Ritual

by Graham Masterton

  As they headed towards New York City, Robyn tried to translate the leaflets that Mrs Kemp had stolen from Sheriff Podmore’s office. It was Le Recreation text which interested her the most. It was dense and obscure and smudgily printed, and neither she nor Charlie could decide why Mrs Kemp had decided to take it.

  ‘It could be that it just happened to be lying on his desk, and she picked it up because it looked important,’ Charlie suggested.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Robyn. ‘It looks like it’s been folded and kept in an envelope. Maybe the envelope was marked confidential or something, and Mrs Kemp thought that it might contain something which would incriminate him.’

  They made a short detour off the parkway to White Plains, and stopped at Macy’s on Mamaroneck Avenue to pick up a Concise French Dictionary in the book department. While Robyn paid for the dictionary, Charlie found himself glancing left and right like a criminal. Afterwards, they picked up two Big Macs and some hot black coffee, and they ate and drank as they drove south-westwards on the Hutchinson River Parkway towards New York.

  Robyn said, ‘I thought I’d never be able to eat anything again, after what happened this morning. Now all of a sudden I’m starving.’

  ‘It’s delayed shock,’ Charlie replied. ‘Just make sure you chew it properly.’

  ‘You’re the food expert. Although it beats me how you can be a food expert and still eat a Big Mac.’

  Charlie swallowed, and sipped coffee. ‘Let me tell you something, if you compared the hygiene in most high-class international restaurants with the hygiene at McDonald’s, you’d never want to eat anything but Big Macs for the rest of your life. After about five years as a restaurant inspector, you realize that in spite of all the cockroach bodies and the rat droppings you might have been eating along with your veal parmesan and your chicken a la whatever, you’re still alive and still comparatively healthy and you haven’t had a day’s sickness since you can last remember. I guess that’s when you begin to understand that the human constitution is pretty resilient, and that you could probably eat a codfish pie out of some Bowery bum’s back pants pocket without any noticeable ill effects.’

  Robyn stared at him for a long time and then returned her Big Mac to its polystyrene carton. ‘I’m not sure that I can eat the rest of this.’

  They drove through New York and the spires of Manhattan glittered grey and silver in the last light of the day. Then they were heading south-westwards through Jersey and Pennsylvania, along Route 22 to Harrisburg. At Harrisburg, Robyn would take over the driving, but meanwhile she pored over Mrs Kemp’s leaflet with her French dictionary open on one knee.

  As they drove through the Musconetcong mountains, she closed the dictionary and said, ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have asked you to translate it if I did,’ Charlie replied. He glanced in his rear view mirror. So far he was pretty sure that they weren’t being tailed.

  ‘This is a kind of Célèstine newsletter. It gives a list of some of their up-and-coming meetings as well as their calendar for the year.’

  ‘When do they have their church cookout?’ asked Charlie bitterly.

  ‘They have more important dates than that. In fact––according to this––the whole year is significant. This is the year of Le Recreation.’

  ‘What does that mean? Sports, games, that kind of thing?’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking. Le Recreation literally means The Re-Creation. This is the year they attempt actually to recreate Jesus Christ in physical form.’

  Charlie looked at her. He was more tired than sceptical. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it says.’

  Robyn angled the leaflet so that it was illuminated by the Buick’s interior light. ‘Brothers and sisters, Guides and Devotees...’ Something something – I don’t quite understand that bit. ‘This is the year when the Prophecies of Sainte Desirée come to pass; when the Lord and Master will rise again, as was promised in les temps anciens; when the Body and Blood of Christ the Lord will be formed again out of the sacrificial flesh of all who worship Him. For three centuries, Devotees have devoured themselves, and what has remained of them has been devoured in turn by other Devotees until au bout de ses vies – at the end of their lives – these Devotees are devoured by their Guides.’

  Charlie overtook a westbound livestock truck, and then turned to Robyn and said, ‘Go on, I want to hear it.’

  ‘It’s so bizarre,’ said Robyn. ‘I find it hard to believe that it’s true.’

  ‘Go on, it’s important. This may give us the information that we’ve been looking for.’

  Robyn rubbed her eyes. Then she lifted up the leaflet again, and read, “‘Each human soul which has been devoured has been recorded in the Ledger; and now we are approaching at last the sacred number that forms the very centre of the Prophesies of Sainte Desirée. That is, one thousand times one thousand souls.”’

  Charlie whistled. ‘Do you know what that means? Since the Célèstines got started, nearly a million people have eaten themselves. A million! It’s a holocaust!’

  ‘Wait,’ said Robyn, ‘there’s more. It says here that on the holiest of all weeks the Célèstines will gather together and observe a last sacrificial convenant. All of the remaining Devotees will devour as much of themselves as they can... and the remaining Guides will devour what’s left. At the very end there will be nobody left but one Devotee, who will become the Last Supper for the Master of Guides. When he has eaten the last of the Devotees, the Master will be transformed into the Lord Jesus Christ incarnate, whose body is the all-embracing temple of human souls. That’s kind of a free translation, but it’s near enough.’

  ‘And when is this last supper scheduled?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Whenever they reach the sacred number, I guess,’ said Robyn. ‘The leaflet doesn’t give a specific date.’

  ‘Well––that’s one of the things we’re going to have to find out in New Orleans,’ said Charlie.

  Robyn switched off the car’s interior light and watched Charlie driving through the darkness. ‘I still don’t really understand why we’re going to New Orleans at all. I mean––aren’t you wasting time?’

  ‘If I’m supposed to interpret that as ‘Martin could be chewing his own fingers and toes by now’, then I get your point. But you saw how things worked out this morning. I’m not cut out for that kind of a rescue. If I tried it again, I’d almost certainly wind up killed, and that would leave Martin completely at their mercy.’

  He paused, and then he said, ‘For most of my working life, I’ve been eating at other people’s tables without them realizing who I am. I guess you could say that my greatest asset is my anonymity.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to New Orleans and I’ll join the Célèstines, in disguise. A moustache and tinted spectacles and a haircut should do it. Then I’m going back to Le Reposoir and get Martin out from the inside.’

  Robyn said, ‘I suppose that’s as good a way as any.’

  ‘For me, it’s the only way.’

  ‘I don’t quite see where I’m going to fit in.’

  Charlie reached across the seat and held her hand. ‘I’m going to need somebody on the outside to keep in touch with. At the very last moment, I’m going to have to get out of that place like Roadrunner with his ass-feathers on fire, and there has to be somebody there to do the driving.’

  ‘You still want to me to drive, after the crash?’

  ‘The crash wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘What happens if the Célèstines discover who you really are, and kill you? What am I supposed to do then?’

  Charlie made a face. ‘You forget you ever heard about the Célèstines, or Martin, or me, and you go back to your job and your parents and maybe a new boyfriend who doesn’t give you a hard time, and you live out the rest of your life in peace and happiness.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that I never mention it, ever again?’

  ‘Not if
you want a long life.’

  Robyn thought about that for a moment, and then said, ‘There’s one thing more. If you join the Célèstines, won’t you have to start eating yourself?’

  ‘I was actually hoping that I could be a Guide, rather than a Devotee. I don’t know what qualifications a Guide is supposed to have, but I guess I could fake them.’

  ‘But then you’d have to eat other people.’

  Charlie gave Robyn a tight smile. ‘Let me cross that bridge when I come to it, huh? I’m hoping to get away without eating any human flesh at all.’

  ‘This scares me,’ said Robyn.

  ‘You don’t think it scares me too?’

  *

  Robyn took over the wheel just past Harrisburg, and drove into the night while Charlie lay on the back seat of the station wagon and tried to sleep. It took him until two o’clock in the morning to close his eyes. The smell of the vehicle was unfamiliar, so was the way it jolted over every bump and join in the highway, and the songs that Robyn was playing on the car radio all seemed to be songs of regret. He thought of Martin, lying naked on that plain bed at Le Reposoir, and he tried to touch him with his mind. I love you, Martin, don’t despair. Don’t let them take you away.

  They stopped for an early breakfast at Buchanan, VA, a few miles short of Roanoke. They sat in a small drugstore drinking black coffee in silence and staring at themselves in the mirror behind the counter. They both looked exhausted.

  ‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?’ Robyn asked, as they stepped out into the chilly morning air, and climbed back into Mrs Kemp’s old Buick.

  Charlie said, ‘We could use some more gas. There’s only quarter of a tankful left.’

  Robyn leaned across and kissed Charlie’s unshaven cheek. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m with you.’

  *

  They drove into New Orleans on a humid, thundery morning, with the clouds hanging low over the city, and lightning flickering out over Lake Borgne and the Gulf beyond. Charlie had taken the wheel at Meridian, and Robyn was lying asleep in the back. For the past hour, the radio had been turned to a Louisiana station playing plangent Cajun and Zydeco music – high, shrill voices and accordions and fiddles double-bowed.

  Charlie had called from Atlanta the previous evening to make a reservation at the St Victoir Hotel, which was quoted in MARIA as being ‘inexpensive, discreet, and authentic’. He knew that after more than thirty-eight hours of driving, the first priority for both of them was going to be sleep. It was no good regretting the time that they would lose. Their exhaustion had reached the point where they could see the highways unravelling in front of them even when they closed their eyes.

  The St Victoir was a narrow-fronted nineteenth-century building between Bourbon and Royal, but it lacked the distinctive cast-iron balconies that characterized the finest architecture in the French Quarter. It was wedged between an over-expensive art gallery and a Creole restaurant called Jim’s Au Courant. Inside, there was a cool air-conditioned lobby with potted palms and a marble floor and old sofas upholstered in damp green velvet that could almost have been moss. A fat lady in a floral frock sat behind a curved mahogany counter and smiled at Charlie and Robyn like Jabba the Hutt.

  ‘Mr and Mrs McLean,’ said Charlie. ‘I made a reservation yesterday from Atlanta.’

  The fat lady opened up her file drawer and picked her way through the reservation cards with tiny hands. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Double room, looking to the back, for three nights provisional. May I take an impression of your card?’

  Their bags were taken up by a black porter in a peaked cap who said almost nothing but hummed all the time. Robyn had brought a change of clothes from her parents’ house; Charlie, of course, had taken his travelling-kit out of his Oldsmobile, before parking it right at the back of the Harris house and covering the licence plate with a plastic shopping bag so that it couldn’t be identified by any passing police patrol.

  Charlie had told Mr Harris that he and Robyn were taking a few days’ vacation together in Canada. He had winked at Mrs Harris and Mrs Harris had obviously been pleased that Robyn had found somebody so quickly. Especially somebody so nice.

  Charlie tipped the black porter and then closed and chained the door. The room was high-ceilinged and cool, with a huge mahogany bed and two massive mahogany chairs. There was a view from the back over the St Victoir’s courtyard, shaded by layers of foliage. It had already begun to rain, heavy warm drops, and the palm leaves nodded in acknowledgement of the coming storm.

  Robyn lay back on the bed and kicked off her shoes. ‘I don’t think I ever felt so tired in my whole life.’

  ‘Do you want anything to eat?’ Charlie asked her. ‘How about some beignets and a pot of coffee?’

  ‘I think I just want to sleep,’ said Robyn.

  Charlie went into the large tiled bathroom and slowly undressed. He took a long shower, standing for almost five minutes with his eyes closed, letting the hot water spray into his face. He shaved, but he took care not to shave the bristling beginnings of his moustache. Then he wrapped himself in a towel and went back into the bedroom. Robyn was already asleep, lying on her side with one hand against her cheek as if she were thinking. Charlie sat on the bed beside her and dried himself. She was a pretty girl. Even though she was wearing a crumpled checkered shirt and faded jeans and her hair needed washing, she had a femininity about her which Marjorie had always lacked. He rested his hand on her sleeping hip for a little while, and then returned to the bathroom to find himself a robe.

  He lay on the bed and tried to sleep, but he couldn’t. His mind was still crowded with thoughts of Martin, and M. Musette, and that grotesque living gargoyle they called David. He closed his eyes and heard the thunder booming over the delta, and the rain whispering through the leaves, and somebody playing the piano through an open window.

  For a moment, he didn’t know whether he was wakening or dreaming; but then he heard a door slam and footsteps in the corridor outside, and someone saying, ‘Take those drapes down with you, don’t forget.’ He sat up, and looked at Robyn, She was still sleeping. He opened up his brown leather travelling bag and found himself a clean blue shirt and a pair of fawn non-crease slacks. He dressed, and then he wrote a quick note for Robyn on a damp sheet of Saint Victoir notepaper: Gone to locate Elegance St, back soon, don’t worry. He signed the note, Affctly, Charlie.

  By the time he reached the street, the worst of the rain had passed over, although the sidewalks still reflected the white-painted lacework balconies and the red and yellow horse-drawn carriages taking tourists around the Vieux Carré, and the sky was the colour of dynamite smoke. He approached a wizened-faced black man on the corner of Royal Street and asked him the way to Elegance Street. The man said, ‘Elegance aint so much of a street as an alleh. But you don’t want to go theuh. It’s all churches and cat-houses.’

  All the same, he directed Charlie westward on Royal, telling him to pass nine alleyways and courtyards on the left before he took the tenth, and that would be Elegance Street. Charlie thanked him and offered him a dollar. The black man took the money, but told him, ‘Druthah a cigarette,’ his eyes elderly, bloodshot, either drugged or drunk or too old to care about either.

  Charlie walked along Royal Street, smelling rain and damp and gasoline and cooking, and jazz was playing on the wet morning wind, that pompous, stilted highly traditional jazz that the tourists come to hear but never really like, ‘Didn’t He Ramble’ and ‘St James’ Infirmary’ and ‘Mahogany Hall Blues Stomp’, musical relics of a day long past. He came at last to the narrow courtyard called Elegance Street, a shaded alleyway of old-fashioned brick that was overlaid with dripping palm leaves and overlooked by green-painted cast-iron balconies. Charlie passed the Crescent City Antiques Gallery and the Beau-monde Tearoom featuring clairvoyant readings by Madame Prudhomme. There, at the very end of the alleyway, stood a pair of black iron gates, with a plaque announcing L’Église des Anges. Charlie approached i
t with trepidation, and stood for a long time staring through the railings into the inner courtyard. There was a stone fountain, and a stone bench, and some wrought-iron garden chairs that somebody had knocked over sideways. But there was no sign of life, pas âme qui vive as the French would say. Not a soul alive.

  Charlie dragged at the wet cast-iron bell pull. He didn’t hear the bell ring, but after a very long time, a stocky man in a black monk’s habit appeared. His hair was white as transparent noodles and his eyes were as blank as two mirrors. He approached the gates and stood staring at Charlie with the expression of a man of very little patience. Charlie said, ‘Is this the church of the Célèstines?’

  ‘This is the Church of the Angels. Some call us Célèstines.’

  ‘A friend of mine used to belong. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s my turn.’

  ‘Did your friend attend this church?’

  ‘No. He went to the church in Acadia, L’Église des Pauvres.’

  ‘That is our sister church,’ said the man. ‘Can you tell me what your friend’s name was?’

  There was a faraway protestation of thunder. Charlie said, ‘I only knew him as Michel or maybe Michael.’

  The man said, ‘You can’t do better that that?’

  ‘He never told me his surname.’

  ‘What did he tell you about his beliefs?’

  Charlie glanced around, pretending to be furtive. Then he leaned closer to the gates, and said, ‘He told me all about the self-sacrificial communion. He told me all about the body and blood.’

  ‘I see,’ said the man, his expression unchanging. ‘And what was your response to that?’

  ‘My response was that it sounded pretty extreme. You know, the idea of actually––’ Charlie leaned closer forward and whispered, ‘eating your own body.’

  The man eyed him coldly. ‘Much of what we teach is metaphorical, you know. Not to be taken too literally.’

  ‘But the whole core of your religion is this communion, right? The Last Supper, with real body and real blood.’