The Offering

Brielle was pressed for time. When she slipped from the house a while ago, the sun was still colossal and glorious, blinding her if she stared at it long enough. She had to squint and cover herself with a woolen shawl before going about. Now, the sky was a warm orange glow, the subtle beginnings of dusk falling like a shadow on their city. The sun, which had partially left her sightless, had turned into a small ball. It could fit nicely on her palm if she held them against the sky, but Brielle had no time for such games, and so she walked on to her destination.

The city was restless. Any other day, only people coming home from work would be seen on the streets. They'd be dog-tired, shoulders slumped, and quick to walk to reach their homes. It was different today. Everywhere she went on the market, Brielle bumped into someone. She didn't recognize any of their faces, but she was sure that if they stared long enough, they'd know who she was. Hers was a face people wouldn't likely forget.

There were high and low buzzes of conversations all over. Sometimes the talking was an incomprehensible sound, like the buzzing of a bee that was meant to stay in the background. Sometimes the words made sense, and when they did, Brielle tilted her head to listen.

"It's tonight, isn't it?" an old woman by a fruit stall said. Her voice was loud, carrying, as if the man she was talking to wasn't a few feet away.

"Yeah," the man said. "They're going to announce our defender on the square. Have you heard what they were saying about her?"

"Talin? What of the girl?"

The man gave a dubious look. "And I thought you were updated with the rumors. Some market seller you are." He beckoned the woman with a finger until they were close enough to whisper. Still, Brielle could hear them when she paused. "They said she's cruel, brutal. She murdered kids when she was ten years old."

It was the woman's turn to look dubious. "You talk as if they wouldn't kill Talin back. She was doing herself, and us, a favor." She noticed Brielle listening and frowned. "Run along, slave. You have no business here."

Brielle ducked her head and wrapped her woolen shawl tighter against her face before wandering off. She was relieved that no one saw who she was, only her clothes.

Slaves of their time were required to wear coarse tunic that were usually hand-me-downs from the masters. Though hers were newer than what others wore, everything was the same, she was a slave, a nothing, an anonymous stranger who wasn't out and about without permission from anyone.

Snippets of conversations about the announcement happening later made it to her ears, but Brielle wasn't listening anymore. She'd heard enough about it, not only from the market-goers, but from the master himself. She concentrated on the smell instead. One couldn't go into the market ignoring them.

When she rounded the corner, the citrusy aroma of oranges, lemon, and lime changed into honey-cured bacon, so powerful that she could taste the sweetness on her tongue. Why did she torture herself so? Brielle knew that she wouldn't eat until after the announcement was done. Even then, her master had to be served first. She had a long way to go.

There was another turn, another corner. She passed several alleys, crossed roads, entered shop's front doors and exited through their back doors, before she finally broke through the street that she came for.

Brielle gazed at the lonely house with mixed feelings. There were other houses on each of its side, yet that particular house was all she could look at. Three stories tall, a basement, an attic, and a garden at the back. She had it burned at the back of her eyes, memorized each room, every nook and cranny. Brielle swallowed the lump on her throat and crossed the street towards it.

There was a puff of cloud when the door was opened. Brielle waved her hands so the dust wouldn't get through her nose. The other week she had a sneezing fit because of it. She'd learned her lesson.

Aside from the dust, many dangers lurked when going to an abandoned house. For example, she knew that rodents could be waiting in a cupboard or a small hole. They'd surprise her when she least expected them. The nasty creatures.

The wooden floor creaked under her worn shoes. Brielle didn't weight that much. She was lean, light, and nimble, but the floor had always creaked at the slightest of pressures. She paid no heed to it and continued to the stairs, then the second floor, all the way to the attic. There was no point in exploring the other rooms when it was the study she was aiming for.

The knob was warm on her fingers, and the room was stifling when she opened the door. Brielle could only blame it to the erratic weather. Her father once told her that people of The Old relied heavily on the weatherman. They could tell when the temperature would shift, or when it was suppose to rain or snow. Nowadays, the New World would scoff at the idea. Who needed a weatherman when the weather changed at a moment's notice from scorching hot to freezing snow? People would never believe their forecasts.

Brielle let the door fall behind her as she entered the study. Her reaction was much anticipated, but it still baffled her how a few furniture's and a small square room with a single window could provoke such response. Like clockwork, her breath caught in her throat when her eyes flickered to the antique desk and its accompanying black swivel chair. There was a pulsation at the back of her head, almost as if her heart had traveled there.

Trapped in a daze, her feet moved on their own, taking her to the cedar table. Once in front of it, she took the liberty of running her fingers on its smoothness, its fineness, until she came across a partial indentation. She glanced at it by habit. The letters carved on the wood was still clear even after all these years. Brielle.

A million memories went through her head; each flash a reminder of something or someone. She dug her fingernails on her palm and concentrated on the physical pain. By the light coming from the window behind the desk, nightfall was upon them. If she wanted to read, she had to do it quick, and bitterness had no room for someone so impeccably late like her.

Brielle darted to the shelves on the left before she could change her mind. There, she plucked a book, a special one that wasn't bound on the spine like the others. Its papers were collected and stuffed into a leather folder for safekeeping.

With the book clasped in her hand, she took eight steps back and stumbled on the sixth. The soft couch caught her, along with its fine powder of dust. Brielle scrunched her nose. She'd always forgotten that she wasn't ten anymore. Obviously the steps would be shorter.

She opened the leather when the feeling of sneezing subsided.

No matter how many times she examined them, a fresh wave of euphoria would settle on her stomach whenever she saw her father's handwriting. They were slanted, small-spaced, some lines on the 't's' were misplaced, or an 'i' was missing a dot. Her father had always been in a hurry. If it wasn't his notes he was rushing, it was his meals or something else.

"Father," Brielle remembered saying once. "Chew your food properly, or you'll end up looking like a donkey."

"Where'd you learn about them?" he asked incredulously. Donkey's had been extinct since the war.

"On your notes."

Her father looked proud, but still, he chewed the vegetables noisily on purpose, making Brielle laugh. "Donkey's make for good scientists," he said.

At present, Brielle shuffled through her father's notes. They were full of lines, arrows, and symbols that she couldn't decipher. They were the reason for many of his sleepless nights and why he was always out of the house. They were the reason why he was gone.

Brielle bit back the saltiness and turned page after page. It was the last of his notes that interested her. The story of the war.

It happened eight generations ago, too long for the dead, too short for the living. Nobody knew who started it or what weapons they used. It was a war to stop all wars. None of them had been alive then, of course, but those who survived recorded it for their descendants.

The damages the war caused weren't so much as for the infrastructure. It was the people who suffered. Humans were on the brink of extinction. Animals numbered more than individuals. The buildings were deteriorating because of lack of maintenance. The weather started acting irregularly as an aftereffect. It was sheer chaos.

Had she been there at that time, Brielle would have done what most did- stop the war immediately, and rebuild. What little of the survivors, 22 countries and what was left of their people, made a pact. The war would be no more. There would be a New World, a new start, and with it came a new leadership where no one would commit genocide for power and treasure. Thus, The Offering was made.

Brielle closed her father's notes and sighed. She couldn't stay here if she wanted to. She'd be dragged back to her master, wide-eyed and guilty, and never hear the end of it. It wasn't her house now. She didn't belong here. She was no one.

The story of the war was also inconsequential. It was The Offering everyone was celebrating.

A loud siren cut through her thoughts; a long, piercing wail that chattered Brielle's bones. It went on for five bursts, then stopped. Brielle jolted from the sofa and stole a look at the window. It was dark.

"Oh crap," she muttered. The announcement would begin in a short while. The master was expecting her to be there by his side.

She bolted towards the door, dropping the notes on the floor. Brielle glanced at them over her shoulders. The papers were scattered, messy, and some of them had slid under the table. If her father was here, he'd be upset. Knots formed on her forehead. He wasn't, was he? She could only rely on herself. Brielle stepped through the door and promised to come back another time to fix things.

Outside, dozens of people formed a slow procession. Most of them were holding glowing candles that twinkled against the darkness, the only sources of light. The streetlamps had been turned off, and those who didn't have candles with them were either blind because of the blackness, or blind to other people's eyes. They worked in Brielle's favor. She'd forgotten the shawl inside the house, didn't have time to go back for it.

Under the cover of the night, they wouldn't see her shockingly pale skin or white chest-length hair. They wouldn't notice the purple eyes that was meant only for albino's like her. Brielle's father wasn't one, but her mother was. She got the genes from her. Sticking to the shadows, she made her way with the throngs of people to the city square. They were all headed to the same direction.

"Who will be there, momma?"

Brielle didn't see who spoke, but from the pitch of the voice, it was a child of around eight to ten, about the same age that she was taken from her home to her master's servitude.

"The president," an adult replied. "Her son too. Do you remember his name?"

"Vincent," the child said.

"Smart boy. Vincent can be our next president. Always remember his name."

Brielle had a sickening clench on her stomach. The talk between mother and child was making her nauseous. Stepping further back, she slipped through another alley and took different route. The crowd was bigger, and if possible, more restless than the one she'd left. Nonetheless, she was glad that she was with her people, the slaves. They were all wearing their hand-me-down clothes, whispering to each other as they walked.

The air was humid and heavy. The more they get closer to the city square, the higher number of people joined the parade. It didn't help that the building surrounding them seemed to close in, like big mountains her father described in his notes. Brielle wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She must have looked weary, sweaty, and dirty from the soot of the house. Her master would scold her.

Not too far ahead, the buildings paved way for the square. Brielle was awed by the sight. It wasn't the hundreds of individuals milling about, nor the sheer amount of gold, silver, and diamonds flaunted on some people's necks and wrists. The skyscrapers on the backdrop, impressive as they were, held of no interest to her too. She wasn't impressed by all of those.

What Brielle was focused on were the guests. Representatives from the other 21 countries, coming there to celebrate with them. She pushed through the crowd to see better. There were ten representatives for each group, wearing colorful clothes with fabrics and designs that Brielle had only seen today.

Her father's notes didn't have any information on them. She was thrilled to have the opportunity to witness them herself.

People from other countries didn't venture there often. They tend to stick to their roots, culminating and improving, instead of roaming around. They said that the only time they go to each other's place was when The Offering was near, and it only happened every one-hundred years.

Brielle felt lucky. She wasn't too old that her eyes were blurry for the spectacle. She wasn't too young that the memory of it would be gone by the time she was bigger. Her age was at a ripe 18. She would go on and on about this day to her descendants.

Brielle wanted to peer at the guests closely, to touch their strange skin and their flashy clothes. She wanted to hear them speak. What did they talk about in their Sectors? Did they have buildings as high as the sky too? Did they use trains and cars for transportations? Was there a huge wilderness outside their city gates? Was it true that they sing like angels? And how about the slaves? Where there any?

Brielle wanted to kick herself. Slaves were required by the law of the New World. Everyone had them.

She thought of a lot of things that she normally wouldn't have yearned for, but a loud bang, an explosion on her ear, sounded before she could make those a reality.

Bang. Boom. Bang.

Her heart would jump every time the stick slapped on the drumhead.

Boom. Bang. Bang.

The crowd pushed behind her. The announcement was going to start, and she was nowhere near her master. Brielle searched desperately for him. He had a bit of a temper whenever he was embarrassed, and nothing shamed him more than being seen without his slave. He'd be fuming.

Boom. Boom. Clang. Drum sounds with a mix of cymbals. Clang. Clang. Bang.

Brielle was sticky and sweaty now. Bodies were pressing against her, and she hasn't caught sight of master yet.

Tug-tug-tug.

Brielle looked at the sky and groaned. She would surely get punished for this.