Sacrifice was required. And I‘d been chosen.
Kicking and screaming, they dragged me to the mouth of the volcano. I protested, but the tribesmen were unmoved.
As we arrived, I called out one last time: Please!
They paused, to hear me out.
By its very nature, sacrifice calls for a willing subject. Otherwise it’s not sacrifice, it’s murder.
They looked at me, then each other. Then, grumbling, they led me back to the village.
When someone finally volunteers, there’ll be a feast to celebrate. I’ll be the main course.
Being killed and eaten, it turns out, does not require willingness.