With ground axes and patched packs, we await on the stairs, looking upward now. There is a single ray of orange light, couldn’t be wider than a man’s finger, shining through the Manhole. Ghostly whisps of smoke pour from the wood where it graces the ground. When this light disappears, the Reaping will begin. The brothers are arguing about who has the sharpest tool. One is shaving the hair from his forearm; he blows the strands in another boy’s face.

“See that? Not a chance in night your steel glides like that.”

In defiance, the other boy levels the head against his own scruffy forearm, beginning at the wrist. More brothers gather around to watch the spectacle. With a feathery, slightly circular motion, he swipes away a tuft of matted hair, then blows it back at the boy. They become mimics of one another, presumably competing to have the barest arm. Microgashes dot their prickled flesh as they slip rather than glide. Soon, they whip with the intensity of a sister mashing stew. One brother finally makes the fatal error, slothing off a chunk of flesh the size of a thumbprint and about as deep. He clutches his arm and howls in contempt, blaming the other brother for goading him into such a farce.

“CEASE!” booms the voice of Cardinal Arthur.

The room falls silent, and my spine goes rigid. With a great clatter, we brothers snap to form a neat line. I can see the cut boy holding his arm and trying to keep it from trembling. Blood drips from his fingertips. At the top of the stairs, the beam of sun is gone. We are bathed in a tangible green vividness, revitalizing our tired bodies. The Manhole untwines and reveals an almost full moon in that obsidian night sky. We will see our mutilation this night. The brother has stopped holding his arm; it no longer drips blood. I reach up and check my cheeks, they are no longer scratched, nor my shoulder.

Out the opening and onto the scorched earth, we amble. As we always have, as we always will. Even through my woven shoes, the sand burns my feet. Without the thick oiling of sap, they would simply turn to ash, and I after. This desert will remember rays of the day until the birth of tomorrow, only to begin the cycle anew. The air is arid and dry; I take it in eagerly. Moonlight dances on swirling sands wandering about no-man’s-land with no clear origin nor ambition. Our army of heathens marches on. Sand turns to dirt, then dirt to soil, and soil to grass as we approach Yggdrasil. I watch my brothers take their places, like a hive of ants encircling scraps. Gideon has his ax out already, eager to begin.

“O Lord, allow for today to be the day you welcome us into your eternal sanctuary. Amen,” bellows Cardinal Arthur.

“Amen!” cry out the brothers. I watch as Gideon brings his blade down with a sickening crunch.

“PLEEEASE! STOP THIS!” an old woman’s voice cries from the Tree.

Another blow lands. The sharp cry of an infant pierces my ears. I heft my own ax from my back and rotate it around in my hands, inspecting the indecorous marriage of reclaimed branch and jagged iron. Another blow lands. A man cries out. I try to blink out the tears that have begun to well up at the corner of my eyes. If I don’t join the Reaping soon, I’ll be flogged. Another blow lands. I hear a young woman shrieking. I fill my lungs, pulling the air deep into my chest, and wrench my ax back to strike. Exhaling, I hurl the iron forward. Splinters and woodchips ricochet off my battered body. The guttural howl of some unseen demon explodes behind my eyes and brings me to my knees. I need to get up. The cardinal cracks his whip behind me. I can hear his footsteps getting closer. I need to get up. I plant my ax against the soil and push myself to my feet on shaking knees. Arthur is behind me now.

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“There is no time to rest,” he says.

All the air escapes me and I stand, hunched, clamoring for the strength to raise my ax and strike again. Before I can, meteoric pain engulfs my back as if struck by lightning and forces me back to the ground. The whorl of vine hurls through the night air and finds its target again. I scramble and pull my knees to my chest, as if any change in position will relieve the shock of each strike. I can feel my back becoming wetter with every lash of the whip. The thorns drink it up eagerly. My only consolation is that there is silence in the agony.

Time stands still while, wordlessly, the cardinal replaces the blows of whip with the caress of hand, his hand. He holds the whip to the small of my back and scrapes the blood from my wet back into the hungry vine. It glows softly, the same familiar green, and the pain fades, somewhat.

“Through your stripes, you draw nearer to the sanctity and salvation promised by the Creator. Amen,” intones Cardinal Arthur.

He has a large, muscular build and is covered in scars like the rest of us. The whip curls back to Arhtur’s side and he places his hand on my shoulder, giving it a short squeeze.

“Amen,” I reply and retrieve my ax from the grass, bound by some grim sense of obligation. As I always have, as I always will.

Nothing I’ve tried, save the lashing, has been able to quell the cacophony of tortured souls that seem to exist solitarily within the confines of my cranium. Every strike is a new explosion of sound and pressure, adding a new minstrel to the ever-growing circus. The brothers work eagerly, smashing and prying and pulling at the wood in an attempt to fill their packs. They know not what they do. Gideon chops with such ferocity that splinters jut from his skin like stray hairs. The moon is behind us now and the sun will rise soon. Any minute the cardinal will crack his whip to the sky and signal our retreat back to our subterranean refuge. I continue throwing my iron against the bark.

A crimson trail guides our feet as we saunter westward to the Manhole. The heat of the sands no longer emanates through my sandals as I cross into no-man’s land. The brothers have formed a circle around the gate with Cardinal Arthur at the center. He begins the Rite of Sanctuary.

Natura nihil frustra facit

He plunges the whip into the aperture’s center and it sucks away today’s toil. A few brothers have dropped to their knees and placed their foreheads upon the sand, preparing for the glow of God. Simeon is one of them, he was flogged badly today. A spider’s web of fresh scabs and weeping gashes sprawl across his bony back. The light comes and I watch as the scabs peel off, as if blown away, to reveal infant scars. The lacerations sew themselves closed in a rapid shutter of muscle, then fat, then skin. The wounds steam softly as they are repaired.

“May your blood be the foundation of our sanctuary, shielding us from the light,” Arthur preaches, then climbs down the stairs.

I begin to follow but see that Simeon hasn’t budged yet. He stays in the prostrate position; I hear him sniffle. Seeing that Simeon cries, just like me, even though he is a few years older and much stronger, always fills me with commiseration and camaraderie. He adjusts his head, pushing his nose now into the sand. A chill runs through my body, remembering the dream from last night.

“Simeon, are you alright?” I ask.

He lowers his butt back to his feet, raises his head, and meets my eyes. His are sparkling with fresh tears which he wipes away quickly and gives me warm grin, rivaling the glow of God.

“Yeah, just resting. Thank you for checking, brother,” he radiates through dry lips and tired lungs.

He rises to his feet, and I offer him my shoulder, but he refuses. I peer around at the surrounding desert and imagine locking arms with Simeon and hiking out into the wasteland, never to be seen again. If not for the threat of the morning sun peaking over the horizon, we might. I wonder if there are other Manholes and other Trees and other orders beyond where the eye can see. Perhaps there are congregations of free people working together and supporting one another. He sees me in my daydream and puts his hand on my neck, his thumb planted where my jaw meets my ear.

“We’ll burn if we wander. Come on, I’m sure the sisters have something ready for us,” he entreats.

I snap out of it and follow him down the knotted stairs.