. The sounds of crickets and leaves seemed to swell exponentially, but still, the chosen did not utter a sound. The candle continued to burn in the window.

The wind began to pick up. Leaves were torn from their branches and thrust about the air. Jurgis bowed his head down to the ground, focusing on the feel of the grass beneath his knees. The whistling of the wind transformed into a howling, growing so loud that its sound was carried back to the village. A dark shape moved in the shadows of the cabin. Then, the world fell deadly silent, and with a loud groan, the cabin door swung open.

The thing that emerged from the darkness within was massive, much too big to have emerged from the small wooden structure behind it. Its skin seemed to glow in the moonlight. Yellow goo oozed from its four large mouths and splattered onto the grass, withering the green springs into browned, decaying spots. Fused into the rough texture of its body, like weeping open wounds, were hundreds of red silken ribbons. For a moment, the creature froze, gazing down at the kneeling victims. Then, crouching down on six legs, it slunk forward towards before coming to a stop in front of Jurgis. The scent of decaying flesh filled his nose and it took all of the old man’s strength to prevent his dinner from working its way up his throat.

“Are you the chosen the village have sent me?” four voices of varying pitches asked simultaneously. Jurgis glanced at the others and noticed that nearly all of them were shaking with fear. Sighing deeply, he turned his gaze up to the monster before him.

“We are,” he managed without his voice trembling. The creature laughed, a guttural, primal sound that made every hair on Jurgis’ body stand on end.

“Good,” the creature intoned softly. Imperceptibly fast, its tail flicked forward and surged through Jurgis’ body. “You’ll be the first.” As the old man slouched forward, Helen began shrieking. Several of the chosen attempted to get up and flee, but the creature was too quick. One by one they fell, their blood seeping into the grass beneath them.

Manipukou was not a wasteful god. There were no bodies left behind at the cabin tucked away in the woods, nor ribbons to retrieve. A posse was formed to check that the sacrifice had been satisfactory. The mayor led the group through the woods, a route worn down by the hundreds that had walked this way before. Eventually they made it to the clearing. Blood still stained the ground in front of the cabin, and the mayor quickly looked away.

“Their sacrifices were necessary for the preservation of us all. It is tradition,” she whispered. The group around her solemnly nodded. Then, after a tense moment, one of the members made his way over to the cabin window. The mayor watched as the man stared into the dirty pane of glass, then hurriedly rushed back. His eyes were blown wide.

“What’s wrong?” the mayor demanded, a feeling of dread already pulling at her stomach.

The man’s eyes darted around the clearing. “The candle…it’s still burning.” And suddenly, the wind began to howl, and all could hear the creak of the cabin door opening.