Finn should have been terrified.

He had willingly climbed the makeshift steps and entered the torso of the wicker man.

The access hatch, constructed of thick interlacing branches, had been secured behind him.

Finn was seventeen. On the edge of life. In the jaws of death.

He had witnessed human sacrifices. Now he would be one.

He was elated. Privileged. What an honour to be chosen to appease the gods.

The high priest had placed a hand on his head. Blessed his soul with druidic incantations.

Finn could see most of what was happening below, on the ground.

He knew he was witnessing the preliminaries.

A white bull, its horns bound in the traditional manner, was brought, bellowing, to its knees.

White-clad priests circled round the brushwood fire. Each was armed with a golden sickle.

Chanting, each priest in turn left the circle, slashing at the bull’s neck. Replaced by another.

The forest floor was awash with blood. Exsanguinating, the bull’s resistance dissipated.

The high priest sat astride the dying creature, wiping his bloody hands on his face.

      “Lugus, Hungar, grant us fertility in man and beast,” he roared, appealing to the sky.

Finn was spellbound. Would he soon be sitting beside those deities in the Hall of the Gods?

The priests now turned their attention to the wicker man.

One by one they lit a torch from the fire and thrust it into the base of the wooden effigy.

The high priest invoked the benison of the ancestors.

      “We offer you a pure virgin youth. Consecrate our village with your blessed gratitude.”

Finn could feel the heat rising. Hear the wood crackling, sparking. Smell sweet, seared beech.

His mind took him to another place.

He was ecstatic. Consumed by the delirious fervour of martyrdom.

*

Myrrdin watched. Conflicted. Horrified.

The huge sessile oak from which the wicker man hung was festooned by mistletoe.

A parasitic symbiosis.

Everything was as it should be to please the deities.

It was an honour to have your son selected for sacrifice to the ancients.

But to see your beloved child roasted alive was…unacceptable.

Could he claim the title “father” while standing by passively to witness Finn’s cremation?

A wren startled him, lighting on his left wrist. Shy birds. Sacred birds. An omen, surely.

Myrrdin knew this was a sign.

He ran, howling, rapidly mounting the steps to the centre of the wicker man.

Ripping the hatch apart, he reached inside and threw his arms around his son’s waist.

      “Father,” cried Finn, “would you cheat me of my place in the overworld?”

The boy broke free of his father’s grasp and pushed him back through the hatch.

Myrrdin crashed into the flames beneath, which surged and roared.

Finn felt the heat intensify and breathed deeply, with fervid anticipation.

As he started to choke on the acrid smoke, Finn spied his mother beneath.

Did those tears represent loss and grief, or jubilation for her son’s passage to the gods?