Sowing the Seed, the Dead

Gobtober 2021: Prompt 8

Somewhere between the Ironbacks and their tradesmen and the sensible Evorians of East Heath dwell a furtive, reclusive people who shut themselves off from the world. Not many know of them, and their legend steals around the region as boogeymen and fanciful night-stalkers: tales used to scare children into keeping in line or for their safety from the dark, dark night.
But it is not entirely fiction. They do exist and they do keep to themselves. They live closer to the Southwall than is comfortable. Here the sparsely-fertile soil runs shallow, only a foot above the bedrock. Stubborn and xenophobic to all outsiders, but harmless to them who keep to themselves, these people do not seek help.
One explorer had the unfortunate meeting with them while lost in a storm. He found them strong and sallow-faced. They helped but it was more a capture. They led him into their claustrophobic town with squat houses as tall as a cottage but leveled into three stories so that one had to crawl to reside within. Indeed, as he passed by, the cloudy-eyes peered from shadows and many wiggled out from the low places. They gathered around him, but kept a distance. They wore simple clothes, mostly. Some of the women went bare-chested and most of the men did the same. It was a cold Aftwinter day, but they seemed not to notice. Several small children darted in front, clinging to their mothers and hissing as he passed.
He stumbled to a square where, lying on the table, were the cadavers of the freshly dead. They had the same appearance as those around him. The fetid smell of rotting flesh pierced his stupor. He swallowed hot chunks of vomit, not wanting to remotely displease his new hosts.
They set him down on a bench. The rain ceased just before arriving in town, if town was the precise word. Tense minutes passed. He sweat despite the chill in the air. Soon then, several distinguished men and women stole forward, causing him to jump. No one stopped him or acknowledged him. In fact, no one's eyes were anywhere but to the head-to-toe clad throng that surrounded the dead that lay upon the table. They drew knives and small woven sacks.
It was as they raised their knives up that the adventurer realized it was not a table, but an altar. Candles surrounded, though their light was unnaturally dim. Banners hung above, but they were so eaten he assumed them rubbish. The knives cut downward. He winced at the sound. It was a harsh ripping and a wet squirting and seeping. He heard the dripping of the dark blood on the altar floor. The knives went up again and down. More tearing and ripping. They placed their hands in their pouches and removed some small items. The throng was too clustered to see clearly, but he thought it to be small stones or pebbles perhaps. Finally, one of them spoke.
"Dear Chauntea," a ragged female voice began, "in exchange for these offerings grant us many bountiful harvest. May you provide, O Mother Earth, food and sustenance for your chosen, worthy people." The other members chanted, "Alo Bay. Fir Ehtte. Bol Nagul." He heard the sickening plunge of their hands into the wet, decaying flesh. Bodies were never meant to retain their moisture to make this much noise. It drove him insane.
All of a sudden, the people in unison began to howl, throwing their heads back and howling wildly at the early twilight. A full moon rose. The people, not just the important people at the altar, all moved toward the sacrifices and began to.....
The man panicked and bolted. Strong arms grabbed him. He dared not look back, he didn't have to. The squirting suction sound and the noise of teeth gnashing on soft meat penetrated his ears against his will. A large man went in front of him and said something he refused to inspect, refused to elaborate, lest his mind snap. They handed him his belongings and let him go. He broke into a sprint as if a horde of orcs were driving him down. Even as he ran he heard their wild howling continue.
He collapsed back at his home after morning came, escaping all night. His fellows pestered him and made fun of his appearance, but he had nothing to show. He dared not speak, and only on his deathbed did he recount his tale. And the thing that locked his mind, the words that stole his faculties for weeks still rang in his head until the day he died: "You are alive because you needed to see. You need to tell them to stop coming for us. You need to know: we care for our dead, we fulfill them, we return them to our crops. And we are not so different after all."