by Mink, Jason
The air began to burn. He could no longer hear himself above the shrieking wind but chanted on, the words he'd spent years learning now mantra to him. A luminous presence had manifested in the space above the bowl. A thing of light, of sacred angles, the infinite facets of a physical impossibility spun in an orbit before him. He forced himself to turn from it, watching as the waxen clot at his feet grew raw, ruddy, the contents of the bowl reaching the brim. Blood sizzled as it pooled around the remains, curling and softening the edges in turn. The stench was now a tangible thing, oppressive and thick in the churning air. It filled his nostrils, burned his eyes but he shut it out, holding the web together by will alone. The presence truly manifested then, for one moment only, the coalescence of pure undiluted potentiality he, for convenience's sake, called the soul.
The man threw his arms wide, spoke a word impossible to write down. With a blinding flash the gleaming essence entered the bowl of frothing gore. There was an immediate reaction, as desperate and violent as creation must be. The bowl erupted, spilling its steaming contents all across the floor. The liquid thickened immediately, clotting into wide pools and dark, pulpy clusters. Impossibly-thin veins began to sprout across the shifting surface, searching for something solid to anchor onto. The now-exhausted man could only watch in astonishment as the waxy mass began to demand a shape. It leapt and fell short each time, but each time it fell a little further, rapidly building up an oily crust. The wee veins set into this without hesitation, with the contented sound of a child's sigh. They worked their way deep, burrowing into the jellied mass, driving it to thrive. By now the air had ceased its movement, leaving only the sibilant hiss of transformation in his ears.
The man staggered away, limbs and spirit suddenly unbearably heavy. Closing the door behind him he dropped onto the couch but did not sleep, his mind straining beneath the weight of all he had seen.
THEN
Erica spent that morning packing. Though she'd brought very little with her, somehow she found the process taking much longer than expected. Her mind kept wandering, lead by the objects in hand down the lazy path of memory. Everything reminded her of the manor; her camera and memory cards, her journal left blank since the day she'd arrived; even her clothes, which still smelled like smoke from the bonfire despite Metathias washing them. The earthy scent made her wistful, nostalgic for a place she hadn't yet left. But it wasn't the place, she knew. It was the time, seemingly only moments ago. Impossible to say exactly when it ended, she only knew it had, and badly. She lifted her bag to her shoulder and turned to leave. For a moment she simply stood still, looking around the sun-lit room. Erica then set the bag down and slipped out the door, suddenly wanting to take one final walk around the manor before heading out.
She started on the third floor, wandering the silent, shadowed hallways. It felt odd to be there without a camera. Over the summer she'd explored the mysterious top floor through her lens, searching the rooms, inspecting every gloomy nook and cob-webbed cranny. She'd documented it all but now realized she hadn't really seen it while she was doing so, moving more like a tourist through a museum than someone who'd been given the run of the place. She understood now she was truly losing something special, something that had proved most elusive in her life, that being opportunity. Erica felt as if she'd somehow blown it again, failing to make the most of her time here. How much longer would she sleep-walk through existence, seeing the world only through the most narrow of lenses? Self-chastised, she left the third floor, returning to the second via the opposite stairwell. It was just as quiet there, with no sound to be heard other than her own breathing. the manor was as silent as when they'd arrived almost three months ago.
Erica walked down the long stair, admiring the Ashton family portraits one final time. They simply stared back, dispassionate as always. Uninterested in her goodbyes she moved on. At the landing she stopped and looked at the massive grandfather clock. It was a remarkable beast, a good four feet taller than she was and easily two hundred pounds heavier. She listened to the rhythm of its turning gears, the sound of Time grinding on. Lost in the clockwork melody Erica was startled by a knock at the front door. She looked about guiltily, fought the urge to run and hide. But she was doing nothing wrong; she knew if she wished to leave no one would stop her. So why was she sneaking around? And where the heck was Metathias? The knock came again, more insistent this time. Feeling very much like the victim of a set-up she stepped forward and opened the door.
"Oh, no…"
And she could have kicked herself, killed herself ten times over. Why hadn't she gone when she'd had the chance?
"I'm here to see Ashton."
With a wince Erica let Adam back into the manor.
~*~
"Surely you didn't think it would be that easy!" Ashton said angrily, pacing back and forth at the head of the table. "Surely you don't just think you can just walk back up here, give me some half-assed apology and then be treated as if everything is okay?"
Adam was on the spot. He wanted to come back, to return to his position in the circle. The seven had been gathered in the parlor to hear Adam's plea but it was clear Ashton was out to hammer the guy. The others were simply there to bear witness. It wasn't as if the group had any real say in the matter anyway. Ashton's was the only opinion that truly counted and everyone knew it, in the same way they knew that after twenty minutes of abuse Ashton would end up allowing Adam to come back. So why not just skip right to the end?
"You can't come back," Ashton spat. "We replaced you with a Girl Scout from down the street."
Clearly sadism could not be ruled out.
"Brother, please! I was wrong, I made a mistake. An error in judgment. I know now my place is with you, with the circle. I'll do the ritual, I'll do whatever you ask…"
No one could stand to look at Adam as he begged, the sight embarrassing to all.
"You can't even leave with dignity," Ashton said, his voice dripping with contempt. "What makes you think there's a place in the circle for one such as you?"
"Because it's where I belong!" Adam said, his voice cracking. Fat tears began to spill down his cheeks. "It's the only place I've ever belonged…"
"Oh, Lordy," Zak said, exasperated. "Can the water-works, will ya? Have some self-respect."
Adam didn't reply, too busy trying not to sob. Annie and Erica looked at each other sheepishly. Chloe wore a look of disgust on her face, amazed by the display before her.
Zak rose to get a drink and Baxter joined him. "Whatever you're having, make two," he said quietly. Zak nodded and poured him a tumbler nearly full of scotch.
"Jeez, leave room for my upper lip, willya?"
Zak chuckled uncomfortably. "It's a medicinal dose." He poured himself another tumbler-full and drank. Baxter followed his friend's example, savoring the burn.
"I knew he'd be back," Zak said quietly. "His kind never walks away."
They glanced back to the table. Adam was holding his head in his hands at this point, sobbing quietly to himself. Ashton stood aloof, watching him with arms crossed. The three women all wore different masks: Annie's, passive compassion mixed with still-liquid anger; Chloe's, icy and unwilling to forgive; Erica's, embarrassed and ready to forget.
"Tough room," Baxter noted.
Zak nodded over the rim of his glass.
"Well, it's kinda hard to miss the guy when he won't go away."
They walked over to the table because they knew, in the end, they had no other choice. Baxter sat down beside Erica, offering her a sip of his drink. She smiled, taking it gladly. Baxter knew she'd been planning on leaving today; he'd actually been surprised she still was around. Her presence was a relief, a sane voice in a chorus of the mad. He was truly glad to see her.
"It is my opinion that you have failed. It is clear you have no honor and no place in this sacred circle. You should have stayed away," Ashton waited just long enough for this statement to crush the desperate man before continuing. "However,"
Adam rai
sed his eyes.
"…we shall put it to a vote."
This was clearly not what he wished to hear and Adam's face fell once again. He knew he no longer had a friend among them. The odds of even one of them wanting him back were ridiculously low, let alone receiving the needed majority. Baxter felt this was unnecessarily cruel but found himself distracted by the proceedings. It was as if someone were staring at him from across the room, but when he turned to look he found that no one was there. The sensation nagged at him, only growing as Ashton spoke.
"I see no need for secret ballots or any of that nonsense. I'm sure no one will have a problem voting their conscience. A simple yay or nay will suffice."
He turned to Chloe.
"Nay."
"Sister Io?"
She looked at Ashton warily.
"I don't like this. Voting. It's not fair; like it or not, Adam is one of us, a member of the circle. I say yes. Yay. Whatever."
Ashton nodded respectfully.
"Astra?"
"I abstain."
Ashton sighed.
"Come on…"
"No, Annie is right. This is bullshit. If he's not already in, then he's out. I'm not going to vote on it."
While this was Erica's way of being impartial, Zak knew she'd just made a mistake.
"Brother Pan?"
Zak did not hesitate. "In." Adam looked at the seated man with surprise but Zak ignored him, eyes on the rim of his glass.
"Baxter?"
Baxter did not answer. His attention had once again been turned to the opposite side of the room.
"Will someone wake him, please?" Ashton said, rubbing his eyes. He was clearly growing tired of the charade.
"Hey," Zak said, nudging him.
"Huh?"
"Paper or plastic, Bax?"
Baxter looked around the room. "Yeah. Let him stay. What difference does it make?"
Ashton turned to the cowering man. "Unbelievable. Despite apathy, disgust and general confusion you have won back your place. This clearly says more about the others than you. Be that as it may, welcome back Brother Fenris."
Zak had seen some weird crap in his time in the manor, had in fact been a major player in most of it. Nothing, however, could prepare him for the sight of Ashton kissing Adam.
"It's a ceremonial thing," Ashton said dismissively to the staring group. He returned Adam's sword and robe, then stalked off towards the exit. Just before leaving he pivoted on one heel, turning back to face them.
"Ritual. Tomorrow. seven p.m. in the drawing room."
And that's how Ashton got what he wanted. Again.
~*~
While enthusiasm was at an all-time low, the group nonetheless turned up on time and ready the next day. There was a sense of finality in the gathering, the knowledge that it really was the end this time. Even Ashton seemed to know it. He went about his duties with a mixture of aplomb and resignation, his eyes clear and set. Unlike their previous attempt there had been no excess, no banquet or hashish or chamber music; the group had cold sandwiches and tea for dinner, eating in their street clothes. They gathered together shortly after, wearing the robes Ashton had provided. Quietly they waited to be led.
"Good evening, Sisters and Brothers," Ashton said evenly. "We gather together, a circle seven strong, to raise the veil and gaze upon the Mystery we have so long sought. We do this in His name, for His glory, that we might see beyond Reason to that more perfect place where He dwells." Ashton held up the Iris scroll. "This, the last gift of the last Master, shall show us the way. This invocation shall allow His light to shine here, will open a window from His world to ours, that we might for one moment touch His face. But to do this we must be pure." He looked at each of them in turn.
"We must not be proud, or jealous or resentful. We must leave behind our anger and spite, our desire for anything other than perfect union. It is only through Him that we are united, now and forever. One way or another, this - " he gestured to the group "- this will go on."
In that moment something did come back to them, or at least its memory did. It passed through the group as a chill might, but warmer, welcome in the emptiness of the circle. There was some of summer's magic in it, green and slightly fevered, the memory of a favorite dream. It held traces of the best days, history distilled into a breeze, a breath, a word unspoken. They looked at each other and smiled, accepting the final gift Ashton had to offer them. Heads bowed they spoke as one: "So may it be."
Ashton entered the circle and they followed in the appropriate order: to his right Chloe, then Adam, Annie, Zak, Erica and Baxter. Ashton set the rolled parchment at his feet; from a pouch in his robe he removed the ceremonial bowl.
"Hey, my robe doesn't have pouches" Zak protested quietly. Erica shushed him.
"Let us now partake of the sacred Paq'qa, His most precious of gifts."
Ashton lit the pipe and drew from it deeply. He passed it to his left, once again surprising Baxter. Taking the bowl Baxter hit it reticently, then passed it along. The smoke's effect was immediate. He felt his mind spring open, countless ideas bounding to the fore. A thousand stories came to him there, ideas as fast and ungraspable as the wind. It spoke with as many voices, an endless flow of spirits clamoring for their tales to be told. But Baxter could not hold them, the visions slipping away, ever returning to the source. He could only smoke, follow the pipe as it went around and around the circle. Baxter watched as his friends faces grew worn, distorted, the world around them blurring out. Beside him Ashton smiled benevolently.
"So it begins."
NOW
Someone was screaming.
Erica rolled from her bed to her feet and hurried out into the hall, following the agonized sound to adjoining room. There, Annie was hunched over the bed, desperately tearing a fibrous caul from Sandy's sleeping form. The child had been cocooned in some inexplicable way, webbed to the bed's dusty sheets. Annie had managed to free Sandy's head but the cottony substance continued to clog her nose and mouth. Erica rushed to help and together they managed to clear the little girl's throat and nostrils.
"She's not breathing!"
Erica looked up at Annie.
"Give me some room."
Erica began CPR, alternately giving the little girl air and massaging her heart. Twenty long seconds passed before Sandy sputtered and rolled to the side, coughing up a large, sticky wad of the wispy stuff. Erica helped her into a sitting position, then let Annie take over. Speechless, the mother could only hold her heaving child, gently rocking her back and forth in a bid to still her weeping. By then Ashton and Adam had arrived. They stood in the doorway, unmoving.
"It's okay, guys. You can go back to bed now," Erica said flatly. They were clearly useless in this… strike that; in any situation.
"What the hell is that stuff?" Adam asked thickly, still partially asleep.
Erica turned to Ashton. "Yes, Brother. What the hell is this stuff!? "
The Master of the manor glared at her. "I don't think I like your tone," Ashton replied icily. He stooped down to examine the unusual substance. "It is simply… detritus," he concluded. "A natural by-product of Paq'q's current form, the equivalent of our cast-off skin cells. Clearly this room is not safe from it."
Erica looked at him wide-eyed. "Ashton, no room is safe from it! Look around you! Every room in the manor is changing, becoming some sort of nightmare reflection of itself! No place is safe for this baby!"
"Untrue," Ashton said coolly. "She will be safe with me."
"No!" Annie desperately reached for her child but Metathias was suddenly between them. He struck her once, knocking her to the floor. As she attempted to rise, the old manservant stomped a booted foot down into her chest and Annie curled into a ball around it. Erica stepped forward but Ashton was there, finger raised in warning.
"Ah-ah. None of that."
He slipped out of the room with the child. Defeated, Erica dropped to her knees to tend her injured friend. Metathias removed his foot and followed As
hton, bolting the door as he exited, leaving the two women imprisoned in the dim room.
"Annie? Are you all right?"
Erica tilted her friend's head forward and Annie began to cough.
"Hurts… when I breathe."
"I know," Erica said sympathetically . She carefully ran her hand up the small woman's midsection, stopping when she winced.
"I think you have a cracked rib, honey. Don't move."
Annie struggled to rise despite Erica's entreaty. "Sandy…"
Erica bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, but the pain was nothing compared to the words she had to convey.
"They took her, Annie. They took Sandy."
~*~
The man noted it was not going well. The thing he'd been tending thrashed and writhed, rebelling against the process at every turn. From the first it had refused the most basic of forms, wanting only to remain amorphous, anonymous within its opaque shell. It resisted all attempts to lead it, to spur it on to more complex chemical processes. Again and again it defied the programming encoded into it, unwilling to be defined. In the end the old man was forced to use more aggressive methods to stimulate the needed reaction, employing certain esoteric formula he'd hoped to avoid. It was only then the nutrient-rich stew complied, sluggishly binding clumps of cells to one another and creating the first proteins. Directed by the man's external will they began to knit, to chain, building up raw material layer by endless layer.
The sack's contents rebelled again when the nervous system first began to form, shutting down and nearly dying before the entropy could be stopped. Then the entire process had to start over This time it was far more difficult, with much of the important vital force irrevocably lost. Pain was the only constant throughout the change and only through his ceaseless efforts was the process maintained. Turned out playing God was much harder than he'd thought.