By A. M. Joseph.
The day of the festival took place each spring when the flowers were in full bloom and the sun was at its highest. The town, comprised of white weatherboard houses, was surrounded by a forest, the only place where nature would dwell.
This was where the festival took place. It was the most anticipated day of the year.
The town only had about two thousand people. Most of them knew each other well. Father Justin was in charge of organising the festival. There was the Jeffries family that owned the grocery store, the Perron family that owned the bakery, Mr. Cleaver who ran the butcher, Mr. Daley the barber, and so forth. There was no church, only a small school that stood in the centre of the town. There was also no post office. To send a letter, you would have to drive for eight hours to reach the closest town. The townspeople seldom sent any letters.
In the morning, the little boys played on the outskirts of the town where the trees were thickest. They gathered the sticks that had fallen to the ground, bundling them up with string. Mr. Cleaver’s son Ollie, who was the biggest boy of the group, would shove the others so that he could snatch up the best sticks.
The townspeople had spent three days preparing for the festival. The women sat in the houses with their daughters, teaching them to sew the garments. Purple robes that covered the entire body from head to toe and made to last as long as possible. The men had the laborious task of gathering the logs and digging the pit. It had to be dug even further from the town than last year, since it was much bigger. Father Justin was in charge of selecting the place and oversaw each household’s contribution. The boys dropped their sticks into the pit before heading home to get ready.
The houses in the town were neat yet spacious. Enough for each member of the household to have their own room, with silver locks on each of the doors. Even the husbands and wives were separated by night. The windows were always left open to let in the breeze, so the flies that hung in the air were the only company to the humans living within.
This year there were two locked bedrooms in the Hopkins’ house, so they required two robes for the festival. Each two different sizes. Little Merry, who was four years old, scurried about Mrs. Hopkins feet as she worked at the dining room table, sewing the final touches on the garments.
‘Mummy, who are you making them for this year?’ asked Merry cheerfully.
‘I told you sweetheart, I’m making them for grandma and your baby sister,’ answered Mrs. Hopkins.
‘When will I get one, mummy?’
‘Not this year, darling.’
Soon Mr. Hopkins came home as the men had finished their preparations for the festival. Merry ran over to greet him.
‘You’re finally home daddy,’ she clung to him. ‘Did you find Scrappy?’
Scrappy was the little girl’s dog that had been a present for her fourth birthday. It used to wail and scratch under the doors of the locked bedrooms. This annoyed Mr. Hopkins so much that he set the dog loose a few weeks ago into the forest by the town. He told Merry that it had run away.
‘No, Merry,’ he said. ‘That dog is gone.’
The little girl shook her head. ‘He’ll come back daddy. I know he will.’
The hour came for the festival to begin. Mrs. Hopkins fetched the matching keys to the two silver locks. She carefully unlocked the first room with one of the robes folded in her hand and disappeared inside. After a few minutes when she was finished, Mr. Hopkins went in and retrieved the purple clad figure and slung it over his shoulder. She continued to the next room, this time a much smaller garment in hand. She re-emerged moments later with a purple bundle cradled in her arms and followed her husband out of the house. Merry gripped Mrs. Hopkin’s skirt as they left.
The townspeople made their way towards the forest where the men had dug the pit. Almost every household carried a purple bundle with them, some bigger or smaller than others. Very few were as small as Mrs. Hopkins’.
Father Justin beckoned them all to gather around the pit that was dug to be one hundred feet deep. The base was filled with wooden logs and the kindling that the children had tossed in earlier that morning.
‘Bless this day!’ Father Justin shouted. A hush fell over the crowd as he held up his hands in prayer. They waited eagerly for his command.
Mr. Cleaver brought forward a flaming torch and passed it to the priest who grinned with zeal.
‘Let us light the fire that will purge this town!’ He dropped the torch into the pit and the flames began to lick at the wood, setting it alight.
With that, the townspeople rushed forward, carrying their bundles and dropping them into the pit. Mr. Daley, the barber, reached the pit first and threw in his large bundle. But he had not wrapped it properly, and as it tumbled to the bottom the garments unravelled to reveal the gruesome thing that was inside. A rotting, bony figure that crumpled when it landed at the bottom.
His wife’s corpse had been lying in her locked bedroom for the past four months since her death. Mr. Daley was joyous to be rid of her, along with the vile smell and creatures that plagued his household. As were the rest of the townspeople who tossed in their dead with glee.
The Jeffries’ teenage son who had passed away only weeks ago from sickness.
The Perron’s daughter who died days later from grief.
Mr. Cleaver’s father who had withered away during the summer.
Each body had been saved for the day of the festival, as was customary, and the scent of burning flesh soon filled the air as the fire grew brighter.
Finally, it was the Hopkins’ turn. The three family members came forward to the pit. Merry still clung to her mother but was eager to watch the proceedings. Mr. Hopkins threw in the fragile corpse, making sure to aim for the middle of the pit, where the flames burned highest, and smoke erupted upwards like a dark cloud. Though the fire intensified, it hadn’t yet spread to the edges. Some of the dead lay at the bottom, untouched.
When it came for Mrs. Hopkins’ turn, she hesitated at the edge, clutching her small purple bundle the size of an infant. With a deep breath she dropped it into the pit then quickly turned away to join her husband. Little Merry remained at the edge peering below.
‘I see something down there, mummy!’ Merry shouted over the crowd who had started to cheer and scream with joy.
‘Come away from there darling,’ called Mrs Hopkins.
‘It’s Scrappy!’ she yelled. Sure enough, the little black dog was at the bottom of the pit, dancing to avoid the flames. A dance that could be mistaken for the happiness of seeing the little girl. ‘Scrappy! Scrappy!’
‘Merry, come back now!’ Yelled Mr. Hopkins.
‘But Scrappy is down there!’
Merry bent over, calling to the dog. The dirt shifted unstably beneath her feet. The townspeople, who were now madly rushing forward, surrounded her. Merry wobbled, trying to lean backwards to keep her balance, but her cries were drowned out by the noise of the townspeople as she fell into the pit.
The flames devoured all that remained at the bottom, hissing and creeping up the dirt walls. There was screaming and chanting and crying as the bonfire blazed on, ash raining down from above.
The celebrations had begun, and the festival went on long into the night.