In the great green room, Grandma’s fingers ache, crafting from the last skein a new future. Needles click and clack. The scent of the maple logs from the crackling fire and cinnamon scent lingers. Seconds tick on the clock. A breeze sings as her grandchild’s finger taps the bedpost. The child yawns as an almost round moon beckons through the glass. Instruments singing in time’s crescendo.
Grandma rocks back and forth praying for bountiful harvests, good health, and for the village to endure in the divine. She must not falter on tonight’s deadline.
“Old lady, Nobody is coming,” says the sleepy child in striped pajamas whose birth defied ancient rites.
Grandma’s wrists stiffen, holding the count of the stitches. A bitter aftertaste coats her tongue from a cup of chicory and clover. She braids the final sleeve of a thousand limbed sweater, started before her lifetime. Her daughter had been unable to finish.
“Young one, sleep,” huffs the lady. Cold breath circles the knit. The fire simmers on the final log, but her hands won’t stop spinning.
”I want to see the stars.” Her grandchild pouts in curiosity, slithering over the blanket. Shadows animate the framed pictures on the walls – snakes intertwining up a shaft and a cow bounding over stars.
Grandma shutters, crossing and looping the threads as moonlight highlights a streak of gold in the child’s hair. “See it tomorrow,” she says with unease.
The child wiggles, showing a sly smile.
“Children must sleep tonight. Do you remember why?”
“Gran, I do.” The words come light but certain. “But you are the Keeper, so I will be safe during the festival.”
Grandma shakes her head. She couldn’t shelter her own daughter from the dark. “The Black Goat Mother cannot know of your existence. Her thousand ewes love the taste of children. So, hush.” She fastens the yarn ends and speaks the fable once more:
Legends say our village wanted a hundred sons. A shroud was offered to the Mother of the Wood, one of the many old gods, as a plea for fertility. Wishes for strength, boldness, and wealth uttered from the mouth of fools. They offered a mat of virgin hair decorated in gold. The old leader, a man with a gray beard and broad sword, carried this disillusioned request into the forest. The Mother meet him as a black goat and never let him go. She wanted more, and so after fathering her atrocities, his bones were thrown into a deep cavern.
After the offering, life filled every womb. Men rejoiced, mourning the loss of the leader, but celebrating the anticipated glories of future masculine heirs.
Then, one-by-one the midwives simpered, because each mother birthed a girl. By attribution and time, males expired. Now, an appointed female in each generation offers a blessing or a bit of their flesh. The Mother and her children hunger for a wrought sacrifice.
The child peers out of the window. “I wonder if my mom is still out there.”
Red candles light the way for grandma while shrines on the path wish for the old woman to come back. Chanting floats from the village square as hooves stomp in the distance:
Black Goat Mother, these offerings are to unburden your woes.
May we live in the Divine.
May we thrive in the feminine.
May the Darkness be satisfied.
“Hush. You will appreciate the pact one day. It’s late, say goodnight to the toyhouse, comb and brush, and uneaten mush.” Twisting and stretching, the sacred shroud is nearly complete.
The child’s eyes grow heavy with the nightly spell. Bleating noises clusters beyond the fields. Trees shake. Grandma ties the final knot.
She inspects decades of labor, rows like tree rings, mapping lives within the binds and pearls. Her gnarled fingers slide across the section by her daughter, who had been taken by the Mother’s kids outside of the ancient covenant.
“Goodnight, my little mouse,” whispers Grandma, sheathing the broad sword and dragging the shroud down the path. Someone must bear the consequences for broken rules.
When Grandma can no longer see lights, she inhales the thickening air. Soured milk stings her nostrils. Trees are more twisted and overgrown in the valley. Insects screech, not hum. Wolves snarl instead of howl. Her eyes water as the smell of decay overtakes her senses. She hears the footfall of a small animal. She stretches the shroud in a field.
“Goodnight Nobody,” she calls upon the Black Goat Mother. Grandma is ready. A faint maa maa rattles in the distance.
Bushes rustle and a small chortling creature jumps out. Grandma jumps back. A flash of black and white confirms this is her grandchild, not a ravenous goat kid. Tightness grips the old lady’s chest as she grabs the hand of the intruder.
Down the path, a four-legged creature, the size of a cub, blocks the return route. With distended vertical red eyes, it bares sharp teeth. Grandma’s back seizes as she draws the sword.
A kid with silvery fur stands face-to-face with the child. Her little mouse is not scared, reaching towards the kid’s wet snout.
Grandma turns, watching a shadowy figure lurk outside of the field. Goosebumps feather her arms. The Black Mother’s limbs fill the sleeves. Salvia drips from its thousand mouths, gnashing in delight. She had called for the sweater.
High-pitched screams rips into the night as the moon reaches its apex. The Mother recoils before scrambling towards the source. The kid hits the ground with a loud thud. Its body convulsing. Handprints are seared into its fur.
Relief and panic tug at Grandma’s heart.
Her grandchild extends blooded hands. “It wanted to play.”
Lifting the sword, the old lady declares: “You’re the divine, a neuter, the merging of the masculine and feminine. We broke the rules first. Darkness has summoned us to offer a different sacrifice.”
Pauline Chow writes speculative fiction to explore alternative histories and potential futures. Growing up in Chicago instilled affection for snow days. She reads children’s stories on repeat to her daughter and is planning another visit to a historical (and hopefully haunted) hotel. Her words are in 50-word Stories, 101 words, and Cosmic Horror Monthly. Find her at http://www.paulinechowstories.com, X / @itspaulinechow
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