You are blindfolded on a windy clifftop. Your hair is plastered to your head. […] You step forward. You think of the stone knife. It pricks your throat... and is withdrawn. You feel many hands at your back. They push you over the edge.
You are blindfolded on a windy clifftop. […] the stone knife[…] pricks your throat[…]. The wind tears away your blindfold. The young girl […] the priests push her over the cliff. 'You are safe,' says the thunder. 'We do not ask for your gift.'