The Cult

by Mink, Jason

With a small nod Ashton went to the bar, pouring his guest a generous scotch on the rocks.

  "Cheers."

  Shea raised his glass and drained it effortlessly. He was clearly no stranger to the spirit world.

  "Ladies and gentlemen..." The group rose and followed Ashton and Chloe, who led them into the dining room. The massive chandelier blazed, filling the space with dazzling light. Baxter had never seen the room so bright before. its true dimensions were impressive, proving to be much bigger than it appeared in candlelight. Baxter took a seat between Annie and Zak. He waited until general chit-chat began among the group before leaning close to Zak and quietly speaking. "What do you think?"

  Zak lifted his glass to his lips and spoke around its rim. "We wait and see."

  Baxter nodded imperceptibly, then raised his own glass. All the wine was beginning to give him heartburn, but he drank it anyway, trying to appear casual.

  Ashton was listening intently to Shea speak."…he was a good man, y'r dad was. A crime him bein' taken so early."

  Ashton smiled. "Thank you for saying that, Mr. Shea. I'm sure he would appreciate you joining us here tonight, considering…"

  Shea raised a hand. "Please, sir. Say no more about it. I was jus' glad t' do my part."

  "Of course," Ashton said in his plastic fashion.

  Shea turned his attention to Erica. "So what're you kids doin' cooped up in this big dusty ol' house fer? Wouldn't cha rather t' be at th' beach or somethin' ?"

  Erica smiled. "We're having a blast right where we are, Mr. Shea."

  "Oh, yeah? So what is it do ya do all day?"

  She shrugged, hair spilling over her shoulders.

  "The usual things, I guess." She laughed, as did Ashton and Adam.

  Chloe smiled. "We do a lot of studying."

  The old man arched a brow. "You readin' them books o' yer grandpa's, boy?"

  The directness of the question was surprising and a curious look passed across Ashton's face. "Books? What do you mean, sir?"

  "Yer gran'dad always was one fer more…esoteric sorts o' learnin'. Fer example…what this here boy is readin'" He gestured towards Adam, who was doubling over a paragraph in Clautney Iris' the Other Way. "Now that book got mor'n a few folk 'round here an' otherwise in trouble. Stirs things up it. Best t' leave things like that in the past, where they belong."

  Ashton looked at him nonplussed. "I assume you are familiar with the text?"

  "Familiar enough."

  "Then you understand how foolish you must sound to us. Paq'q says the gift of this life is Flesh. "Each man and woman to their own temple, but ever unto Me". That is our doctrine, Mr. Shea, the living Word. My grandfather did what he could to spread that Word, as do I." He watched his guest evenly from the rim of his wineglass. For his part Mr. Shea seemed unshaken by Ashton's outburst, though others at the table seemed more than a little surprised.

  "So your grandfather was into this stuff?" Erica asked. "You never mentioned that to us."

  Ashton shrugged. "My apologies, dear. I didn't think it terribly important."

  "So…he had gatherings here?"

  Shea answered for Ashton. "You might say that, poppy." He left it at that, forcing Ashton into a position of further explanation.

  "Yes, in fact my grandfather was considered of the IRI. He was a member in good standing and could be counted on to provide…assistance in times of need. For example, Clautney Iris's last book was first published in a private edition paid for by my grandfather."

  Zak raised his eyebrows. "Your grandfather knew Clautney Iris?"

  Ashton shifted in his seat. "He did indeed. He came to know him quite well in the last years of his life."

  Dumbfounded, Zak shook his head. "You've gotta be kidding me! You didn't think we'd want to know your family has been involved in this since the beginning?"

  Ashton put his fingers together and spoke calmly."All in good time, Zak. As you can see, even today there are those who fear what Iris had to say. I wanted you all to discover the truth of his Word for yourselves, as I knew you would. I didn't want you to be influenced merely by the idea of the thing. Cultists and fanatics write me every day, begging me to bring them here, to give them some scrap of the past. But this is not about the past. This is about the future."

  Inspiring words, though a few at the table still looked unsure. It was then the food came, providing a blessed break in the conversation. Baxter caught the look Ashton shot Michael Shea and understood the old man was now treading on shaky ground. Obviously Ashton had not been ready to tell them what he just had; Shea had forced his hand. To disrupt the circle, perhaps? Baxter wondered why the old man would bother. Whatever it was the group were doing here in the manor, they were obviously still just kids, with no clear power or magical knowledge. It seemed absurd to equate them with some obscure sex cult from the nineteen thirties. And yet...

  "Was he…was Iris ever here?" It was Annie who asked, to everyone's surprise. They looked from her to Ashton.

  He put down his fork. "Clautney Iris has been a guest at the manor a number of times, once even visiting for several months. And, to answer your next obvious question, it was summer, 1947. He was hoping to find a bit of…respite after his time in Europe. I will show you a photograph...after dinner."

  That last sentence made it perfectly clear Ashton was done speaking of such things. He began to eat as if alone; one by one his guests joined him. Baxter watched Shea out of the corner of his eye. The old man seemed to be cautiously relaxed, thoughtfully chewing his food. Every now and again he would glance about the room. Not at anyone or anything in particular as much as in general appraisal. Baxter could only imagine what he was thinking. Erica, on the other hand, had a more direct approach.

  "So you're an old family friend, Mr. Shea. Have you lived here all of your life?"

  Shea looked at Erica and nodded, dabbing his lips with the cloth napkin before speaking. "Pretty much, Miss. I've been and gone but always come back. You just know home when yer there, I guess." He sipped his wine then continued."It was 1939. I dropped outta school an' right into th' mine. My mother was dead-set against it. See, my daddy died in that same mine not a year earlier…an accident, of course. There were lots of accidents back then. Not to disparage yer gran'dad, Mr. Ashton; it's just the way things were in those days. Like I said, my mother was against me goin' in, but as a high school drop-out in a small town I didn't have any more choice than most of th' other boys I grew up with. Lots o' their daddies died in those mines, or because of 'em, an' that left a hole in the workforce. So in we went." He stopped to sip his wine, then began to butter a roll.

  Old as he was, Michael Shea seemed to have a hearty enough appetite. While Ashton maintained his air of sophisticated disinterest and Adam was busy dripping salad dressing on the pages of his book, the rest of the group were listening intently. After a bite of roll Shea continued. "Thing was, there were some problems happenin' behind the scenes. No one knew it at th' time but soon enough it came out. The mine had suffered some setbacks and was in danger of bein' foreclosed on by the bank. There was lots of finger-pointing' and yellin', with people talkin' about strikes an' th' like. It was lookin' pretty bad until a group o' workers got together an' hammered out a deal with th' mine owners and th' bank. We miners formed a consortium, took on th' debt in turn for interest in th' company, stocks and whatnot. Worked practically for free fer three years, until th' mine was in th' black again."

  "Wow," Erica said, genuinely impressed. "I had no idea."

  "Eh. We did what we had t'do."

  "Mr. Shea is too modest," Ashton said, putting down his fork. "He was instrumental in moderating the agreement between the two parties. He was co-chair of the Worker's Coalition, as well as later serving on the mine's board of directors. Without his tireless work and sacrifice things would have turned out much differently."

  "That's kind of you t' say, sir." Shea regarded Ashton for a moment, then returned his attention to his roll. There was a lull in the conversati
on, which was covered by the clinking of silverware on plates and the soft wet sounds of mastication.

  "So what do you do now?" Erica piped up again, "I guess you're pretty well off, if you're a shareholder in the mine."

  Ashton barely contained a grimace, but Shea merely shrugged. "Things didn't quite work out that way, I'm afraid. But I do all right. Live with my dog at the bottom of the hill. Spend a lot o' time walkin' in th' woods here. Keep movin' an' it's harder fer Death t' catch ya."

  Shea was joking, but in his case there was more than a grain of truth to it. Before anything more could be said, the second course arrived. Metathias and the kitchen staff had outdone themselves, laying out a remarkably lavish spread. If Shea didn't always eat like this he gave no sign, consuming all that was placed in front of his in a slow, methodical style. At one point he glanced up and caught Baxter looking his way. Baxter quickly turned, embarrassed to have been caught staring. He felt exposed beneath the old man's gaze, revealed in a way he could not explain. He went back to his own plate, picking at food grown cold, hoping the next time he looked up the old man's attention would be elsewhere.

  Erica continued her attempt at pleasantries, asking Shea where his family was from, and their visitor was happy to respond with a twenty minute discourse on the most intimate aspects of his genealogy. He followed this thread through dinner's third course, stopping just short of desert. Not precisely the most stimulating conversation in the world, but perhaps that had been Shea' s intent all along. His boring talk had discharged much of the tension that had gathered at the beginning of the meal, making it possible to end on a quiet note. The group gathered in the drawing room for coffee before Shea's tour of the manor. Baxter observed him from a careful distance.

  Shea continued to talk about local history, but would occasionally glance across the room as if distracted by something. Baxter followed Shea's attention to the disused stone fireplace that dominated a large section of the western wall. An ancient smokey mirror loomed over a wide wooden mantlepiece laden with antique curios, clocks and other expensive junk. Twin burled columns held the heavy mantle in place above a curiously-angled black hearthstone. The high, wide firebox was capped with a thick oak panel that appeared to be as old as anything else in the room. Why it held Shea's attention, Baxter could not say, but he did not have the chance to dwell on it.

  "Mr. Shea, everyone. If we are ready.." and while the rest of the group were already well familiar with the layout of the manor they went along in the interest of receiving the official guided tour. Ashton said nothing of the room they left, beginning immediately with a large photograph at the end of the hall. "This is my great grandfather Thomas Ashton. Born in Ireland in 1863..."

  Baxter stifled a yawn, knowing it would be the first of many. Why did people always feel compelled to tell stories from the beginning?

  TWELVE

  Three days later they had another ritual. Rain had unceremoniously chased them from their usual place in the garden, a sudden storm blowing in from nowhere at the last moment. Clothing soaked, they retired to their respective rooms to dry off and change. The vibe had changed as well. Ashton, who'd been unusually quiet, was now clearly irritated. On anyone else the mood would look silly, but their host wore it with the collar up, a shield to hide his anger as much as deflect any attempts at casual conversation. The group seemed to mirror his shift, some growing sour while others brightened to compensate.

  Annie seemed especially apprehensive. As far as Baxter knew, she had never asked for any details about the last ritual, and no one went out of their way to volunteer them. Perhaps she had no memory of it. This seemed to be the case on the surface, but Baxter suspected she realized that something had occurred; whether it was just a drug-induced hallucination or something more remained to be seen.

  Since Shea's visit there had been a change in the group outlook. The circle had grown tighter, more focused. There was something in the air, an almost-tangible link between the seven and whatever strange force they had connected with. Conversations became increasingly dogmatic, which struck Baxter as both sad and funny. Most of the group had never heard of Clautney Iris and his books three months ago, yet now he was all anyone seemed to want to talk about. The realization that Iris had a personal history in the manor only excited interest in the others, their initial indignation and anger at being lied to replaced by a new-found fervor to consume and understand the magician's work. As for Baxter, he was still trying to process all that had happened to him. He knew he wasn't ready; to smoke the Paq'qa again would be madness, and yet...

  "It's about fucking time," Adam said scornfully. He stood with his right foot on the cushion of an ornate wooden chair, leaning forward with his weight on one elbow. His freshly-washed hair was still slightly damp and hung untied down his back, one stray strand carefully placed to hang over his left eye. He had obviously been posing this way for some time and clearly resented having to hold it so that Baxter might see.

  "Everyone, please."

  All turned their attention to Ashton, who stood before the massive oak mantelpiece. Metathias had hurriedly removed the usual decorative items, replacing them with a number of small glass globes, each of which held a fresh candle. The globes were a deep red, casting a crimson hue that seemed both wrong and perfect for what they were about to do.

  "We gather together here tonight, to form a circle seven strong. Undaunted by the elements, we carry on. Before the Beginning, two brothers stood side by side in the Nothingness. Twin sons of Amm, Mother of All, they woke in the heart of the abyss, hungry and blind, their sentience agony in the undefined void. For incalculable spans they struggled, seeking form, definition, or some means to escape their prison. But there was nowhere to escape to. Only they existed, twin Gods with no Kingdoms to rule. Unable to be free, they eventually turned upon one another. Only then what we know as Time began, as their battle created the frisson necessary for change to occur. These pockets of sheer potentiality drifted into the infinite, in time finding each other, creating the fecund crust in which Life might begin to form. The battles rages as we speak, the twins defined by their very opposition: Ur, King of Reason, in eternal conflict with his Other, Paq'q, Lord of Unrest. The storm of their spilled blood filled the sea and the sparking of their swords set the sky with stars. We are those stars, the light that endures."

  With that Ashton lit the pipe. In the red light his face was a mask, waxen and unreadable. He drew from the bowl deeply, head bowing as he passed it on. All seemed to share his sense of reverence save Baxter, who felt a mounting sense of dread. It was somehow wrong tonight – the mood was off, ill at ease and unfocused. Still, when the time came he drew from the pipe as the others had, ingesting the Paq'qa in spite of his concerns.

  The drawing room was quiet tonight. Zak had chosen not to play music this time, perhaps in deference to the ongoing storm. It was the only thing that could be heard, the close-yet-distant echo of thunder periodically rattling the open windows. The wind picked up then, stirring the curtains and making the candlelight dance wildly. Shadows leapt up the walls, across the ceiling and through the circle. Baxter found himself staring at Ashton or, to be precise, the mantle behind Ashton. It had always been just another feature of the manor before, but now Baxter found himself oddly fixated by it. The mirror in particular caught his eye, its smokey reflection alive with the candle's flickering red light. He found himself glancing at it as Shea had, with a feigned casualness. Or so he thought.

  "Why do you keep looking at me that way?" Ashton asked, holding the pipe. Baxter wasn't exactly sure what to say to this.

  "I'm not looking at you - I'm looking, uh, past you."

  "Seriously, Baxter?" Adam growled. "Can't you see we're doing something here?"

  Zak laughed at this.

  "Well, just what is it we're doing here, Adam? Please explain it to us."

  It was a powerful question, one which no one had dared ask aloud. And now Adam was given the chance to answer it for them. "Well…"
he began. Even in the weird light it was obvious he was blushing, embarrassed at being put on the spot. While he'd been reading his book like everyone else there was always the question of how much of it he actually understood. "We are worshiping Paq'q," he said lamely. Zak laughed again, Adam's embarrassment turning to rage.

  "What the fuck do you know, huh?" he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth and onto Zak's face.

  Without flinching Zak answered. "I know that we are stars, bound to this flesh by Reason alone. I know that we are prisoners, pawns used by Ur the jailer in His eternal war with His brother Paq'q. I know that we are the children of Paq'q and He would have us be free, as He is, and that only by tossing off the oppressive yolk of restriction and accepting His way will we be transformed. We are his avatars; we work for Chaos."

  Adam's face changed during Zak's last sentence, his anger cooling to something much more frightening. "You bang a drum for Him, but you know nothing about Chaos. I'll show you Chaos..."

  "Enough!" Ashton demanded. "I will not have this circle tainted by ill will! You two are Brothers now and forever, each occupying your unique place in His new sky. Do your spirits not soar through it? Is Paq'q not with you here, now, in the midst of ritual? Have I made a mistake in choosing the two of you?"

  "No, Brother. My apologies." Zak looked down, chastened, but Adam said nothing.

  "Fenris?" Adam looked at Ashton, a dog unwilling to bow before its master, instinct taking precedence over loyalty. He looked to the group for support but found none; at last he backed off, sitting sideways on a chair.

  Erica attempted a reassuring smile. "Brother Nacht, maybe tonight isn't the best night for this. Perhaps we should reschedule…"

  "RESCHEDULE?!?" Ashton shouted, leaping to his feet. "Are you really that stupid, woman? Can you reschedule a sunrise? An earthquake? Your destiny?!?" He glared at them, realizing they would go no further tonight. With that, Ashton stormed out of the room, throwing the doors of the drawing-room wide. They slammed loudly against the hallway walls, their echo a condemnation. Erica looked stunned, her expression one of numb incredulity. Baxter shrugged, looking over to Annie. Her head was cocked to one side, her eyes narrowed; once again she seemed to be listening to some distant sound. "What do you hear, Annie?"