The Offering
David Antrobus Posted on Friday, July 3, 2015 at 9:22PM 
They arrived from someplace else when we had all but given up on seeing them at all this season. The sun—that relentless scourge of the day—was mostly down, its last nacreous light diffuse and struggling to impress above the western hills, when the still air carried to our ears the hollow leather and iron sound of wagons, arcane things of magic swinging from their frames in the surrounding quiet, the soft murmurs of the carnies hoping not to disturb us townsfolk this first evening, at least. Thoughtful guests.
Summer itself had been a poor guest, boorish and truculent, overstaying its welcome, and all our fields were burned, our wells mostly dry.
It was impossible to tell whether the land had become larger or we had been reduced these last years. Things had changed in the world. It seemed a long time since we'd heard the distant fretful assemblage of a night freight or the horizon-spanning roar of a jet, let alone traffic on the highway. Yet the traveling carnival—also reduced—met its loose itinerary most of the time, it seemed.
Glances passed between us like dry lightning in the foothills.
While they set up in a hollow on the west side of town amid the encroaching darkness, the cool silver sound of cicadas commenced, and three dogs barked in succession from three different places, like they were describing our location, our dimensions, like they were considering treachery.
It was a recalcitrant darkness that fell that night.
We gathered in the gloom, nobody speaking, listening to the carnies set up. Listening to the cicadas. Listening to the hush. Listening to a sudden muffled sound like someone coughing into the crook of their arm. Listening to the prolonged inhale of the world. Listening. And waiting.
Some of us no doubt thinking about providence.
Not sure they were expecting any kind of welcome that night, and surely not the one they got, but by then we were hungrier than a pack of slat-ribbed coy-dogs, and we descended on them silently under a starless sky, each of us carrying something heavy and bladed, and we played our ineluctable part as soundlessly and tenderly as possible given such wretched, sorrowful circumstances.
Reader Comments (4)
My but you do paint a vivid picture. Great twist.
Thanks, Yvonne! I hadn't planned that ending, and when it arrived unexpectedly I had to go back and tweak a few things. I love how these things can even sneak up on the writer, let alone the reader. I appreciate your comment.
"...as soundlessly and tenderly as possible given such wretched, sorrowful circumstances." Classic Antrobus conflict, set up beautifully, violence written with loving pen. Only you are able to do this, David. My, oh, my.
Thanks, Jo. As always, your understanding and appreciation of what I'm trying to do helps me continue to do it!