Under the heart of the city of Bath, an ancient spring sputtered in the dark of the crypt. A few last drops of water spilled onto the stone altar, drying in russet patches over flakes of blood, layered from generations of sacrifice.

The surface of the altar was pitted and scarred, chiselled into spirals and waves in homage to the almost-forgotten goddess. While the spring flowed, she slept.

But now the waters were almost dry.

As the faint sound of Christmas carols sank down from the city above, the shadows shifted and a slight figure emerged from the rock.

The goddess needed to drink once more.

 

* * *

 

Evan stepped out of the hostel into the freezing morning air and pulled his faded woollen cap down over his ears. He exhaled, a cloud of breath forming in front of him.

The winter sun was warm on his skin and he looked up, closing his eyes against its brightness. The cold air stung his freshly shaven chin, the cheap Bic razor an investment in his busking routine. After all, clean shaven meant respectable.

He reached around and knocked twice on the body of the guitar case slung onto his back. The low echo thrummed through his chest, a good-luck ritual for the day. If he could play a tune that made people smile or raised a tear, then he was a musician earning proper money, not a homeless beggar. He might even earn a good feed.

Steak pie and chips. A pint of Dark and Stormy. He could almost taste it.

Evan walked away from the hostel, down the hill towards the centre of the city. The narrow modern streets opened out into wide Georgian terraces, the cream-coloured stone catching the sun as he strode past. Elaborate Christmas lights hung between lamp-posts, strings of bright red and silver curled into the shape of festive wreaths. Above them, the spire of the medieval Abbey spiked the sky. Evan pulled his battered leather jacket closer around him and stuck his hands in his pockets. He needed to keep his fingers warm to play.

A few minutes later, he emerged into the oldest part of the city, where the Christmas market sprawled between the Abbey and the ancient Roman baths. People had walked upon these stones for over two thousand years — pagan worshippers paid homage to the water goddess Sulis; Roman soldiers left curse tablets in the spa waters of Sulis Minerva; and much later, Georgian aristocrats soaked their bloated bodies in the fashionable heart of Bath Spa.

In these modern days of secular consumerism, seasonal shoppers flocked from the surrounding counties, bringing full wallets and a festive spirit. Evan smiled as he walked across the courtyard in front of the Abbey, anticipating the generosity of the good-natured crowd. He would sleep with a full belly tonight.

An enormous Christmas tree stood in front of the Abbey, twinkling with silver lights and behind it, the imposing stone facade that housed the Christian heart of the city. Carved ladders flanked the huge stained-glass window and angels climbed toward heaven on either side, their wings tucked behind as they reached up with slender fingers. But one angel clawed its way down the ladder, its body slinking close to the slats, its head swivelled toward those below instead of its Lord above.

It was only a stone carving, but Evan shivered at its malevolent stare as it crawled toward him, teeth bared, long fingers like talons ready to rip him apart.

He pushed the thought away and returned to Christmas cheer, running through his repertoire of songs as he weaved his way through the warren of little wooden huts toward the busking pitch.

Artisan goods overflowed from every stall — locally made Bath gin, West Country cheese, handmade jewellery, and Christmas wreaths woven from dried oranges and holly. The smell of mulled cider filled the air with notes of spiced apple and cinnamon. On one stall, hot roasted chestnuts crackled in sugar over flame and nearby, the scent of thick hot chocolate spiked with brandy, the sweetness making Evan’s mouth water.

Smiling families dawdled by the stalls with children bundled up in puffy coats, sticky fingers clutching chocolate reindeer and Santa’s special fudge.

One little girl in a red dress stopped in front of a stall with hand-carved puppets, her eyes wide as she stared into the mass of strings. Her mother pointed out a pretty pink fairy, but Evan noticed the child gazing at the dark goat-like figure of Krampus. It clutched a birch branch in one gnarled hand to beat its victims and a basket on its back to carry children away for devouring. Dark spirits lurked behind the glittering festive cliché and Evan wondered which puppet the little girl really wanted.

He walked on past a Christmas decoration stall, each little ornament in coloured glass, delicate and spun like cotton candy. One showed a little boy kneeling by a bed saying his prayers, an empty stocking next to him waiting for gifts. Something about the boy’s posture made Evan catch his breath. It had been so long since he had prayed, so long since there had been a bed to kneel next to for more than a couple of nights. His own home back in Dublin had certainly been no sanctuary.

He hurried on, eyes skimming over the remaining stalls as he picked his way through the crowd. The market was suddenly too close, too loud, too bright. He needed to play, to quiet memory with music so the past would recede once more. Evan clenched his fists in his pockets. Not long now, the pitch was just up ahead.

He emerged from the crush into a square directly beneath the south flank of the Abbey, bounded on one side by the walls of the ancient Roman bath. Huts nestled around the edges selling German sausages and mulled wine, and groups of festive shoppers stood around munching while they listened to the busker finishing up his session with a Van Morrison classic. The guy was okay, but Evan knew he could warm up this pitch in no time.

A ray of winter sun broke through the clouds and touched a tiny stall nestled against the side of the Abbey. The young woman tending it had blonde hair, curled and plaited on either side of her head, an intricate design interwoven with winter holly and berries. She turned and caught Evan’s eye, smiling in welcome. A friendly face was always a good start to a busking pitch, so he walked over.

A simple black cloth dominated her stall, dramatically framing a series of small round discs made from lead and stone marked with symbolic waves and curling spirals. Minimalist jewellery that seemed quite out of keeping with the extravagant colours and designs of the other stalls — but there was something about it that drew Evan in.

“Have you come for the day?” the young woman asked, her voice soft and lilting. Her eyes were almost aquamarine, a welcoming blue with a hidden promise, and she smelled fresh with a hint of something mineral.

Evan tapped his guitar. “I’m busking. Do you know how I can get a slot?”

The young woman turned and pointed toward a side door of the Abbey. “Over there. Those two guys are running things.”

She touched his hand. Her skin was like water on silk, slip-sliding and smooth and cold as marble. “Be sure to come back later. Maybe we can have a glass of mulled wine after closing up.”

Evan smiled. The day might turn out even better than expected. “I’ll play a song for you.”

He walked over to the side door, where two men leaned against stone pillars on either side of the gate, bundled up in knock-off designer jackets and black jeans. One sucked the last puff of a cigarette as Evan approached.

“I’m looking to play. You manage the pitch?”

The smoker dropped the butt of the cigarette to the flagstones, crushing it with his heel. He was silent for a few seconds and Evan sensed judgment in the man’s stare. Did he see a young musician with potential, despite the rough clothes he wore?

“Do you sing as well as play?” The smoker nodded at the guitar, his accent a rough West Country.

Evan nodded. “Yes, Irish tunes as well as carols.”

“No more bloody carols.” The other man grunted and spat on the ground. “If you play something else, you can have the pitch next.”

“I’ll play folk songs then. Something different.”

The smoker hawked and spat on the ground. “We take fifty percent. Bring it here after your slot.”

That was robbery and they all knew it. But the man’s eyes were as hard as the frost on newly dug graves.

Evan nodded.

The smoker pointed out into the square. “Take over from that loser. Maybe the luck of the Irish will bring you some more cash.”

As Evan walked out into the middle of the square, the clouds parted and the late winter sun blessed the gathered masses with its warmth. The anticipation of performance warmed him inside, and his fingers itched for the vibration of that first note. Even the potential of losing half his earnings couldn’t dampen his anticipation of the smiling crowd — and the chink of coins in his guitar case.

He stood for a second in the middle of the square, silently calling the masses to him in a ritual he performed before any busking session. Turn and listen, turn and listen.

Evan swung his guitar around and touched the strings, the pads of his fingers tingling from the cold but also with his need to play.

He plucked the first chords, caressing the strings as he sang of a home beyond the waves, a time of magic, and love that conquered all. He smiled as he sang, catching the eyes of the shoppers, weaving them into the music. This was when he felt most alive, and it didn’t matter that he had little in the world. When the melody soared, he was happy.

A little girl ran forward with a few coins and then more people dropped money in his guitar case, nodding at him and clapping as he finished each tune.

Evan sang on and soon his case overflowed with donations and Christmas cheer and a few pieces of fudge for good measure.

But as the clock struck four and the early winter darkness clawed its way over the city, a freezing wind swept into the square.

The clouds broke apart.

Icy sleet poured down, and the wind swept a blizzard into the Christmas huts.

People scurried for shelter, grabbing the hands of their children and running for the bigger shops on the high street. The hut owners slammed their shutters closed, trying to protect their stock from the sudden storm. The sound of hail on stone echoed through the suddenly empty square.

Evan snapped his guitar case shut and picked it up in one hand while he hugged his guitar to his chest with the other.

He ran for shelter, ducking down an alleyway at the side of the Abbey. He cowered in a doorway, turning inwards to protect his precious instrument from the icy rain. A drop of freezing water ran down the back of his neck and he shivered as he waited for the storm to pass.

The sound of heavy footsteps came from the alleyway behind.

Evan whipped his head around to see the two men approaching, oblivious to the storm raging about them, their hard eyes fixed on his guitar case.

“You running with our money?” the smoker growled.

Evan shook his head. “I was just sheltering from the storm. I can go back out when it stops. It’s a good pitch. I’ll get more.”

The smoker stepped forward, crushing Evan into the corner of the doorway. His breath stank of stale smoke and cheap brandy. “The day’s over, so we’ll take it now. All of it.”

“Fifty percent, you said.”

The man gave a grim smile, and Evan glimpsed faraway places in his grey eyes. Forests of tall trees and pale graves beneath mounds of dark earth where fresh corpses lay inches beneath the surface.

The smoker grabbed Evan’s coat and jerked him forward, smashing the bridge of Evan’s nose with a practiced head butt.

As pain exploded through his skull and blood gushed in a warm stream, Evan fell to his knees, gasping for breath as drops of red speckled the flagstones beneath him.

The other man leaned in and grabbed for the guitar case.

Evan wrestled to keep hold of it. He dug his fingers in, tugging it back towards his torso. The cash was the only thing keeping him from the streets tonight.

The smoker kicked him hard.

The blow thudded against Evan’s ribs and he fell back against his guitar, the sound of splintering wood an echo of his despair.

He let the case go, but the men didn’t stop.

The two of them laid into him, their swift blows aimed with expertise and deliberation. Evan curled up on the freezing ground, his arms wrapped around his head, waiting for it to end. The sound of their panting breath was almost drowned out by the pounding of rain on stone, the thuds resounding through his bruised body, pain cresting as he wished for the darkness to come.

As the edge of oblivion beckoned, the men stopped.

Evan reached for his guitar. If he could just…

The smoker said something guttural and the other man laughed. He grabbed the guitar and stomped on it, his heavy boots breaking the wood, splintering it to pieces on the stones beneath.

The men walked away, and Evan curled around the remains of his livelihood. He wanted to sink into the freezing cold earth and let the pain dissolve with him. There was nothing left. He had lost the only thing that earned him a meal and a bed. The only thing that brought him joy and could banish the memories he ran from.

He cursed the two men, the words of his Celtic ancestors coming unbidden to his lips. Incantations he had heard in dark places far away from the church, whispered maledictions that spoke of sacrifice to those of ancient times.

As he lay in the dark, Evan’s blood pooled in the furrows between the flagstones, trickling down to the ancient spring beneath.

The storm passed, but Evan lay unmoving, the cold numbing his bruised limbs as he focused on each breath that filled his lungs. On every exhalation, he cursed the men who had taken everything from him.

Soft footsteps approached from the end of the alley.

“Oh no. You poor thing.” The young woman from the market stall ran over and knelt next to him.

She brushed his wet, matted hair from his face and touched his wounds with cool fingers, staining her fingernails with his blood.

Evan looked up at her concerned expression. How could he have thought her eyes were a welcoming aquamarine? They were cold and clear as a crystal spring now, a reflection of the winter storm.

“They took everything. Even my guitar is ruined.” He stifled a sob.

“Shh,” the young woman whispered. “I have something that can help you.” Her voice was sharper now, like the edge of rough-cut flint. “The goddess of the spring hears those who call on her.”

Evan’s breath caught in his throat, as if a sliver of ice pierced his heart and disrupted its rhythm. He had spoken his own curses only minutes before, and this was a place of power, a sacred spring for thousands of years and a convergence point for Druidic ley lines that ran all the way to Stonehenge.

“What should I do?”

She smiled. “Come with me.”

Evan stood slowly, using the wall of the abbey to push himself up. He leaned on the young woman and they hobbled together back down the alleyway to her stall. The market square was deserted now, the colourful Christmas lights casting an eerie glow onto the stone.

The young woman pointed at the carved discs of stone and lead marked with pagan runes, some curled and spiny, others with slash marks and deep cuts. “These are curse tablets.”

One in particular drew Evan’s gaze. A piece of bullet-grey lead marked with a deep slash bisected with smaller slices, as if claws had raked across its surface in a haze of bloodlust.

“Take it,” she whispered.

Evan picked it up and let the cool weight lie in his palm. It seemed to pulse with a dark vein of power that connected him to the earth below and the sky above with some kind of elemental force. In a moment of clarity, he glimpsed how insignificant he was against the timelessness of this ancient place, and a sense of vertigo almost sent him to his knees.

But he couldn’t let it go.

Evan imagined casting it into the spring and as it settled on the bottom in the dark, tendrils of rust would spiral from it as the curse worked its magic.

He looked at the young woman. “I… I can’t pay for it.”

She put a cool finger against his lips, her touch feather-light. “The curse tablet chooses its own. This one is yours. Offer it to the goddess and she will take her sacrifice. The spring is this way.”

She ducked back behind her stall and Evan followed, the pain in his body ebbing away as his curiosity grew.

There was a stone staircase in the Abbey wall. He could have sworn it hadn’t been there earlier, and yet it looked archaic. The steps had a slope in the middle, worn from so many desperate feet over millennia, trekking down to the spring in supplication. How many came for vengeance? How many saw their curses fulfilled?

Evan took a step down and clutched at the stone wall to steady his wobbly legs. As he descended, he looked back up at the woman. Her eyes were like an ice cave now, reminiscent of the blue light in the centre of an ancient glacier. How could he have thought her so young?

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

“You’ll find the way,” she answered, her voice like the ripple of a hidden creature under a pool of dark water.

Evan clutched his curse token and turned back to the stairway, winding his way down to a fissure in the rock, a semblance of a doorway that led inexorably down. The sound of dripping water came from within and he walked carefully toward where he thought the spring must be, using the freezing stone for guidance in the gloom.

It felt timeless down here, as if the air had frozen in an older age when people lived closer to the earth and its spirits. Evan felt an urge to turn back, to ascend to the realm of Christmas lights and sugar candy and tinsel and holiday cheer.

But the curse tablet burned in his hand with cool fire and he could smell the mineral scent of the pool, somehow reminiscent of the woman above.

He must be close now.

There was a light up ahead, a deep green haze as if he swam beneath thick fronds of seaweed in the shadows of the deep.

Evan edged around a last bend in the tight corridor and emerged into a stone chamber roughly hewn from the rock. There were marks on the walls, curling and spiky and slashed like the curse tablets and in the centre, a low altar where once the sacred waters had overflowed with abundance.

But now the spring was dry.

Evan’s heart pounded as he approached the altar. There were patches of something dark on the rock — could it be blood?

A statue of the goddess of the spring stood behind the altar. The hazy green light flickered across her delicate features, illuminating her curled and plaited hair, an intricate design interwoven with winter holly and berries.

She smiled down at him and as the light faded to black, it seemed as if her marble lips parted in anticipation.

Evan turned to run.

He slipped on the wet stone and fell to his knees, pain slamming through his already broken body.

He crawled on, desperate to escape, but he could no longer find the fissure he entered through. He scraped against the stone, his fingers bleeding as he tried to claw the rock apart.

“Help! Let me out!” he shouted up to the market above, but the thick stone smothered his cries until he fell sobbing to the cold stone beneath.

In the dark, Evan heard the whisper of water slipping toward him over the cracked floor of the ancient spring. A cool finger softly touched his lips and soothed his wounds with icy balm before slipping into his throat, pouring ice into his lungs, silencing his final scream.

The goddess drank and, under the heart of the city, the ancient spring bubbled into life once more.

 

Author’s Note

 

I first wrote this story inspired by the Bath Christmas markets back in 2015, but I didn’t publish it because I wanted Evan to triumph and emerge from his difficult situation into a better life.

But every time I revisited the story, his path always ended in sacrifice.

A single life given for the benefit of all.

It’s not fair — and it’s not how I wanted the story to go — but that’s just how it is sometimes.

As I re-edited the story again in mid-December 2021, we were living in the COVID-19 pandemic. Every single person sacrificed something for the greater good — and it was still not over.

The darkness of A Midwinter Sacrifice felt appropriate when I finally published it, and I released this story into the world with a glimmer of hope. Perhaps the goddess had taken enough, and our collective spring would bubble into life once more.

 

***

 

At the time of writing, I live in Bath, England, and the setting of the Christmas market next to the Abbey and the Roman baths is accurate.

Every year the council build a warren of little huts and people come from around the area to shop, and drink mulled cider and eat juicy burgers. There are plenty of beautiful handmade gifts and moments of Christmas cheer — but the market also has dark corners.

There are indeed curse tablets in the museum at the Roman Baths, pulled from the hot springs and inscribed with words of power. The Celtic goddess Sulis was once worshipped here, before the Romans assimilated her into Sulis Minerva, and then the Christians built a simple church, and then an Abbey on the sacred site.

I’ve explored the city’s pagan and occult side further through my Mapwalker dark fantasy trilogy, starting with Map of Shadows.

You can listen to me talk about Druids, Freemasons, and Frankenstein: The Darker Side of Bath, England, in an episode of my Books and Travel Podcast: www.booksandtravel.page/bath-england