Rites of Spring

37 Walpurgis Night 1986

I have chosen them with care, my little tadpoles. Chosen the children whose parents snigger at me behind my back and pull faces when they talk about me, as if my name has a nasty taste.

Those children will witness the death of Elita Svart.

Arne pressed the binoculars to his eyes so hard that he couldn’t see properly. A big fire is burning over in the glade, casting long, flickering shadows over the stones. Elita and the children were standing in the centre of the circle, right next to the flat sacrificial stone. The whole thing looked exactly like the Polaroid: Elita’s white dress, the antlers, the silk ribbons, the masked children. The full moon riding high above them intensified the sense of unreality.

His ghetto blaster was on one of the other stones. The recorded sound of drumming reverberated around the glade, along with voices chanting something in English that Arne didn’t understand at first.

Elita gestured to the children, said something. They formed a circle around her, fully extending the ribbons attached to her wrists. Arne adjusted the focus, managed to sharpen the image.

Elita began to move, taking slow steps in time with the drums. She was barefoot on the wet grass; Arne thought he could see the moisture gleaming on her shins.

The chanting continued, and by now he had heard it often enough to be able to make out the words.

‘Hoof and horn, hoof and horn. All that dies shall be reborn.

‘Corn and grain, corn and grain. All that falls shall rise again.’

The rhyme was repeated over and over again, each time a little faster than the one before. Elita’s feet were moving faster too. She swung her arms, spun around on the spot, taking the children with her.

‘Hoof and horn, hoof and horn. All that dies shall be reborn.’

Elita’s movements became more frantic. She threw her head back and raised the antlers high in the air, drawing the children closer.

The circle spun faster and faster, closer and closer. Arne swallowed, felt himself grow hard.

‘Corn and grain, corn and grain. All that falls shall rise again.’

The children pulled on the ribbons, locked Elita in the centre of the circle with her arms outstretched.

The tempo of the drums continued to increase. The circle was spinning so fast now that Arne could barely make out the children. But he didn’t care about them; Elita was all that mattered. Her eyes were closed, her chest shining with sweat above the neckline of her dress. She looked as if she was in a trance.

Arne’s mouth was as dry as dust, his face was burning, his trousers straining at the crotch. He reached for the zip with his free hand, but something made him pause. At first it was only a barely perceptible vibration in the darkness, then a pulsating beat that clashed with the rhythm of the drums.

He lowered the binoculars and twisted around, almost losing his balance in the process.

The beat grew louder, turning the hairs on the back of his neck into tiny, needle-sharp ice crystals. He’d heard it before, many times. The sound of hooves, of branches and twigs breaking. The sound from his nightmare, a rider approaching.

The hoof beats came closer and closer, thundering inside Arne’s chest, his head, his crotch. His cock shrank to the size of a pathetic little worm.

Horse and rider burst through the greenery directly below him. He caught a glimpse of a huge black horse that was something else at the same time, something ancient that might not even be a horse. And the rider . . .

Arne screamed, but exactly as in his dream, not a sound came out.

He closed his eyes, heard the Green Man and his steed crash through the undergrowth beneath him.

The smell of stagnant water overwhelmed him. Rotting wood and dead leaves, the stench of things that crept and crawled and transformed what had recently been alive into earth and mould. Transformed a grown man into a little child.

He lost his balance and fell backwards out of the tree. Hung in the air just long enough to think that the landing would be painful.

He could hear terrified screams from the glade, almost drowned out by the bellowing of an animal.

The sound was cut off abruptly as Arne hit the ground, letting the night into his head.