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The Gathering 
by Rie Sheridan Rose 

“Is he here yet?” someone whispered, glancing around the shadowed clearing.

It was just past twilight, and the light had faded to almost nothing above the treetops. A sense of anxious anticipation filled the grove as they began assembling. Some had brought their young with them to hear his wisdom. Others stood back around the edges, not sure if they would stay.

“He’s late,” murmured an onlooker. “We shouldn’t have come.”

“Give him time. It’s difficult finding a path to this place in the gloaming. And he is the most senior among us.”

“What do you think he wants to tell us?” asked another.

“Does it matter? He called, and we must come.”

A rustling sounded in the undergrowth, and the whispered conversations ceased as a figure moved toward the gathered crowd. What little light remained above seemed to shine upon his cap. A further susurration of whispers filled the silence as he approached the center of the clearing.

He towered over the others as he lifted his chin and scowled around him. “Is this all? Where is everyone else?”

“We spread the word…I’m sorry there’s not a bigger turnout.”

“It doesn’t matter. What I have to say will spread, I am sure.”

“No doubt. No doubt.” The organizer hated the fawning tone in her voice, but seemed powerless to avoid it. He had that much presence. And he led them all, regardless of whether they liked it.

He stopped in the exact center of the glade, where a shaft of light showed him off to perfection, his cap glowing in the gloom. “Citizens,” he bellowed, “I have come to announce a new edict. Listen to me well.”

 Murmurs swelled as they turned to friends and family, wondering what he could mean.

“This is a sad day for our community. Yes, it has drifted to night, but that’s not the point. The point I am making is that we have grown too large for the clearing. We must make sacrifices for the good of the whole. Too many of us vie for the same resources. We can no longer survive as before. We must cull the herd. I require that one in three of you volunteer to remain in plain sight tomorrow when the humans come—and you know they will—looking for our kind to grace their tables. Only if we do this can the rest survive. No, it won’t be easy. It won’t seem fair to those we choose. But those chosen will be the saviors of our tribe. Look around you. Who can we spare? Who is infirm, or less fertile than their neighbor? Do you have a button who seems slow to grow? Do you have an elder who seems woody? Those would be fine choices. After all, we don’t need to give the humans our best and brightest. We just need to thin the tribe. I, myself, offer my youngest female. Surely, you will join me in my sacrifice.”

Gasps of horror and outrage ran through the clearing. This was not what he had promised when he became their leader.

“Fie!” cried a voice from the perimeter. “We don’t have to listen to this. We can split into smaller tribes—move further into the forest. Find other resources. We will not sacrifice our young or infirm to your behest!”

As quickly as they had gathered, they fled into the shadows, leaving a leader with no one to lead.

“They’ll be back,” he grumbled to the empty clearing. “They always come back.”

But morning found only a solitary mushroom for the pickers to harvest.

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Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:

Overheard in Hell:
Dark Poetry

Poems exploring hell and damnation. Tales of sorrow, vengeance, betrayal, and redemption. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons stalk these pages. Don’t read in a lonely house…in a darkened room by a single candle…

…unless you like the touch of an icy finger up your spine.

Available on Amazon!