The Cult

by Mink, Jason

  She looked over at Baxter, distracted. "The whispering. I heard it during the last ritual. Sometimes it's loud, insistent to the point I can't shut it out. Other times it's so low I find myself seeking it, straining to hear. The last time, in the music - the music Zachary played!" She turned to him, suddenly excited. "What was it, Zak? The music at the last ritual?"

  Zak, who was already troubled by Adam's constant staring, now looked over at her guiltily. "Uh, about that. Last time, outside in the garden, my mixer failed. That's why we don't have music now. I'm not sure what it was we were hearing that night in the garden, but it wasn't coming from me."

  He gestured towards the pile of equipment he'd retrieved from the study.

  "Quit fucking around, Zak," Baxter said, Annie growing more agitated by the moment. He didn't want her to flip out now, with tensions already running so high.

  "Why would I lie, Bax?"

  It was a good question, and one with no easy answers. Any one of them might wish to perpetuate this for their own reasons, but at the expense of Annie's sanity? It seemed unthinkable, but then again…

  "It's okay, Baxter. He's right. I know it now. What I'm hearing… I can't say it's real, in the sense of you or Zak or anything material. It's under us somehow, smothered by this." She looked down at her body with sudden disgust. There was a great loss in this, Baxter knew; the rejection of her own flesh would only lead to further disassociation. He wanted to go to her, to beg her not to lose herself as these others had, but Annie had already risen. Wordlessly she made her way across the room, through the wind-swept drape and out onto the shadowy veranda.

  Chloe, who had remained silent the entire evening, chose that moment to speak. "Brother Pan was right. We are children of Paq'q, the seven avatars spoken of in the Divine Texts. But you wouldn't know it from the way we act. We are squandering the gift. We will be found wanting when the time comes unless we cease this petty bickering and do what we must."

  As to what that was specifically Chloe did not say. She left the way Ashton had, vanishing into the hallway. Baxter watched her go, the circle's power dimming by another seventh. And while it was less than the group usually consumed, the single round of Paq'qa still had an undeniable effect. Its unquiet sensation was all through him, making Baxter overly-aware of his surroundings. The study was saturated with a weird glow, one that did not emanate from the tinted candle holders. The shelves seemed to groan under the weight of countless volumes, the information between their covers too much to hold. The carpet shifted, damp folds that rose and buckled beneath his feet. It was almost as if they were outside, with the storm-sound swelling above and the red breeze blowing softly through the room.

  Baxter found his attention returning again to the world within the mirror. It showed a dark and vast plateau where dozens of small fires blazed. Above it, a sky was stained with faces screaming, shrieking, cackling soundlessly against the black. He watched them rage impotently; shifting, twisting into and through each other in a constant attempt to hold form. Were they the angry Gods of the worshipers below, enraged at some reproach? Or were they perhaps the trapped souls of worshipers themselves, held forever by the blazing fire of their ancestors?

  Baxter snapped out of it. The mantle was a mantle again, no more, no less. But a moment before it had been otherwise, not simply imagination and hallucination co-mingled, but a window into an uncertain past or potential future. He looked around but no one else seemed to be paying attention. With effort Baxter rose and casually made his way over to the mantle. The wood was cool to the touch, nearly clammy, though this was most likely a result of the damp night air. Though old, the finish remained perfect, even, without the slightest film of dust. Baxter stepped away from the mantle, but not before lightly rapping on the large wooden panel beneath it. Hollow.

  Erica had slipped out without speaking, leaving only Zak and Adam in the study. Zak was completely absorbed, his mixer now in pieces; Adam sat in the same chair as before and continued to silently glare in Zak's direction.

  "So much for ceremony," Baxter said. He left the way the others had, without looking back.

  ~*~

  Zak stepped away from the gutted device with the realization he had made a terrible mistake. At first it had seemed so simple. The Paq'qa had given him the confidence to tear the equipment apart, but not the knowledge to put it back together again. Perhaps he might be able to in the morning, when his mind had cleared; at the moment the contents of his head felt akin to the mess left behind on the table, a jumble of colored wires, metal brackets, screws and other, more enigmatic objects he lacked names for. He tried not to think of the hundreds of dollars worth of borrowed money he'd sunk into the mixer, did his best to forget the fact that it was barely four months old and already probably ruined beyond repair. He turned to his friends for distraction but to his dismay found the room was empty.

  Zak sighed. The others were probably off fucking somewhere, having a great time now that he wasn't around. Zak kicked the chair Adam had sat in out of frustration. He couldn't understand it. Why would Ashton invite four men and only three women to go away for the summer? Of course he'd be the one to get frozen out of the action. Sure, he could probably hunt them down and try to horn in, but most likely would just get pushed aside like the runt of the litter again. The thought blotted out his previous worries and he obsessed over it for awhile, imagining he could hear the occasional moan or squeak of bed-springs from above. Angrily, he moved to go outside when something caught his eye. It was the bowl. Ashton had left it behind, along with its ornate case.

  Zak quickly picked the pipe up and examined it. In the red light its detail seemed magnified, giving the object the suggestion of a living thing. The bottom was subtly scaled, as if to aid the snaky body in locomotion. Along the bowl's upper edges there were deep carved ridges evocative of wrinkles, illustrating the thing's great age. Zak could smell the Paq'qa resin that had stained the inside of the bowl, a strong, nearly sour scent quite different than what it was like burning. He set the pipe down and picked up the case.

  Was this a trespass against his host, he wondered? While it was never strictly forbidden for members to use Paq'qa on their own, it seemed to Zak it was a given. The drug had never been made available to the group outside the confines of ritual; Ashton seemed careful not to leave the equipment lying about for idle hands, keeping it out of reach until needed, but Zak knew there were no real rules laid down for its use. Indeed, Clautney Iris never even mentioned Paq'qa as far as Zak knew, though if he'd spent time at the manor in the past he was surely exposed to it. The closest thing Zak could think of was the passage from Book One: "…and with these strange gifts you may see me, through the fruits of the ground and the vine." If the Paq'qa was a fungus like Ashton said that would perhaps qualify it as a fruit of the ground, but this was a bit of a stretch, even for someone who wanted to believe as badly as Zak did. At any rate, no one ever said he couldn't have a small taste on his own.

  He lifted the lid. Within the case was a silk pouch, a small leather-bound ledger and a brass box with a hinged lid. Zak assumed the box contained the Paq'qa and removed it. He studied the lid; inlaid with cloisonné, the design was of two figures standing back to back against a black field. One of the figures was red and held a staff in one hand and a balance in the other. The opposing figure was white. He held nothing, his arms raised above his head. This was, of course, the brothers Ur and Paq'q. It was a suitable container for holding such a powerful substance.

  Zak snapped the lid open. Within was a chalky greenish powder that sparkled slightly in the red light. He dipped a finger into it, then rubbed the powder between his fingers. It was both dry and oily, similar to the dust from a butterfly's wings. He resisted the urge to rub it along his gums like cocaine, instead pinching a liberal quantity of the stuff up and placing it in the pipe. He then set the pipe down, snapped the small box shut and returned it to the case. He was tempted to flip through the ledger but he knew that would definitely be crossing
the line. After all, he didn't want to violate Ashton's privacy; he simply wanted to have as much fun as everyone else was having. As if to illustrate this he heard a loud thump and the sound of chatter from above. Resolved, Zak closed the case and returned it to its position next to the chair. He sat down and, with little ceremony, lit the pipe.

  The next twenty minutes passed in a flash for him. While his earlier ingestion of the Paq'qa had given him an intense rush, the general sense of group frustration had muted his experience. Now, with no one to influence the situation he felt his mind rocket forward, blasting away from his body without a backward glance. He found himself staring up, not at the ceiling but through it, on to the new sky. Each star sang his name, burned with power and grace and fury, searing holes in the emptiness of space itself. He flew among them; blinded by their light, deafened by their music, guided on only by some inner sense he'd never known; upward, ever upward, beyond the sky, beyond the speck of dirt his body desperately clung to, up into...?

  Abruptly his mind snapped back into his body. Startled, Zak opened his eyes. For a moment he did not remember where he was. The room was dark, with only the smell of smoldering wick to remind him candles had once been burning. All were now out. He looked about but could see nothing. Anxiety mounted as he shifted in the now-uncomfortable chair. What had broken his trance? The breeze had ceased; at some point the windows had been closed and the curtains drawn, ensuring a near-perfect blackness. Zak struggled to rise but the effects of the Paq'qa were still strong. With effort he got to his feet, realizing with dismay his left leg had fallen asleep. Within moments it began to tingle, as the blood came rushing back into it. Just then something exploded behind him.

  Zak felt himself pelted with countless tiny projectiles. They did not hurt as much as startle the living hell out of him. Panicked, he hobbled quickly towards where he hoped the door was. Unfortunately he was moving in the wrong direction. Something beneath his feet tripped him up and he toppled. A tabletop stopped him, sent him sprawling forward. Metal bit into the palms of his hands and the soft flesh of his forearms, then was in the air around his head as the piece of furniture collapsed. In a flash of realization and pain Zak knew he'd just landed in the remains of his mixer; it scattered all about him, raining down in a painful clatter.

  He had no time to collect himself. There was a loud, low creaking from above, a sound so distinct it could only be one thing. Zak scrambled to his feet and dove, as the massive bookshelf fell forward. He heard the glass candle holders shatter, felt still-hot wax spray across his bare legs as countless books came thundering down around him. He was on his feet in a moment, charging across the dark room to where he knew the door was. With a desperate twist he threw it open and dove into the hall. It was dark there as well, the usual sconce-lights curiously extinguished. Zak fought the urge to cry out, unwilling to make himself a more obvious target. He charged down the hallway, heading for the dim light of the kitchen. To his surprise he made it. The swinging door had no lock to secure it so he plunged onward, around the wide prep island in the middle of the room to face the doorway. Zak waited apprehensively, sure at any moment he'd see the form of some long-forgotten childhood monster come lurching into the room, intent on having his head at last. His heart slammed in his chest, deafened him with the roaring of his blood. But nothing came.

  For several minutes Zak stood locked in that one spot, eyes unable to peel themselves back from the kitchen entrance. So intent was he on that doorway Zak did not hear the service entrance softly click open behind him, did not notice until too late the gentle scuff of footfalls advancing to where he stood trembling. There was a sudden darkness then, wet and tight and absolute. Before Zak could react his body was thrown forward, midsection impacting hard against the stainless-steel table. He sagged but was pulled back up by whatever was wrapped about his head. Strong hands twisted him around, rained a series of blows all across his unprotected body. Battered, breathless, blood filled his mouth, was coughed against the fabric hood which bound him. He felt himself jerked forward, half-dragged across the room. There was a clink and a whoosh, followed by five grim words.

  "I will show you chaos."

  Zak's eyes widened. Through the fabric a ring of fire bloomed. Blue-orange, it filled his vision, swallowed up his air. Gritting his teeth, he realized the moisture in the cloth was beginning to turn to steam. And he was helpless, arms pinned behind his back, head moving ever deeper into the flame.

  "Do you see it? Its waiting for you… in the center."

  And the pressure increased, as the fire licked ever closer. The fabric of the hood began to hiss, splitting where it was pulled taut across his face. And though he was starved for oxygen Zak knew he dare not inhale, lest he scorch his lungs. The knot at the back of his head was twisted tighter, making tiny silver stars dance before the fiery corona. The flame became all then, swallowing the darkness, claiming Zak and all he knew.

  ~*~

  Zak woke. He'd been bound, hands behind his back. The tattered remains of the hood still clung to his head but aside from that he was naked. His flesh chilled by morning dew, he could barely feel his limbs. Shifting to one side, he endured the pins-and-needles sensation of the blood rushing back into his cramped legs.

  "Bet you feel like a damn fool."

  Zak started at the sound. He stared into the shadow after the voice but could see little.

  "I ought to just leave you here and let the bears have ya."

  Zak shifted, desperate. "C'mon, man…" He was embarrassed by the pleading in his voice but desperately needed to be free of his bounds, whatever the cost to his dignity. There was the rustle of feet in the grass, followed by deep inhalation and powerful expectoration. Something wet landed in the grass.

  "Hope you appreciate this, son." He felt strong hands take his own bounds wrists. "Hmm. Bear with me, boy." A very distinctive sound followed, one that Zak could not help but inquire about.

  "Did, uh… you just pull out a knife?"

  "Yep. These knots aren't the kind you want to be idly untyin'." A bizarre statement, but the unseen stranger said it casually, as if discussing the weather. Zak felt a sharp metal tip against the coarse rope and then he was free, his bonds falling away. He reached to remove the remnants of the hood but his arms hung weakly at his sides.

  "Thank you," he said through the tattered fabric.

  "You wanna thank me, then go on home! There's nothin' for you here."

  And then Zak knew who his mysterious savior was.

  "Mr. Shea?" The old man did not respond. Zak shook his head violently, dislodging the remains of the kitchen towel. Shea had already vanished, leaving him naked and alone in the woods. Zak looked down at his body and groaned. The triangular sign of Paq'q had been carved into his bony chest, its lines aching as rust must, clear pus streaming down his now-corrupted flesh.

  NOW

  Metathias brought Baxter dinner in his room. The manservant wordlessly placed the tray on the desk and left the way he came, closing the door behind him. Baxter considered this latest development. No communal dinner tonight. Unsurprising, considering how the group's last meal together played out. He rose gingerly, his body throbbing in pain. He thought again of stealing a car and going into town, but the logistics of this were beyond him. Baxter considered taking a horse, then put the thought quickly out of his mind. If there was anything left alive in that barn he didn't want to know about it.

  Curious, Baxter lifted the tray and regretted it instantly. Suppressing his gag reflex, he turned from the putrid food and walked to the window. It was nearly time. If he didn't retrieve what he had hidden at the Rock of Faces now, he would lose the chance. Feeling all together awful, he rested his head against the cool pane and tried to gather strength. He had to speak to Annie and Erica, explain what they must do to disrupt the ceremony. Baxter worried about the consequences of such a betrayal but forced the thought out of his mind. Whatever happened afterward would be out of his hands; all he could do was play his part. Str
aightening, he crossed the room and checked the door. It was still unlocked, Baxter quietly slipped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. At the top of the stair he paused briefly to listen, then quickly descended. Keeping to the shadows he made his way down an infrequently-used hallway, stepping outside through one of the manor's secondary exits.

  The darkness was complete, with no moon or stars above to guide him. Led only by memory, Baxter cautiously made his way down the footpath, following the wall with one hand. Gray vegetation crunched beneath his feet, the last few weeds that clung to life ground mercifully out. This place needed purged, all of it, and Baxter realized how easily it would burn. To just set fire to the place and be done with it - would that be enough? The answer was no, of course. What was here went deeper, had gotten into the ground and the people. Even if the entire town and its inhabitants went, Baxter knew Paq'q's influence would linger on as it had since Time immemorial, waiting, scheming for a future inevitability. Resigned, Baxter came to the edge of the manor and made a cautious left.

  With no light to see by he groped his way along the back of the building, his fingertips tracing a path along the pitted stone wall. Starved for input and stimulated by his total substance withdrawal, Baxter's mind began to create ghosts for his eyes to follow. Scraps of motion, they darted back and forth at the edges of his vision, phantom shapes damnably similar to hallucinations past. They dogged him, flashing this way and that, only dissipating when he stumbled head-first into the old garden shed. There were stars then; big, beautiful, useless things that filled his vision the way sight did not. Still, now that he'd found the shed, he knew he was drawing close.