The Ancient Nine

by Ian K. Smith, M. D.

  Order was restored; then they separated us into groups of three, re-blindfolded us, and arranged us in a single line at the door. Every few minutes, a group was led away from the room and escorted down the hallway. The rest of us waited patiently to discover our fate. I was in the third group, and when we started moving, I feared we were heading back outside.

  “This is a narrow staircase,” a voice informed us as we were led through another basement door. “You have to get on your hands and knees and crawl up. No standing allowed. After ten steps, there’s a sudden turn to the right, so be ready.”

  We weren’t going outside, but finally heading upstairs into the clubhouse. I didn’t know who else was in my group, but we cautiously crawled up the stairs, and after we reached the tenth step, they stood us up, maneuvered us through a hard turn, walked us a few feet, then put us back on our knees for another set of stairs. I could hear distant laughter and faint applause from the rooms above us. Once we had reached the top of that stairwell, they lined us up and took the first one in our group away. A few minutes later, I felt someone grab my arm.

  “Don’t worry,” someone whispered. I could tell it was Duke. “Hold on to me and you’ll be fine.” The voices were louder now, and several people were yelling instructions. There was a lot of muffled laughter, and I could only make out bits of what was being said. “All you have to do is take a step forward and stand still,” Duke said. “But it’s important you don’t move around. Stand in the same spot.”

  Once the door opened, I followed Duke’s instructions. I felt like I had walked into a furnace. As the door slammed behind me, everything had fallen silent, and suddenly I was drenched in sweat. I stood stock-still, fearful that if I moved, I might touch whatever was generating the tremendous heat. My breathing became more difficult, and my head felt like it was stuck in a vise. I concentrated on my balance, but my body swayed back and forth. I thought I heard voices, but I didn’t know if they were real or if I was hallucinating. Any moment, I thought I might pass out. Then I suddenly felt a gust of cool air as the door opened and the voices returned. They chanted my name and hit me on the shoulder. “Great job, Spense,” Duke said. “You’re almost home.”

  Someone else grabbed my arm and said, “Walk slowly and follow me.” I felt carpet under my feet, then the hardness of a tiled floor.

  “What’s your dominant hand?” he asked.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Okay, then we’ll roll up the left sleeve.”

  Once he had taken my cuff link out and rolled up my sleeve to my elbow, another voice said, “Here’s the deal. I want you to put your hand in this water, move it around, and squeeze whatever you feel.”

  “What am I squeezing?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he laughed. “Whatever you feel, squeeze it until we say stop.”

  Then I heard another voice say, “The camera’s ready.”

  I felt my hand being lifted, and suddenly immersed in cold water. I could tell that it was a toilet bowl, and I almost vomited at the thought of what I was soon to feel.

  “Open your fist and feel around,” one of the voices instructed. “It’s time to squeeze for gold. Use your left hand, because later you need to eat with your right.”

  As hard as I tried to open my hand, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The thought of grabbing feces had paralyzed me. I took deep breaths to prevent myself from vomiting.

  “Come on, Spenser!” they yelled. “Squeeze it, baby! Squeeze it!”

  I held my breath as if that would make it feel any better, then I opened my hands and searched the bowl, finally meeting something of a slimy consistency that made me jump and lift my hand out of the water as soon as I felt it. The roar of laughter filled the room.

  “Get back in there and get your dinner,” someone said, forcing my hand back into the bowl.

  I clenched my teeth and found the slimy matter. I suddenly felt faint. I squeezed, and whatever it was oozed through my fingers. It was the most disgusting thing I had ever done in my life. I was squeezing someone’s shit. I lifted my hand again.

  “Not good enough,” a voice said. “You stop only on our command.” Someone squirted my face with cold water. “Put your hand back in there.”

  So, I did.

  “Now, doesn’t that feel good?” someone said in the midst of all the laughter.

  There was a flushing sound, and the water circled my hand and carried away the slime between my fingers.

  They pulled me to my feet, took me over to the sink, and put a bar of soap in my hands. I scrubbed so hard that I broke a nail. They moved in and stopped me, because I would’ve stayed at that sink all night. Someone grabbed me by the arm and guided me up another flight of stairs, and into a room where voices were echoing off the ceiling.

  “Wait here,” he commanded. “We have to finish downstairs with the last guy in your group.” I heard him walk away, and I was tempted to peek from the blindfold to see where I was. But within seconds, voices broke the silence, and I heard footsteps approaching on the hardwood floor.

  After the last neophyte in our group had arrived, they walked us into another room, where the soft sound of a crackling fire blended with the muted tones of a television. The members sat us on thick leather sofas and chairs and seemed to ignore us as they drank, laughed, and talked amongst themselves.

  I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder and a voice say, “How ya holding up, Spense?” It was Hutch.

  “I’m still alive,” I said.

  “Hang in there, buddy,” he said. “You’re in the home stretch. You’ll be fine.” He tapped my shoulder and walked away.

  Every few minutes or so, they called the name of a neophyte and escorted him out of the room. Finally, my name was called, and two people grabbed both my arms and helped me to my feet. They walked me out of the room, down a quiet hall, and into another room. The door closed behind me.

  Hands went to work on the back of my blindfold, and I opened my eyes into a dark, candlelit room. Brimmer and two older men I had never seen before were standing above me on a short rectangular table. Both gray-haired men wore white dinner jackets with the Delphic torches on their bow tie and cummerbund. A large fire jumped at their backs and cast their shadows against the dark walls. They instructed me to step up on the table.

  “Welcome, Spenser,” Brimmer said. “This is Mr. Ward Purnell, class of ’51, our graduate president.” A tall man with thin, oval-framed glasses slightly nodded his head in acknowledgment. His countenance was only made more serious by his square face. His thick gray hair had been meticulously combed backwards. “And this is Mr. Conrad Goodhue, our graduate secretary,” Brimmer said. The short, plump man bowed graciously. His skin glistened under the glow of the fire.

  “Congratulations on making it to this point, Spenser,” Mr. Purnell said. “This is your official swearing-in ceremony. Before I read you the club oath, I’m going to let you read it to make sure you’re fully aware of the obligations. You are about to make a lifelong commitment, so I suggest you read and understand the entire pledge before you take it.”

  Purnell handed me a small book with a leather cover that bore a faint resemblance to The Christian Warfare. The pages were old and delicate.

  I, (name of neophyte), hereby accept lifetime membership

  into the Delphic Club of Harvard College. As a member, I promise to forever hold the name and spirit of the club in the highest regard and remain loyal to its principles, practices, and secrets. I shall in no way cause harm to the standing of the club or my brethren, nor shall I do anything that will in any way blemish its most honored reputation as long as I shall live. I pledge to faithfully abide by its laws and continue the most noble traditions of those great men who have gone before me and walked these hallowed halls. This, I do solemnly swear on the day of our Lord, December (day, then year), so help me God.

  I handed the book back to Purnell and nodded my acceptance.

  He said, “Place your left hand on th
e Bible and raise the first three fingers of your right hand to represent the torches of the Gas.”

  I followed his instructions, repeating the oath in slow, deliberate fragments. When I had finished, Mr. Goodhue handed me another book whose royal blue cover and pages had been embossed with the Delphic torches. The date had been printed in the top margin, and I could see the signatures of the other neophytes who had gone before me. I immediately recognized the triangular J of Jonathan Carderro. This book contained the signatures of some of the world’s most powerful men, and I was overwhelmed with the realization that mine would be with them.

  Goodhue handed me a heavy silver pen, and the three of them watched in silence as I signed my name into Delphic history.

  “Congratulations, Spenser,” Purnell said. “As graduate president of the Delphic Club, I officially accept your oath and welcome you to the brotherhood of the Gas.” He handed the book to Brimmer, grabbed me by the shoulders, and proceeded to kiss me on both cheeks and then finally on my forehead. Goodhue did the same and Brimmer followed.

  Purnell reached back on a shelf behind him and produced a thin box. He removed the lid and pulled out a medal.

  “Spenser, this is your official Delphic medal,” he said. “Wear it to all major club dinners and functions with pride and a great sense of history. Honor and cherish and protect it. Once I lay this around your neck, no one else is ever to wear it, and it shall be buried with you to accompany you in the life hereafter.”

  I examined the front of the brushed silver medal, three raised torches under which THE DELPHIC had been carved. He turned it over so that I could see my name, which had been engraved above the year of my graduation. He hung it around my neck, and the three of them clapped softly. It was official. I was a member of the Delphic Club.

  “Congratulations, Spenser,” Brimmer said, offering his hand. “I know you’re getting tired of this, but we’re gonna have to put the blindfold back on. It’s only for a little while longer.” I snatched my last glimpse of the large dark room with its English oak paneling, massive gilt-framed paintings of the somber faces of my now brothers. I wanted to record every detail. Someone led me out of the room and instructed me to wait.

  The distant sound of applause erupted from somewhere below. I thought about the poem. Now stands as our protector with loyalty and pride. Footsteps approached; then someone grabbed my arm. “It’s your turn next, Spenser.” It was Pollack.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “Hang in there,” he said. “You’re almost home.”

  He guided me down a flight of steps and into another room. I could feel the presence of others as he led me across the creaky floorboards. Some whispered my name as I passed.

  “Here we go,” Pollack said, pulling me to his side. “Take a big step up and then another. Don’t worry, I’m holding on to you.” I followed his instructions. They turned me around and tapped me on the back.

  “Are you ready, Spenser?” Pollack said. Then he whispered. “You’ve come a long way since the kiss at the Pink Bitch.”

  That brought a smile to my face. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. His hands wiggled my blindfold free.

  41

  “GENTLEMEN OF THE GAS. I now present to you Spenser Q. Collins, our newest brother.”

  The blindfold fell, and my eyes blinked at a sea of tuxedo-clad men standing beneath me.

  “Long live the Gas!” was the collective cheer as the room exploded into applause and whistles. I stood there, looking out over generations of Delphic men as they puffed long cigars and raised their glasses in a toast.

  After two months of speculation, my eyes finally took in the dark walls that more than a century ago had been rescued from an English castle and shipped across the Atlantic. The room was thick with tradition, aged by countless nights such as these, heavy with cigar smoke and memories of years that had long since passed.

  It was almost too much to take in at once, the dancing fire and deep leather couches surrounded by ornate wing chairs. Ornaments lined the mantelpiece underneath a memorial inscription that had been carved into the wall. The famous Delphic collection of cockfight paintings hung on the right wall over a wide mahogany table that had been covered with several leather-bound magazines.

  Peering over the crowd, I could see into the adjoining room. An antique ceiling lamp swung over the massive pool table. Heavy satin curtains blocked the windows from curious passersby, and it was then that it sunk in that I had finally penetrated this closed world.

  As the applause and cheers began to abate, Pollack nudged me out of my reverie. It was time to step down and rub elbows with my brothers. They greeted me with warm embraces and firm handshakes. Though I hadn’t met all of them during punch season, each member welcomed me as if we were old friends.

  As they brought the next blindfolded neophyte into the room, I made my way to a corner to observe the remainder of the ceremony. The words, gestures, dress—everything was steeped in such rich traditions, protocols followed to the smallest details. For decades, these initiating rituals, jokes, and laughs had been enjoyed on this special night. The faces had changed over time, but many of the surnames remained the same. Children, grandchildren, nephews, and great-nephews all continued their family’s residence in privilege. It was humbling to see these successful and prominent men, masters of their class, return to their old stomping grounds to cheer and applaud a group of brash college students at 9 Linden Street.

  After all the neophytes had been introduced, Brimmer stepped up on the table. “Neophytes of the Delphic Club,” he said. “On behalf of the graduate and undergraduate membership, I welcome you to our most honored family. You shall sign your first commemorative poster as a member of the Gas to mark the occasion for generations of great men who will surely follow you.” We were promptly lined up in the back of the room. The older members watched on with pride as we signed our names to a colorful poster of a man in a tuxedo leaning over a bar ordering a drink.

  The party moved out of the reading room and into the front foyer. It felt good to finally stand on the other side of the big blue door. Four imposing columns anchored the room with a set of curtained French doors that led out into the courtyard. A large light in the middle of the ceiling hung from a brass chain, surrounded by a metal crown that looked like it once might’ve been part of a lost treasure. Lightbulbs encased in glass torches lit the corners of the room.

  I looked at the faces of the men, both young and old, certain I would find Jacobs prominently at the center of attention. But he was conspicuously absent from the festivities. I wondered if he and Brathwaite were somewhere upstairs, plotting their next move. Maybe they were hidden in the chamber, watching all of us on surveillance cameras.

  I walked over to the carpeted staircase and noticed the first poster of hundreds that I would soon discover. This one commemorated a biannual New York dinner that had been held on April 4, 1986. A painted Statue of Liberty was holding three torches, while a banner at her feet waved THE DELPHIC CLUB in gold letters. Approximately one hundred signatures were scribbled with pride, marking the members’ attendance at the exclusive gala.

  “What’s the purpose of these?” I asked one of my new brothers who happened to be standing next to me.

  “Well, it’s more tradition than anything else,” the short man said. “I’m Fritz Simington, class of ’56.”

  We shook hands.

  “At each major dinner and black-tie affair we hold throughout the year, we have these posters drawn to commemorate the event,” he said. “Everyone in attendance signs their name and class year. The poster you just signed in the reading room will be signed by the rest of the members here tonight, then framed and hung somewhere in the club. You’ll see tons as you walk around.”

  The party continued upstairs and I followed the rest of the group. Wooden-framed black-and-white photographs of the members covered the walls. The year of each picture was engraved in the bottom of the frame.

  “Official club p
hoto taken each year in the courtyard,” Fritz said. “Oldest I’ve ever seen is from 1891. It’s still hanging upstairs.”

  It was an eerie feeling, passing these hundreds of youthful faces who once had been standing and playing where I now stood. Time had relegated them to mere footnotes in the club’s long history. That would be the fate of all of us assembled that night, regardless of how vital and strong and indomitable we felt. As we neared the second floor, I froze in front of the first black member. It was a 1976 photograph. I quietly paid homage to this pioneer. I couldn’t even imagine the difficulties he must’ve faced being the first, how lonely he must’ve felt. I wondered who he was and what he did. Now my face would hang on these same walls. I wanted future neophytes to see me and hear my story, a most unlikely member who had done his best to open the doors and positively change the culture.

  We took a right at the top of the stairs and walked through a set of open double doors and into a cavernous ballroom. Gigantic stuffed caribou heads hung conspicuously from the rafters. Along the dark walls, over the mantelpiece, on top of the piano, heads of deer, buffalo, and bison startled the unsuspecting eye. The older members volunteered stories of the adventurous hunts and courageous expeditions that brought these animals to 9 Linden Street. Narrow tables stretched the length of the room, dressed with white linen tablecloths, black champagne bottles, long candles, and ornate china. Dry logs crackled in the fireplace as the room began filling with the laughter and cheer of Delphic men.