The first thing it remembered was hunger, the insufferable gnawing sensation, something it tried to satisfy by chewing on grasses and trees, but could not manage. It was a miserable few years–or was it decades, or centuries, or mere days?–before it sunk its head into the ocean for a drink and came up with a mouth full of fish, and finally discovered what would calm its aching belly.

The continents formed, mountains and valleys took shape before its eyes, and the being traveled the world in search of food. At first it only existed; it had no self-awareness or aspirations beyond filling its stomach. But, as new forms of life came into existence, the being found in itself a new kind of hunger, a hunger in its head.

It watched the fish swim in the ocean, with their brilliant and colorful tails, and then it ate them. It flew among the birds in the sky, listened to their whistling and squawking, and it ate them, too. Many different kinds of creatures evoked this head-hunger. Ants, who seemed too small to even be alive, but who could communicate and collaborate on complex tunnels. Lions, who fought and hunted viciously but tenderly cared for their cubs. And the humans, with their complex and inconsistent social dynamics, the tools and artwork they crafted from wood and stone, and their vocalizations, so expressive and so complicated. It observed the creatures, and when it hungered it ate them, but eating did not satisfy its curiosity.

Centuries passed. Humans learned how to fight back. They launched claws into the air to pierce and lodge into its flesh. No other creature had managed to hurt it so. Humans were the only ones who could scratch the Aĉaĵego without getting close enough for it to restrain.

This did not stop it from hunting humans. But it did learn not to linger in human settlements - instead, it snatched up its victims and flew away to the mountains, where it could play with and eventually eat its prey in peace. Sometimes the creatures it took tried to communicate with it, which was how it started to slowly piece together the mystery of human language.

Then came the day when the humans realized it could understand them.

The first thing it remembered was hunger, the insufferable gnawing sensation deep inside, something it tried to satisfy by chewing on grasses and trees, but could not manage. It was a miserable few years - or was it decades, or centuries, or was it merely days? - before it sunk its head into the ocean for a drink and came up with a mouthful of fish, and finally discovered what would calm its aching belly.

The continents formed, mountains and valleys took shape before its eyes, and the being traveled the world in search of food. At first it only existed; it had no self-awareness or aspirations beyond filling its stomach. But as new forms of life came into existence the being discovered in itself a new kind of hunger, a hunger in its head.

It watched the fish swim in the ocean, with their brilliant and colorful tails, and then it ate them. It flew among the birds in the sky, listened to their whistling and squawking, and it ate them, too. Many different kinds of creatures evoked this head-hunger – ants, who seemed too small to even be alive, but who could communicate and collaborate on complex tunnels. Lions, who fought and hunted viciously but tenderly cared for their cubs. And the humans, with their complex and inconsistent social dynamics, the tools and artwork they crafted from wood and stone, and their vocalizations, so expressive and so complicated. It observed the creatures, and when it hungered it ate them, but eating did not satisfy its curiosity.

Centuries passed, and humans learned how to fight it when they saw it coming. Instead of running away, they attacked with claws that launched into the air and lodged into its flesh. The claws hurt, more than any other creature had been able to hurt it before. Before that it had always been able to restrain anything that got close enough to scratch it.

This did not stop it from hunting humans. But it did learn not to linger in human settlements–instead, it snatched up victims and flew to the mountains, where it could play with and eat its prey in peace. Sometimes these humans tried to communicate with it, which was how it slowly pieced together the mystery of human language.

Then came the day when the humans realized it could understand them.

It had gone into the settlement to hunt, snatched up the first victim who could not outrun it, and heard a high-pitched cry of, "No! Not my baby! Take me instead!"

It obliged–set the child on the ground, took the larger human in its place, and flew off. The next time it flew into the village, it was greeted not by flying claws, but cries of "Halt! We wish to speak to thee!"

With its scattered vocabulary and crude grammar, the creature and the humans worked out a deal–it would stop attacking their villages. In return, they would provide it periodically with food that could not defend itself. It agreed to the terms, and from then on, ate only the humans which had been left for it.

It learned many things from these sacrifices–a more complete understanding of their language, the eccentricities of human culture, their religions and morals, and even its own name: Aĉaĵego.

But the more it ate, the more it continued to hunger–a dull hunger that ran deeper than its hunger for food or even knowledge, and maybe it wasn't really hunger at all. And as the Aĉaĵego filled its stomach with human meat and its head with human knowledge, it felt emptier and emptier.

~

Obeemulo was at his post bright and early on the morning after the new moon. He was anxious for news of the sentence. Luckily, as temple gatekeeper, he would be among the first to know.

"Morning." The night-guard, Batalisto, was relaxed, sitting on the fence and eating berries. It was acceptable to be slightly less vigilant at this hour of the day. Most of the late-night troublemakers had gone home, but it was still too early for the regular temple-goers.

Obeemulo joined him on the fence, noticing the sack of berries in the pile of unsorted tithes behind them–the priests would be around later to pick it up. He took a handful for himself. "You accept wild berries? Tithes are supposed to be a product of labor, not anything you can pick up on your way."

Batalisto shrugged. "Beggar woman left it. Couldn't really expect a 'product of labor' from her."

"Maybe those who don't labor shouldn't be allowed in. There's an irony in coming to the temple to beg for Terdiino's blessing when you won't work, and bless yourself."

Batalisto chuckled and popped another berry into his mouth. "By the way, I have good news. Rakontisto was released last night. A thief will be sacrificed in his place. The fool stole from a merchant in broad daylight. Even confessed."

Obeemulo sighed and smiled. "Thank the goddesses for dumb criminals. Terdiino must have been watching over Rakontisto."

Once a month, it was their village's turn to provide a sacrifice, someone chosen from among recent criminals. The one whose crime was most heinous–or most provable, if there was doubt–would be tied up at the offering spot for the Aĉaĵego. The rest were released.

Earlier in the month, their coworker, Rakontisto, had been accused of drunkenly molesting some farm girl at the lake. Obeemulo didn't believe it. He hadn't known the man well, but he'd always seemed personable and morally upright. On top of that, there had been no external evidence, and the only "witness" was the so-called "victim." But if there had been no other accused criminals, the lack of evidence wouldn't have mattered. There always had to be a sacrifice.

Batalisto finished his handful of berries and left Obeemulo to begin his shift. Stray roosters crowed as the sun rose, fading the monochromatic blue sky into the soft colors of early morning. The town was awakening, too; merchants began setting up shop, women and children passed by on their way to the well, and fishermen passed in the opposite direction towards the sea. High priests' morning prayers echoed from inside the temple, and the voices of children could be heard from the orphanage. He was not surprised when, minutes later, he heard the kicks and screams of an unruly sacrifice.

Often, the temple guards encountered prisoners who thought they didn't deserve to be punished for breaking the law. Today's sacrifice–a teenage girl with long braided hair–was apparently one of them. She had a guard on each arm, and she was thrashing about with her torso and dragging her feet. Cloth had been stuffed into her mouth, but she managed to vocalize incomprehensibly.

He sometimes pitied sacrifices, as he would have pitied Rakontisto–everyone knew the system wasn't fair, that sometimes bad people got away with their crimes, that sometimes the falsely-accused were sacrificed simply because there was no one else in jail, that the consequences of a drunken mistake could be as dire as a premeditated act. But he couldn't quite bring himself to sympathize with someone who had chosen to sin and then refused to even accept a dignified death. Not only had this thief stolen, but she'd stolen from a foreign merchant–that was particularly sinful, since it discouraged foreign trade and increased the prices of their already-rare goods. This thief had no right to throw a tantrum loud enough to wake the whole town. That was another problem with the system, he supposed. When some criminals were allowed escape consequences, every other criminal thought they deserve to as well.

He made eye contact with the sacrifice as they approached. She tried to cry out at him, but her message was garbled by the gag, and the guard on her right jerked her in a way that caused her to stumble and look down again. Obeemulo held the gate open for them, meeting the prison guard's exasperated expression with a sympathetic smirk.

Any townspeople that might have been about to cross their path stood back–some averted their eyes, some grimaced, others turned to gossip with their neighbors. Usually, the priests tried to send the sacrifices out earlier than this. But when criminals waited to offend until just before the day of sacrifice, the usual formal procedures had to be put together last minute. It wasn't uncommon for people to abuse the system, delaying their devious deeds until they knew someone else had been caught doing something worse, and then delaying even further to minimize the time they'd have to spend in jail before the unselected criminals were released.

Because of this, the city guards were extra vigilant on these days. The judging priests stayed at the temple prepared to gather for last-minute trials, the nuns prepared extra prison chambers, and Saĝulo, the highest-ranking priest in their town, did not make a definite sacrificial selection until just before it was time to give the Final Blessing. But it still took time to finalize everything, and sometimes that meant a scene couldn't be avoided.

But in the end, as unpleasant as such scenes could be, no one would complain or interfere. Everyone knew what happened on those very rare occasions when a sacrifice managed to escape. That knowledge was always enough to deter further criticism. It may have been a necessary evil, but the system was the will of the goddess Terdiino. It was the way of life