It has been seven moons since the last sacrifice . We have raided the neighbouring tribes , and taken slaves , and winnowed those who could be assimilated into the cultural tapestry , and those we do not , we sacrifice .

The stars are out in their dazzling splendor , a good portent . We wear robes and carry torches , a contingent of twenty in a long line along the dirt road . With us are those who we caught , in our nets and on our harpoons .

We walk off of the beaten path , carrying the sacred clicking machines that tell us when the death stones are near . As we leave the path we fan out into the woods in formation .

Some time after darkest night , we arrive at the crumbled angle stones that indicate that the Goddess of Death is near . The myths of our people tell that this was once a star port of some sort , a place where our ancestors communicated with those who came from above . Great circles of rusted steel lay entombed in the ground , pocketed by perfectly-square furrows , and giant piles of rubble that must have once been the pillars to some vaulted ceiling . Clearly , these ruins were holy to them in some way .

We arrive at the Goddess of Death , giving her a wide berth . She lay in the center of a valley , looking like some haunted nymph , the ground bare of grass all around her . In a wide circle were bones upon bones upon bones , some of them worn driftwood-smooth by many rains , the closest of them bearing scorch marks along their faces . We never see her move , yet somehow she burns even the bones .

We bring the sacrifices to the edge of the valley , looking down at its center , devoid of all life . Stricken with datura and nutmeg , the fevered sacrifices moaned and sobbed , too bewildered to seriously pull at their bonds . Screwing together the halves of the long-pikes , we shove them down the steep dirt hill and into the valley below , stabbing them when they try to escape .

Some of them , whether lucky or smart , perched between the pikes· range and the edge of the grass . Perhaps somehow they might live . Others of them walk into the valley as if they were long-lost aquaintences , touching the stones and walking back and forth in circles . We stand in a circle at the crest , our torches illuminating the dark woods . When we have seen enough , we pack in our equipment and continue along our way , returning to our tribe , carrying the sacred clicking machines that keep us alive .

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