[b]Grand Traverse county[/b]

The waters of Lake Michigan had been rendered slate gray as frozen north winds tore south. Waves that were once magnificent as they were often stormy in autumn flattened and died. What not stretched clear into the horizon now was a wasteland of ice. Ice so thick and hard it did not take the sun. Where the snow had not drifted into great white dunes the ice of the lake lay like a coat of armor across the surface of the lake. Impenetrable. Wrought of steel. Gone were the days epic ships passed through the winter waters to break it. Now were the days it grew thick. Now were the days it would not break till spring.

High atop a hill over looking the wasteland expanse stood a monument to a man. Planks of drift wood, sheets of steel, and columns of brick and bundle of rebar formed a wide irregular circle. The stands bound and kept as one by thick bare vines with the still-hanging shriveled grapes that they bore.

The vines twisted and turned across the ground - which had been cleared of snow – to a central nexus. An alter. A sarcophagus. Wrapped around the pile of brick and stacked cement that it was twirled the vines, deadened for the winter. They gripped the sides and rose up, the coarse woody arms raising to the sky, supported by each other as if they were a bonfire.

“What are you waiting for, you said you would do it!” jeered a distraught boy at the base of the alter. He looked to be a youth of eleven, his fair skin beat cheery-red against the biting, driving coldness of the winter air. A red knit cap was pulled over his long blonde hair. His blue eyes stared out excited, anxious, expectantly. His heavy coat flapped and fluttered against his side and arm, several sizes too big anyways.

Standing next to him was a young girl of equal age. An ungloved hand rested on the frozen surface of the alter-piece alongside the offerings and left-behinds of pilgrims past: bloodied rags, jars of air, even a foreskin or two sat clustered in the empty space created in the vines. Little things left behind by the gulls and the crows when they descended on the frozen sanctuary, or simply not eaten yet.

Raised above her outstretched hand hovered a quivering knife. Jagged, and hardly clean it loomed over her waiting fingers as her companion continued to pressure for the offering.

Long auburn hair flew in the wind. Whipping up into her face as a sudden hard blast of frantic lake-wind tore across her face, singing the exposed skin even redder. The young girl recoiled against the biting wind and she bit on her lips.

“I'm scarred!” she blurted out. She squinted her green eyes as the wind continued to blow. As they teared up against the dry wind they dripped down her face, freezing. It only made the cold worse and it irritated her. Her heart raced as she hovered her father's knife over her hand.

“But you promised!” the boy said excitedly. He felt a feeling of dread as he realized that perhaps the sacrifice would not be made today. Nor would he get the chance to make his bid for fortune.

“They say great things happen when you give!” the boy said again, “Like, that's what everyone says about this. We'll all have to at some point.”

“Yes Theo, but I'm scared now!” the girl screamed back, sobbing under the pressure, “I know what I said God damn it. But now I don't know!”

“What, you're chicken!?” Theo taunted. Theo, of the house of Pierce. His family – like the girl's – was one of the prominent ones. One of the ones on the Council. He didn't know what they did, or why they were important. All he knew is that he'd be on it someday for sure. And all men on the council were great men. Some having made great offerings to Joshua.

“Well maybe I am, what are you going to do about it?” the girl snapped back. Angela Rythmann. Some said he family was wealthier than the House of Pierce, but Theo didn't know why. The Pierces owned the most vineyards in all of Grand Traverse! How could they not?

But, some say they weren't, no matter how many slaves they owned. Once more, he never knew what the Rythmann's had such a strange, silly horse as a sigil.

But Angela was right, what could he do about it? Keep going. “You have to!” he yelled.

“Why!?” Angela replied.

“Because, well. You just do!” the response came, “You'll have great things happen. You'll have to!”

“I don't care what happens, but I'm not cutting off my finger!” Angela roared. Her voice was like a clap of thunder going off alongside one's head. Or the roar of a powder rifle against the ears.

With a fiery fit the young girl picked up the knife and threw it against the ground.

Theo looked down at it stunned. This, this was almost an offense! He was shocked, like someone had the audacity to call him a dick.

“You what!?” he bellowed.

“Dammit Pierce, I'm not!” Angela said, stomping her boots onto the frozen ground, “And if you want me to do it, you do it first!”

“That wasn't the deal!” Theo squeeled, throwing his arms up.

“Well I'm changing the deal!”

“No! That's impossible. You never change the deal!”

“Not unless it's on paper!”

Theo bit back his sourness as he reeled back, eyes wide. His pride hurt like his cheeks in the cold wind. Or maybe they were just that numb. For whatever the case, he lunged for the ground, picking up the knife as he pushed Angela aside.

“Theo no don't do it!” Angela yelled as he threw his hand onto the table, raising the knife above it. He tensed his fingers, and readied his arm. He made ready for the down stroke, clenching his teeth and holding back his tongue as his eyes shut tight. What was his older brother's saying? Tighter than a Catholic girl's legs?

But the stoke never came. He froze in the position. No amount of strength on his part could trump his own will to not cut off his finger. But still he held his breath. But willing himself to cut it off, and to not. His pride had been hurt, he had to maintain image. He had to fix it. He had to do better!

Instead of cutting downward, he peeked an eye open as he slowly lowered the quivering blade to his hand. He saw the jagged, sharp edge of the blade quiver in his own fingers as it came lower onto his hand. He moved it slowly, carefully. It touched sharply on the back of his knuckle where he could go no further.

“Children!” a man's voice sang out, shaking both of the kids from their trance on the knife and alter. With a start both jumped to the source of the harsh stern voice. Standing at the edge of the circle of trash stood a tall hooded figure in a thick wollen, fur robe. His stern cold stare latched onto them, and did more to send chills down their spine than the depths of winter could. Shivering they stared into his sunken bearded face before turning with a start and running off.

Not realizing it, Theo dropped the knife atop the cement of the alter as they fled from the Shrine of Joshua, leaving behind their dare and mission to make a personal sacrifice.