Great Sacrifice

© Jordan Long

Beckwith carried a ten foot pole over his shoulder. The end was tipped with a Smith and Wesson hunting knife. His book bag was slung midway down the pole and swayed in time his with ground eating stride. I fell in beside him. Or more precisely I jogged and he walked.

“That looks heavy. What is it?”

“A pike,” he said.

“Right,” I said. “The only kind of pike I know is a fish and that’s not a fish.”

“No, it’s not.”

“That was a question.”

“Was it?”

“Dude,” I said stepping in front of him. He stopped short. “I’m trying to be your friend.”

“I know,” he said.

“Okay then,” I smiled and waited for an explanation.

He waited for me to move, and when I didn’t, he stepped around me. I trotted after him. Being Beckwith’s friend isn’t exactly easy. For one thing, he believes he’s a soldier from medieval Europe. He’s sixteen. Like he could have been a soldier. Even so he’d make a good larping companion, if I could talk him into it. For one thing he’s got a great accent, when he speaks more than two words that is. And for the second he’s actually pretty good with a sword, not that what we use are real. He does have a real one, though. I noticed he was wearing it.

“Principal Bailey’s going to have a cow,” I said.

“Was she cursed by a witch?”

“I don’t mean it literally.” I said. “I mean she isn’t going to like the sword or the pike.”

“I don’t suppose so,” he said.

“Does this have anything to do with the psychic at the fair last weekend?”

“The witch? Yes.”

“No, she’s not a witch. She’s a psychic.”

“Telling the future is witchery.”

“It’s fake.”

“The spell was very real.”

“Have a lot of experience with witches then?” I offer him another smile.

“Only the one who sent me here,” he frowns. “I must return to my wife and children.”

“You’re sixteen.”

“Yes, as I have said many times.”

“You ever wonder why time travelers are always from Europe but end up in America?”

“No.”

We walked in silence after that. I kept glancing at the “pike.” At times like that I found myself surprised that he wasn’t in the looney bin. But he’s my friend and according to his foster parents, he lost his mom and dad tragically. When his brain gets right, he’ll be able to give us his real name and tell us what happened to his parents.

“Will you tell me what the psychic…witch said?”

“I cannot. I must perform the spell first.”

“Do you have to kill somebody?”

“As with most magic, hers requires a sacrifice.”

“So you’re going to kill somebody?” I said in disbelief. He stopped and eyed me. “Hey, you’re going to school armed.”

“I’ve said too much. Anything more would compromise the spell.”

“It’s not my head, is it?”

“Did the witch speak with you?”

“No.”

“But you know I need a head?” He said.

“It’s a figure of speech,” I said backing away. “Look Mrs. Bailey is coming. Put those things down and we can go to first period.”

“Not today,” he said, dropping the pike.

“This isn’t funny,” I said.

He drew his sword with both hands. Behind us cheers went up. Principal Bailey’s gave us her don’t-do-that face and broke into a trot yelling at him to “put that down!” He strode toward her, his jaw set in determination. More cheers went up. Can’t you see he’s not joking? I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.

Principal Bailey realized something was wrong. She stopped and gaped at Beckwith. A boy was the first to scream and run, but soon the girls joined in. Except for the goth kids. They watched us with appraising eyes, no doubt thinking this was cool. Beckwith took one last stride, raised his sword and slit Principal Bailey’ jugular. Blood spouted up in a little giser, half a second later, the body crumpled. Beckwith bent over and began hacking at the head. It wasn’t at all like the movies where heads come off with one blow. He chopped, chopped, chopped. Blood splattered Bechwith’s face and clothes. The blade made a mushy sound until hit struck bone. I threw up.

“I haven’t been able to sharpen my blade properly.” He straightened, wiping his word blade on the corner of his t-shirt. “It usually takes three or four strokes, now it takes a dozen.”

I nodded like I understood, but I wanted to run. Only I couldn’t move. He picked up Principal Bailey’s head by its grey hair. Her eyes were glassy and vacant, her mouth hanging in a big permanently surprised O. I realized I had blood on my face. I nodded like I understood, but I wanted to run. Only I couldn’t move.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I said.

Beckwith sheathed his sword and then using both hands, jammed the head on the tip of the pike. Then he worked the other end into the ground like a ten pole.

“You have the makings of a soldier,” he said. Blood dripped form the severed head, splattering Beckwith’s and shoulders.

“What?”

“Ah, there we go,” he took his hands away from the pike. It swayed like it wanted to fall, but it stopped, slanting a little south. He sat down under it and patted the ground next to his thigh. “Come sit with me.”

I shook my head no.

“You can move now. The spell has been completed.”

As he said this, I found I could actually move. I started inching away, terrified that if I just ran, he’d jump to his feet and kill me too. He looked up at me and smiled.

“Soon I’ll be going back. You could come. I’ll introduce you to my wife. My daughter, she is young yet, but you seem inclined to marry later. It is better to earn your wealth first anyway.” He counted the blood drops on his knees. “I can now tell you what the witch said now. She said that going home requires great sacrifice.”