Human sacrifice, cults, and chosen ones (plus Joan of Arc)

The Community

A handwritten note

They gather in rows and they gather in lines. Equidistant and quick, one at a time, ants with a task under the direction of their queen. They start with the oldest, who steps into the pyramid, offers his body so they'll care for him. He walks in, his light goes out. Eyes roll back as the body slumps in the chair, two arms, ten fingers, one head. He thought the fire would lift him up but he falls into a pile of ashes. The second-oldest steps up next, offers her body, and so on, and so forth, systematic, machines. Later, the young will collect the ashes, will turn the ash into feed for the crops. And isn't this how community should be, the young caring for the old, the old making room for the young? They start the fire and the bodies recycle, the bodies burn. So long, thirty-nine billion nerves in each of the hundred-and-six separate forms; together burn two hundred twelve arms; together, two hundred twelve legs. The skin starts to flay and the young work swiftly to clean up—ashes collected, floor swept, systematic, machines. Isn't this how community should be?

Excerpt from Vessel, forthcoming Spring 2025

​Cults, human sacrifice, & chosen ones

This particular passage above is one of my favorites from the entirety of Vessel. It's creepy and has a pushing rhythm to it, and when you read it out loud and emphasize the consonants, there's something about it that feels awful and metallic. 

The book features my spin on a post-apocalyptic ritual sacrifice. Much of the lore in this book is a mishmash of traditions; this ritual, known as "the Ascension," is an annual mass human sacrifice that systematically kills every single citizen of the age of 65 and turns their bodies into something that cleans the post-nuclear air (don't worry, we're not doing Soylent Green here). Our heroine, Paige, wants to volunteer as New Standard's sacrifice, known as the Ritualist, and even though the narrative of the Ascension is shrouded in veiled puritanesque language, she understands on some level that she'll die in the process. 

The interesting thing about ritualized human sacrifice--as much as we've seen it throughout history--is that it's many times voluntary. Hell, Aztec parents even offered their own children to be sacrificed (though I imagine the children themselves weren't exactly volunteering: the linked article describes a ritual in which children were sacrificed so that they would cry and their tears would be an offering to some god who made it rain. Which--I mean, couldn't you just threaten to kill them and then use those tears? And then not kill them? Idk, I guess I'm too modern). 

Much of the imagery I use in this book, as far as ritualistic violence goes, is fire-based. There are a few reasons for this: one, my first concept of people being burned alive was the story of Joan of Arc, which I learned about from the "Bowser's Library" mini-program attached to the "Mario's Time Machine" PC game in the '90s. (I am still looking for a copy of this mini-program, so if you find one, hmu.) The imagery of Joan of Arc, her virginal purity, and the hopeful tragedy of a young girl who had immense value but then was centered and sacrificed and martyred--all of this was distressingly poetic to me as a child who had grown up in a very conservative evangelical Baptist community in central California. But I also grew up on a steady diet of witch books, and you can sure as hell bet that witch burnings had a morbid attachment in my brain. There was something romantic about the Salem Witch Trials, I imagined. Something that blended with chosen-one narratives and turned the victims into heroes. But I never really thought much about the reality of death by burning and its horrific details of until I got a few drafts into this book. 

​St Joan of Arc being burned at the stake for heresy, May 30, 1431. I really wish I knew who the artist was, so if someone knows, please tell me. Source: Encyclopedia Brittanica.

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A lot of chosen-one narratives are heroes who don't decide to be heroes. Jonas in The Giver is selected because he has some special ability he's born with. Harry Potter was chosen because he happened to be in the right place at the right time. Anakin Skywalker was in his position thanks to destiny, Buffy Summers is called to be the Slayer, Tris Prior is born 100% divergent, Ash Ketchum is destined to restore balance to the world. There is, of course, something beautiful about being selected out of the masses of thousands (if not five possible Gryffindors) and being told that you are important and special and that the universe rests on your shoulders, etc. But for me, chosen-one narratives are best when there's no destiny involved. 

Katniss Everdeen is one such heroine: she volunteers for the Hunger Games purely to spare her little sister. She does this compulsively and knowing that there's a very good chance that she'll lose. There's no prophecy, only late (late late late)-stage capitalism and autocracy. Katniss walks herself into a voluntary human sacrifice via her acceptance of the status quo and her sheer will to survive. 

Vessel's main character, Paige, is in some ways the opposite of Katniss. Paige is someone who has grown up in this cult and has completely bought into her religious beliefs, much like I did when I was just a bit younger than her. I remember believing in magic, in witches, in that blurry line between faith and reality; at eleven, I genuinely believed that I could control the weather. Until I was fifteen or sixteen, I imagined that I could see the fabric between this world and the next, because my belief was authentic and pure and full of complete trust. The thing that pulled me out of my siloed belief system was learning about other cultures and traditions--in particular, being in a mythology class that taught us about other flood stories. And then, all I wanted to do was find the comparisons between what I grew up being told was fact and finding comparable stories from other cultures. 

Paige hasn't gotten to that point in her life, mostly because she exists in a community that is the only community around. Her desire to be the Ritualist stems from her genuine desire to be the thing that purifies her community, but also as a welcome relief to her palpable fear of having to marry a dude, since she is very very gay. It might sound dramatic, but I wanted to touch on this depressing reality of the queer experience. Sometimes, the pressure of an oppressive, heteronormative world presses against the truth you know in your body--that no matter what you do, you will never be able to live honestly and you'll be stuck in the exhausting daily struggle of denying yourself for the rest of your life, and you will never belong--such that the only relief is simply choosing to no longer exist. 

​I didn't come out until after I was already married. I'm lucky, in a lot of ways, that I'm bi: I found acceptance from my (male) spouse, and ultimately didn't feel like I had to get divorced. I earnestly hope that this book finds its way to some kid struggling with feeling like they have to give themselves up, and I want them to know that, at the end of the day, they can look at the philosophy they were born into and burn it all down. ​​