The Chosen One

The girl they chose this year was called Zhinv. She was fourteen, the daughter of a widowed farmer who had lost his wife to fever two winters before. She had small, clever hands, and a way of standing very straight, and eyes that watched everything without blinking.

When the old sorceress came to the hut, she did not weep. She looked at the woman with the rings, and she looked at her father, who was sitting on the earthen floor with his head in his hands, and she understood that weeping would not help. She said only: I will go. The hut is too small, and the river is wide.

The father rose and clutched at the acolytes' sleeves. He had no gold to offer. He had nothing. He fell on his knees in the dirt and begged them to take him instead, to take the ox, to take the roof from over their heads, anything but the child. The old witch looked at him with no expression at all, and said the river's choice was not to be resisted.

They took her two days later. They dressed her in a robe of red silk that had been used, the neighbors whispered, for three previous brides. They combed her hair and painted her face, though she had asked them not to. They told her she was lucky, chosen by the god himself, and she said nothing, but her hands were clenched in her sleeves.

The village came out to watch the procession, as it always did. Mothers held their younger daughters close and would not let them look. Old men spat in the dust and walked away. Children, who did not understand, pointed and called out, until their elders hushed them. No one said what they all knew: that the next year, or the year after, it might be their own girl.

The procession reached the river at noon. They had built a small platform of reed mats, and laid a couch upon it, and the acolytes helped Zhinv climb onto it. She lay down, her red robe bright against the green of the reeds, and she did not look at her father, because she knew that if she looked she would break.

The old sorceress began to chant. The water moved slowly, brown and heavy, carrying a little mud. The villagers had gathered on the bank, a silent crowd, waiting for the moment when the platform would be pushed out and the current would take the girl and the god's marriage would be done for another year.

It was then that a rider was seen on the road from the county seat. It was the magistrate, Ximen Bao, come as he had promised, with a handful of guards. The crowd parted for him. He walked slowly to the bank, looked down at the girl on her couch, and then turned to the old witch with a grave expression.

He said: This bride is very young. I fear she is not beautiful enough for the River God. If he is displeased, it will go ill with all of us. We must send word to him, and tell him we are seeking a worthier girl, and will deliver her in a few days' time.

The old witch stared at him. But, my lord, she said, the river is already waiting —

Then you shall go and tell him yourself, said Ximen Bao. And before she could move, his guards took her by the arms.