This is one of my earlier efforts from when I first began to seriously attempt short story writing two years ago. It's an homage or rip off, depending on how you veiw these things, from one of my favourite films The Wicker Man.  

                                           

Toby was twelve years old the day they made Lucy Goodrich the Samhain Maiden. The children all helped dress her after lessons had finished that October afternoon, draping a shimmering gown of deep indigo over her head and laying a garland of evergreen fronds on her long chestnut hair. Miss Sutherland looked on fondly, taking photos and explaining the meaning and symbolism of what they were doing so even though it was fun it was still like having a lesson. Lucy’s best friend Mina attached a sprig of mistletoe to the gown like a leafy brooch Toby thought Lucy had never looked prettier, especially when she smiled at him, but it seemed a sad kind of smile all the same.

Once Lucy was dressed Ms Sutherland led her and the class to the gym. The rest of the school were already there waiting as she led Lucy to the stage and sat her down upon on an old desk chair, magically transformed by child like alchemy into a throne with coils of gold wrapping paper and bundles of oak and elder twigs sprayed silver and glued to the back like a fan of icicles. She sat looking on while the children filed past her bowing their heads solemnly before rushing off to change into their costumes.

That year Toby went as a highway man,  he’d wanted to go as an  alien but there were no more costumes left in the shop and Mum wasn’t that good with the sewing machine. Toby was worried about his Mum, she had been distracted for a few weeks now and when he came home and told her that this year Lucy Goodrich had chosen the burnt piece of oat cake and been elected, she had begun to cry. Toby thought he’d upset her because he hadn’t been chosen to be the Samhain Lad like they had some years instead of a Maiden.

The children milled about the hall, Lucy up at the far end on the stage, looking very  apart and special. Miss Sutherland took more photos, and told them that Lucy was very special indeed, that she was privileged. Dusk was draping smoky curtains across the windows and lights winked on in the village beyond the school yard as she and the other teachers led them out through the double doors. Toby turned and watched as four strapping  men from the village came into the hall and placed Lucy and the throne on to a wooden litter, hoisting it onto their shoulders. The rest of the children trotted down to the school gates in a clatter of footsteps and excited chatter and lined up in double file, the men walking with Lucy aloft to the front of the line.

The gates opened and Toby craned his neck to see the village high street jammed with people holding flaming torches or lanterns, come to watch and take part in the festivities. Lots of grown ups were dressed in costumes too, clowns and hobby horses, witches and giant pumpkins falling in behind the snaking line of children as they wound through the street towards the common at the far end of the village.

As they walked Toby could hear flutes and bells and a fiddle sawing merrily away. Miss Sutherland had told them the village parade was a very old custom, going back a long long time indeed and that once the church had banned it for a time but these days nobody was very fussed about  what the church thought at all. The parade passed it now, its graveyard abandoned and overgrown, a lone yew curling and stretching in supplication towards the broken stained glass windows as the swirling, colourful mass cavorted past in the fiery, amber light and on towards the common.
 

The discordant jangle of sound seemed to swell as they crossed the road towards the waving grasslands fringed by a looming cocks-comb of woodland beyond. The people began to fan out, the procession breaking and spreading like coloured mist. A large bonfire leapt and crackled in the centre as shadowy figures dipped, swayed and chanted around it’s glowing edge, at the far end, lines of trestle tables laden with plates of food wafted enticing smells and made Toby’s mouth water.
 

The men took Lucy to a raised dias where the mayor and members of the village council waited, not in their usual suits today but clad in long, white gowns, smiling indulgently as Lucy was brought to them.

The mayor stood behind her as she sat facing out onto the milling crowd, her classmates lined up in the front row, witches and pixies and clowns, waving to her happily. He raised his hands for silence and the chatter and music siphoned away into the black night. An owl hooted expectantly.

“Welcome once again my friends,” he began. “Another year, another Samhain festival and, as it’s so every seven years, a special one for our community, a chance for us to give thanks and show our gratitude for all the good things granted to us.” He placed two protective hands on Lucy’s shoulders. “And this special year we have a very special little girl who will help us to do this.”

There were smattered applause and some cheers but Toby was aware of a growing tension in the air. Two of the other white clad men had moved either side of Lucy as he spoke, the chanting from the fire began to spread out through the crowd like a contagion.

“This year we give thanks,” the mayor continued. “Thanks to the All Father who rose once more to rescue his people from the Christ usurper and his tyrants reign, thanks to Lugh the Shining One who’s holy light falls towards earth….and most importantly thanks to the triple Goddess who shows her face to us as mother, maiden and hag and bestows gifts upon the land and makes it bountiful and blessed.”

The mayor ducked behind the chair, the chanting swelled urgently in the chill air and Toby’s eyes locked with Lucy’s. Fear flared in them briefly before closing in resignation as the mayor straightened and raised his right arm high with an evangelical smile.
 

“And to her three faces we offer the three deaths!” 

He swung the mallet in an arcing curve into the back of Lucy’s head, the chanting in the crowd fractured into spattered exclamations of awe as she slumped forward, caught by the men on either side.

“Remember she feels no pain now!” Ms Sutherland walked quietly up and down the line reassuring the children. “She’s going to be with the Goddess, all is well!” But some of the younger children sniffled and Toby heard a keening, muffled sob from somewhere in the crowd and knew it was Lucy’s mother. The chanting lurched into life again drowning all other sound as the Mayor began the process of garrotting Lucy.

Toby blinked back a tear and raised his eyes towards the jewelled carapace of the night sky to avoid the sight. He knew Lucy was special and destined to be with the Goddess but he would miss her shy smile and the way the sun slanted through the classroom window to burnish her hair copper on golden October afternoons.

When they were absolutely sure she was dead they lowered her reverently from the dias towards eager hands that grasped and passed her onwards over the heads of the crowd towards the fire and the third and final death. Toby watched her limp figure hang for a moment like a rag doll against the velvet sky before crashing in a fan of sparks into the hungry flames. He heard the roar of the crowd and gulped back a sob, finally realising his mothers tears had been born not of reproach but of relief.