Altar by aletha

It was common, as villages are. A main street that runs the length of the town, from which two or three narrow alleys cross, crisscross, and double back upon; tiny, cramped homes with little but the absolute necessities of life; shops that have seen better days (though none can quite remember when those happened to be); a small opening in the center of town; and the ever-present stench of human waste and rotting garbage.
The common feeling of the village was harmony. All tried to mind themselves and look out for others. There were few petty fights and fewer large outbreaks. On the whole, it appeared to be a small, sober town; no taverns. Weaux was nestled in a small valley between a small hill and a large canyon. An uncharacteristic place to begin a community, but built there it was, nonetheless.
But, if the reader would forgive the ramblings of a mad author, we shall soon begin to see that the location was not the only abnormal happening of Weaux.
It is unusual to note how pious the village was. Pious and collected. Every morning, the town would rise before the break of dawn. Every individual, be it infant or crone, would gather in the center of Weaux around the altar. The altar was the single most valuable item in the village, as it was sheathed in pure gold, and encrusted with fine gems. The good villagers gave up their worldly treasures to make an altar to the Most High. And every morn, before the sun had made its weary trek above the horizon, prayers were said. Sunday and Wednesday mornings, the best animal of the flock was sacrificed upon that altar of gold. It was an honour to be chosen to provide the beast. Many of the poorer souls raised flocks, not to eat, but to be allowed to show their devotion to Him. It was not uncommon for a family to eat naught but stale bread and the occasional cheese, while the best of the grains went to the animals. The preacher, the sanctimonious Willard, would raise his arms to the heavens and use his powerful voice to call upon Him, and invoke blessings upon these humble people. Then, using a silver knife, would cut the beating heart out of the animal. Sometimes, the brute would twitch and shake, even bleat, after its insides were removed. The heart was then thrown upon the fire next to the altar. Willard would be beseeching the Holy One as this was going on, his voice growing more fervent with righteousness. Finally, as the heart was consumed in flame, Willard would stop, roll his eyes heavenward, and swoon. His wife and daughter were always there to help him back to his abode. The villagers would wait until this ritual was complete, and then begin their daily activities. The animal would remain upon the altar until the sun had gone below the horizon, and the villagers came back to say the evening prayers. Willard, with his silver knife, would carve the creature into little sections and administer the raw flesh to his congregation, as a sacrament. After this ritual was completed, the villagers went back to their homes and went to sleep.

The day dawned cold and dark. It was almost as if the sun had risen to greet the second night, a night that had never left. Indeed, it was so dismal out that many of the good folk of Weaux actually closed their shutters and turned on the lamps. The village was so silent; it appeared as if a plague had visited but the night before. (This could not be farther from the truth. The preceding morn dawned bright and glorious, as proper mornings should. But that has no bearing in this tale; though it is peculiar to note that never had the morn been so dismal, and nor had it ever been so bleak again.)
Then, out of the darkness, the villagers left the sanctuary of their homes to traverse to the golden shrine. They huddled together, a black-cloaked mass around a shining monument to Him. Willard alone, stood uncloaked in the chill darkness. He raised his arms towards the dawn and began:
“My people, as I sat last night pondering, I was suddenly seized with a vision. A vision of darkness, which held me for nearly a quarter hour. There was fire, and wailing, and weeping, and gnashing of teeth. Many of you, my children, were in this vision! You were suffering amidst the hellfire, and try as I might, I could not save you. Suddenly, from the depths of the fire, a monster appeared! He gazed upon me with his fearsome countenance and grinned with a mouthful of sharp teeth. He beckoned me come with one of his long, clawed talons. I had no choice but to obey. I walked closer to this thing, and I was mysteriously unable to go any further. That is when I knew this: there is one among you who has not repented of the evils he has committed! Come forward and clean yourself! Be saved in the glory of the One! Else you will suffer yourself, your family, all of us to this fiery damnation! Who among you is clean? Who among you will not be burning in the torments of the bowels of the earth when all is done? Will it be you? Or you? No, it shall be none, for all will be destroyed for the weakness of him who will not confess!”
The congregation shuddered in a collective terror. The burning eye of Willard seemed to be upon everybody, most were fidgeting in a manner that was not deliberate. All eyes were vacant as the occupants thereof turned inward, thinking, was it me who has condemned my neighbours to damnation? Those virtuous citizens pondered every minute detail of their existence, twistedly hoping that it was they who had sinned, thus asking the holy Willard to forgive them.
At long last, a hapless farmer went beside the altar. He knelt before Willard and bowed his head, mutely asking forgiveness. Willard looked down upon the man, with an unusual expression that was a peculiar combination of disgust and ecstasy. His hand, poised not an inch above the poor man’s head, was trembling slightly. The good preacher turned his face to the Most High, and began the necessary benediction of forgiveness. Afterwards, the villagers sighed a collective sigh of relief; they had been spared the eternal damnation for yet another day.
The newly forgiven man made motion, as if to rise from his place kneeling before Willard. But a shake of the preacher’s head kept him genuflecting. Willard placed his hand upon the head once more, tapping lightly on the sun-bleached, thinning hair.
“This man has committed a sin. A treachery so vile, the very king of hell dispatched to me the very nature of the transgression. I, being a righteous man, have already forgiven this poor soul. The Most High, however, is not yet satiated.”
With this, he drew from his robes his silver knife. He took the man’s hand in his own and laid it upon the golden altar. With a swift motion, he severed the thumb from the hand. The man did not cry out, indeed, he looked as if he did not feel a thing. Willard took the severed thumb and threw it upon the flames.
“Go your way,” he thundered, “and sin no more.”
The man walked away, his wounded hand bleeding freely.

There was a very poor family at the edge of town. Normally, their extreme poverty was no hardship, but today, all members sat morosely around the rough-hewn table to consider their plight. They had been asked to provide the sacrifice for this week’s services. Any family would jump at such a chance to show the Most High how truly devout they were; but this family had no beasts. They had strangled the last thin chicken not a week before, and had subsided these four days on naught but well water and roots. But their stomachs, although they were protesting mightily, were not a concern. The blunt fact was that no sacrifice meant no more life in the village. To be found without a sacrifice was to admit that the glory of yourself was put above the glory of the Most High.
They conferred long into the night about the problem. Finally, naught but two hours before prayers were to be held, a solution was found.

Prayers began, as usual. Willard strode to the altar and demanded that a sacrifice be brought forth. Silence abounded. Finally, the father came forward, with a bundle in his arms. Willard took the bundle, placed it gently on the altar and opened it. A collective gasp was heard. From the folds of the bundle, feet appeared. Two tiny, human feet and a gurgling sound were noted. It was the family’s youngest child, a son not more than three months old.
Willard looked in question at the father.
“It was the best we had.” He answered softly.
Understanding dawned in the eyes of the pious man. He smiled relevantly at his congregation and boomed:
“This man is more holy than a legion of angels. He shirks not his duty. He heeded the call of the Most High. He alone, out of all of you, chose something, not just near perfection, but at actual perfection.”
With this, he raised the knife, and sacrificed the child. Not one murmur of protest was issued; nobody disagreed. The Most High would be pleased. No hellfire in the near future. Everybody went about their duties with a sense of cheerfulness and goodwill. That evening, the sacraments were bestowed with enthusiasm, as all eagerly wanted some part of the sacrifice for themselves.

The next week, at prayer, another child was brought forth to sacrifice. And every sacrifice after that. The feelings of peace and harmony continued to spread. Willard had no more visits from the king of hell; indeed, all his nightly visits were from angels, or the Most High, praising the village for their righteousness.
The ages of the sacrifices increased as the year progressed. Soon, not a soul under 15 could be found. Still the craze for the perfect sacrifice continued, as each family attempted to outdo the others. Young adults volunteered to be sacrificed, eager to live with the Most High in his realms of splendor. The remaining villagers eagerly partook of the sacraments given; with every sacrifice, the lust for perfection increased. Before long, sacrifices were held every day.
Soon, there was naught but the elderly. Whole farms lay deserted, as the families had been eagerly delivered into the hands of the Most High. And still the sacrifices continued. The beautiful altar was no longer gold, but black. Black with the dried blood of all those sacrifices. Not a dull black, however, a black that seemed to gleam with the luster of the souls lost there. It was a beautiful sight to behold in the early morning, the glossy black altar, surrounded by nearly heavenly light.

And still the sacrifices continued. Until naught but two were left: Willard, and his wife. His wife was willing to be given up to the Most High. There was no higher honor than to be chosen for this calling.
Calling upon the Most High in a loud voice, Willard plunged the knife into the chest of his wife, threw her heart upon the fire, and looked up. There were none to save, none to preach to. Willard went about his tasks, until the time was near for evening sacraments. He lit the fire, and cut an offering for himself. Then he expertly carved the sacrifice, placing a portion in front of every household. He then threw the remains upon the fire.

The day dawned cold. The town was empty and silent. The only movement was the flickering of the fire. The fire was next to the altar, where a man lay, his heart in his hand, and a silver knife in his chest.