The Prize.

By Patrick Mill

It was the morning of December 15th, it was clear and sunny, not exactly hot, but it was getting there. I remember this day clearly, everything was still green because the Australian summer hadn’t scorched the earth with high 30s and 40 degree temperatures yet. The people of the town had begun to gather. I was about 9 years old, and I grew up in a town of about 26,000 people.

The people gathered at the oval near the beach at around 10 am, proceedings would be over in time for people to get home and have some lunch, all the children assembled first I remember talking to some of the kids that were there that went to the same school as me, we had filled our pocket with rocks and were waiting to cause some mayhem.

We decided to stockpile our stones near the sports shed and guard it against invaders from other schools, all the kids were getting rowdy, besides the girls, they all stood apart from us, gossiping among themselves.

Soon all the men gathered my father included they were all talking about work and other adult stuff we had no interest in, while they looked over the kids that were there, surveying where their own children were, the women there seemed to be dressed for some sort of occasion, all I could think about was who will be copping the first stone when we decide to attack.

Some of the kids went and stood with their parents as we stayed guarding the ammunition and laughing and joking to ourselves, not really having much of an idea as to what was going on.

The guy who seemed to be running the show was a thin faced tall evil looking guy, one of the kids said was a teacher at his school, he looked creepy as hell to me with his sunken eyes and lurch like demeanor, he arrived carrying a wooden black box, there was a murmer of conversation between the parents as we stopped and stared, I remember thinking wtf is this? Is this guy a magician is he about to pull a rabbit out of the box.

Apparently, this was some sort of town tradition I had no idea about. I had a memory of something similar, but this was the first time I actually paid attention.

The box looked rough, like it had been to hell and back, scratched up with chips missing and the paint flaking off, etc, all of a sudden the creepy guy with the box grabbed the microphone and declared the raffle open, as soon as he did this all the adults began some intolerable toneless chant, looking back it all seemed like some sort of ritual.

A woman wearing all black was all of a sudden upfront near the creepy guy with the box I had no idea where she came from, she stood out like a sore thumb and had just appeared out of nowhere, seemingly enough to me. At this point, it felt like some sort of show at the time.

The woman started to make her way through the crowd and stood with a man who was standing there with 2 of his kids, the people in the crowd had separated like she was Jesus parting the sea, everyone was quiet at this point and the lady in black said to the man “I thought we would have to do this without you” the adults in the crowd murmered and chuckled, then she said “whats the matter do you want me to go home and do the dishes you left in the sink” again the adults murmered and chuckled.

The woman in black then loudly pronounced, “Well then, we'd better get on with proceedings, let’s get back to work.” again the silent crowd then chuckled quietly. The woman then said into the mic, “is everybody here?” a few people in the crowd chanted “Davis Davis, Davis” until someone else shouted out “ he was in a car accident, hes in hospital at the moment” the lady in black then said “ok who will be drawing for him? shall we get one the children to do it?” everyone agreed and then she looked directly at me while saying over the mic “which one of you wants to help with proceeding” some of the kids around me put their hands up, but I wanted nothing to do with what was happening and kept my hand down.

The woman in black who was staring directly at me then began to point at me and said “he will do, bring him to me” the other kids acted dissapointed like I had won a prize they wanted, but I was hesitant, all of a sudden some woman with big ridicoulas glasses had grabbed my wrist and was ushering me to the front to stand next to the lady in black and the suckened eyed lurch looking character.

I didn’t want to go. Every part of me dug in, but the woman with the giant glasses had a grip like a crab trap. By the time I reached the front, the crowd had gone quiet again — too quiet. Even the seagulls circling above seemed to be watching.

The woman in black crouched down so her face was level with mine. Up close, she didn’t look old, but she had the kind of eyes that made you feel like she’d been around forever.

“Don’t be nervous,” she said, smiling in a way that didn’t match her eyes. “It’s an honour.”

I didn’t know what she meant, and I didn’t want to ask.

She guided my hand toward the black wooden box. Up close it smelled like damp earth and something metallic. The creepy teacher guy lifted the lid, and inside were dozens of folded bits of paper, all the same size, all smudged with fingerprints.

“Go on,” the woman said. “Choose fairly.”

I reached in. The papers felt warm, like someone had been holding them. I grabbed one at random and pulled it out. The crowd leaned forward as if they were all connected by the same string.

The woman took the slip from my hand and unfolded it slowly, theatrically. She didn’t read it aloud. Instead, she held it up for the creepy teacher to see. His sunken eyes flicked to the man with the two kids — the one she’d spoken to earlier.

The man’s face dropped. His kids clung to his legs.

A ripple went through the crowd — not shock, not horror… acceptance. Like this was normal. Like this was expected.

The woman in black finally spoke.

“Davis family,” she announced, “your turn.”

The man swallowed hard. One of his kids started crying. The other just stared at me like I’d personally ruined his life.

I stepped back, suddenly desperate to get away from the box, from the woman, from all of them. But the crowd had closed in behind me. No one was leaving. No one was even blinking.

The creepy teacher placed the lid back on the box with a soft thud that felt final.

The woman in black put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You know the rules,” she said gently, almost kindly. “The town must have its prize.”

The man nodded, defeated. He kissed each of his kids on the head, whispered something I couldn’t hear, and then followed the woman and the teacher toward the dunes behind the oval. The crowd parted for them like before, silent and obedient.

I remember looking up at my dad, expecting him to say something — anything — but he just ruffled my hair and said, “Good job, mate. You did your part.”

My stomach twisted. I didn’t know what “my part” was, but I knew I didn’t want it.

The crowd began to disperse, everyone acting like the whole thing had been a school assembly. Kids went back to their rock piles. Parents chatted. Someone laughed.

But the man and the woman in black and the creepy teacher never came back from behind the dunes.

And no one asked where they went.

That night, lying in bed, I finally realised what the adults had been chanting earlier, the words I hadn’t understood at the time.

They weren’t saying “Davis.”

They were saying “Devis.”

An old word. A word I’d hear again years later in a book about ancient rituals.

It meant “offering.”

And every December 15th, the town still gathers at the oval.

But I’ve never gone back.

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Regards

Patrick M.