Ritual

by Graham Masterton

  Charlie nodded his head in what he hoped looked like idiotic acknowledgement. ‘Michel said it was the only way. Michel said that if you wanted to follow Jesus, you had to do whatever Jesus did. What was the very last thing that Jesus did, before He was arrested and tried and crucified? He ate His own body and His own blood. And that was His secret! The secret that gave Him eternal life, the secret that nobody else understands. That’s what Michel told me, anyway.’

  M. Fontenot took hold of Charlie’s hand, and said, intently, ‘Yes! Yes! And that is why they call us the Célèstines, the Heavenly Ones. Those who are chosen by God. Because only the Célèstines understand what you have to do to sit at the right hand of Jesus. You have to devour the flesh of your own creation. That is the secret of winning God’s approval. And that is the secret of everlasting contentment and perfect peace. “I am the bread of life,” that’s what Jesus said. “Eat me,” that’s what Jesus said. And Jesus ate the bread and drank the wine, too. Jesus devoured his own body and his own blood, and that was his way to heaven; just as ours is.’

  Charlie said, ‘I understand you’re close to some kind of big occasion.’

  M. Fontenot didn’t seem particularly pleased to have been interrupted. ‘Occasion? I’m sorry?’

  ‘The sacred number. You’ve almost reached the sacred number. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Who told you that?’ asked M. Fontenot, narrowing his eyes. He stared at Charlie for a moment, and then turned to the man in the black hood called Xavier. ‘Did you tell him that?’

  Xavier shook his head. ‘Not me, M. Fontenot. But his friend was a Célèstine, M. Fontenot. He knows what we do, and he’s sympathetic. Believe me––I think we can trust him. He’s not an FBI agent. We checked it this afternoon with FBI records. Quite apart from that, just look at him. He’s not exactly FBI material, is he?’

  Charlie put in, ‘You can trust me, I promise. You want me to cut my throat and hope to die? Here, look – here’s my wallet. You can check me out as much as you like. Driver’s licence, credit cards. Here.’ He prayed that they wouldn’t actually look. ‘My friend was a Célèstine; and I want to be one, too. Tell me––what else is there, in a world full of bombs and guns and ultimate weapons? To see God! To sacrifice yourself, and to see God! Don’t you think that’s the greatest trip of all?’

  M. Fontenot seemed a little pained by the word ‘trip’, but Charlie was fairly sure that he had already won him over. His evangelical enthusiasm had helped; but it was obviously far more important to the Célèstines that he was a chef, and an experienced butcher. (Not that he was, of course; but he believed that he could keep on bluffing for long enough to rescue Martin.)

  M. Fontenot turned to Xavier and between them they had a short, whispered conversation. At length, Xavier said, ‘M. Fontenot is prepared to accept you as a Devotee, monsieur. However––’ (and here he smiled as innocently as a small boy) ‘––he is anxious that you should be able to press your talents as a butcher into the service of the church; and for that reason he is asking you not to embark on your self-ingestion straight away. There will be need of many men with talents like yours when the Great Day comes, men who can quickly cut and prepare good meat, and he begs you not to start mutilating yourself until this Great Day is over.’

  Charlie tried to look as if this were a disappointment. He lifted his fingers in front of his face, and wiggled them, and said, ‘Oh, well, whatever you want. If you can tell me how I can serve the Lord some other way, some different way, then I’ll be listening.’

  M. Fontenot said, ‘You will be allowed one finger.’

  Charlie’s face tightened. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You will be allowed one finger. You can cut it off and cook it and eat it as soon as you wish.’

  In a brittle voice, Charlie said, ‘That seems kind of a small offering, don’t you think, for my initiation as a Devotee? Maybe I should wait until the Great Day is over. Then I can make a proper job of it and eat my whole arm.’

  M. Fontenot smiled at the other Guides, and some of them laughed. ‘If only all of our new Devotees had the same spirit!’ he proclaimed.

  But straight away he turned to Charlie, and said, ‘Now. You say you can butcher; you say you can cook. You say you are one of us. Xavier, bring me the knife. Bring me the pan, and the spirit-lamp. You like your flesh with herbs, monsieur? Xavier will bring you some fennel.’

  Charlie felt a prickling surge of fright. ‘You want me to do it now?’

  M. Fontenot laid his arm encouragingly around Charlie’s shoulders. ‘We do what we can do to check the credentials of those who wish to join us. As you may have gathered, we have friends who give us access to the records of the FBI. But there is no simpler test of your faith and your good intentions than to have you take part in the sacred communion, the holy ingestion of your own flesh.’

  He lifted up his left hand and Charlie saw for the first time that two of his fingers were missing. His smile was like a deep crack in a dried-out cheese.

  ‘People are either for us, Mr Fielding, or else they’re against us. There’s never two ways about it. So despite the fact that we’re a registered church, and despite the fact that we enjoy the patronage of some of the most influential men in the country, we still take care to protect ourselves against saboteurs and extremists and other ill-advised folk.’

  As he said this, Xavier came back into the room wheeling a small trolley draped with a white cloth, on which was embroidered in purple the Lamb of God and a crucifix made from two crossed keys. M. Fontenot beckoned to Xavier to wheel the trolley right up close, and then he nodded and said, ‘Thank you, Xavier.’ Charlie’s throat was as dry as glasspaper and his heart was beating in huge, irregular bumps.

  ‘You may be feeling a number of things,’ said M. Fontenot. ‘You may be feeling elation. You may be feeling trepidation. But let me tell you this, if you’re afraid, you have no need to be. The human body is a miracle in itself. It has wonderful powers of self-healing. Why, I was reading just the other day that a man had his leg knocked off by a locomotive, and dragged himself two miles to look for help. And that was his leg we’re talking about. All you’re surrendering here this evening is your finger.’

  With a small flourish, M. Fontenot drew the white embroidered cloth away from the top of the trolley. Neatly laid out on the trolley’s stainless-steel top was a spirit-burner, of the kind used in restaurants to flambé steaks, two plain white plates, a glass bottle of what looked like olive oil, a small china jar of fresh fennel leaves, a knife and a fork, a scalpel, and a small stainless-steel hacksaw. Neatly folded on the lower shelf of the trolley were three white towels, some gauze bandages, and some surgical adhesive tape.

  Charlie tried to swallow. He wanted to say something but he was almost completely incapable of getting the words out. M. Fontenot said, ‘It’s the simplest act in the whole world, my friend. If your heart is in it, if your spirit is in it, your pain will be part of your joy. Believe me, we have brothers and sisters here who have to be restrained from cutting more from themselves that their nervous systems could tolerate; such is the holy joy they derive from self-amputation and self-ingestion. Now––we will say a prayer for you, to welcome you into our church, while Xavier lights the burner.’

  Charlie thought: They’re going to kill your son, McLean. They’re going to kill Martin. One of your fingers is a pretty small price to pay for the whole of his life. But another voice inside of him said: This is going to be agony. This is going to be more than you can take. And just remember that it’s two days now since you last saw Martin alive. They could have killed and eaten him already.

  Xavier came forward and lit the burner––rather irreligiously, Charlie thought, with a flickering Zippo lighter. Xavier lifted the small copper chafing pan from the top of the burner, and adjusted the flame until it was hot and blue. Then he laid a folded white napkin on the table in front of Charlie, and beside it set the scalpel and the saw.

  ‘Amputation is a si
mple matter,’ he murmured. ‘Feel where the lower joint of your chosen finger is, then cut through the skin with the scalpel until the bone is bared. Then use the saw. It will take you no more than a matter of moments.’

  ‘Please––sit,’ said M. Fontenot, and drew out a chair so that Charlie could sit down. All around the table, the Guides were smiling at him like old friends at a testimonial dinner. Charlie found their calmness and their good nature to be the most alarming part of the whole ritual.

  ‘I think we should remember the words of St Paul in his letter to the Romans,’ said M. Fontenot. ‘And, as we do so, we can join with our brother Daniel DuBois Fielding as he enters the order of the holiest of Popes, St Célèstine.’

  Xavier took hold of Charlie’s left wrist and gently guided his left hand until it was lying on top of the white folded napkin. Then he took hold of his right wrist, and laid his right hand beside it. Into the open palm of Charlie’s right hand he pressed the scalpel. The ridged metal handle felt intensely cold. The triangular blade winked in the light from the chandelier.

  ‘“One man has faith that he may eat all things,”’ M. Fontenot intoned. ‘“But he who is weak eats vegetables only. Let not him who eats regard with contempt him who does not eat, and let him who does not eat judge him who eats, for God has accepted him.”’

  Charlie spread the fingers of his left hand wide on the napkin. Which one do I choose? Not the index finger, that would cripple me. I’d never be able to use a typewriter again. What about my middle finger? That would be even more disfiguring.

  ‘Are you prepared?’ asked M. Fontenot. ‘Have faith, brother David. Do not hesitate. Hesitation may reveal you as one who does not truly believe.’

  Charlie glanced up at him. There was an expression on M. Fontenot’s face which may have seemed benign to everyone else in the room, but which Charlie read as an unmistakable warning. He looked down at his hand again, and made an instantaneous choice. The ring finger. The finger which still showed that he had been married to Marjorie. He slowly tugged off the plain gold wedding band, and set it down on the shiny mahogany table. There was a murmur of approval from the assembled Guides, and Charlie could see some of them staring at his hand with expectancy that approached lasciviousness. In Charlie’s mind, there was no doubt at all that the rituals of the Célèstine church were tightly intertwined with the rituals of religious and sexual masochism; that the ecstasy of self-mutilation was orgasmic as well as spiritual.

  ‘Now,’ whispered M. Fontenot.

  Charlie said his own silent prayer. Then he adjusted his grip on the scalpel and scratched a hesitant line around the base of his ring fìnger. He scarcely drew any blood; but it stung, badly. Everybody in the room was watching him in silence.

  He clenched his teeth together, and cut more deeply into the top of his finger. Surprisingly, he felt almost no pain at all, but the sensation of sharp steel touching his bare bone made him shiver in his seat.

  ‘“If your enemy is hungry, feed him,”’ M. Fontenot quoted, as the bright red blood suddenly welled up out of the gaping slit in Charlie’s finger. ‘“If he is thirsty, give him a drink.”’

  Charlie’s hand was trembling wildly, but he knew now that he had passed the point of no return. He cut into the side of his finger until once again he could feel the blade up against the bone. Then he lifted his hand and cut around the far side, and the underneath, while the blood pumped out of the wound like water out of a badly fitting plumbing joint. He laid the gory scalpel back down on the table, and took hold of his ring finger, tugging the flesh a little way upward to make sure that it was cut through to the bone all the way around. He could actually see the bone, and he was surprised how white it was, just like bone of a real skeleton.

  The pain was extraordinary. His finger hurt so much it seemed to roar out loud. Added to that, he could feel that he was close to going into shock; stunned by the gruesomeness of what he was doing to himself. But one part of his mind remained completely detached. One part of his mind concentrated on finishing this amputation as quickly and as cleanly as possible. One part of his mind was already thinking of what the wound would look like when it was healed. He didn’t want any splintered or mutilated flesh.

  M. Fontenot said, in a voice that now seemed to Charlie to be echoing all around him, ‘“Nothing is unclean in itself; but to him who thinks anything to be unclean, to him it is unclean. For if because of food your brother is hurt, you are no longer walking according to love. Do not destroy with your food him for whom Christ died.”’ Charlie pressed his bloody left hand flat on the folded white napkin, staining it instantly and heavily. His mouth was tightly closed, and the breath jerked in and out of his nostrils like the breath of somebody sobbing. But there were no tears in Charlie’s eyes. His agony was too total for him to be able to cry.

  He picked up the small saw. Wincing, he nudged the blade into the open wound on his finger. When he felt the sawblade against the bone, he hesitated, and looked up at M. Fontenot once again. ‘Go on,’ said M. Fontenot, encouragingly.

  Charlie drew back the saw, and then rasped it forward over his finger bone. He didn’t know whether he screamed out loud or not. When he opened his eyes and looked at the assembled Guides, who were all watching him in fascination, he could tell that he probably hadn’t. But he had bitten the inside of his mouth: he could taste the blood.

  ‘Go on,’ M. Fontenot urged him. ‘Only a few more strokes, and it will all be over.’

  Mechanically, Charlie sawed at his fingerbone again, and then again. The pain was extreme, but the vibration of the saw teeth all the way through the nerves of his hand and up the lower part of his left arm was even worse. He sawed and sawed and then suddenly he felt Xavier’s hand on his shoulder. ‘You should stop now. Your finger is off. We don’t want you to damage the table. It’s antique, you know.’

  Charlie stared at his left hand. His ring finger was completely severed, and lying in between his middle finger and his little finger at a peculiar angle, as if it were a joke finger that you could buy in a Mardi Gras carnival store. Slowly, stiffly, Charlie set down the saw. Then he raised his hand, and said to Xavier, ‘Do you have... something to stop the bleeding?’

  ‘Of course, brother,’ said Xavier, and reached down to the lower shelf of the trolley to find a large gauze pad. Charlie held the pad over his pumping wound while M. Fontenot walked around the table, nodding to his Guides and smiling to himself. ‘It is always an occasion, the very first cut,’ he said. But then he came back around the table to stand over Charlie so close that Charlie could only see the ebony crucifix that hung low on M. Fontenot’s chest. He laid an unwelcome hand on top of Charlie’s head. ‘But very much more of an occasion, of course, is the very first taste of one’s own flesh.’

  Xavier had now returned the small copper pan to the top of the spirit burner. He poured a little olive oil into it, and deftly tilted it so that the whole of the pan was evenly coated. As the oil began to bubble, Xavier leaned forward to Charlie and said, ‘Your finger, please?’

  Charlie stared at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘Your finger,’ Xavier repeated; and at last it registered in Charlie’s shocked brain what he was supposed to do. He picked up his severed finger and held it up. It felt hard and strange and very dead. Xavier indicated with an encouraging nod that he was supposed to drop it into the pan, and so he did. There was a brittle sizzling noise, and Xavier quickly rolled the finger from one side of the pan to the other so that the outside of it was sealed by the heat of the oil. To Charlie’s disgust, even the red flesh where he had cut the finger off turned the colour of cooked pork, a light whitish brown.

  ‘Human flesh is rich, and it should be thoroughly cooked,’ said M. Fontenot. ‘However, one must be careful not to overdo it, otherwise it quickly becomes tough.’

  Charlie sat where he was, silent, unable to take his eyes away from the finger which was frying in front of his face. The skin was turning crisp, especially around the edges of the fi
ngernail, and because the fat was now dissolving, the finger slowly bent of its own accord, as if it were beckoning to him from the frying pan.

  Charlie had anticipated all the horror of this ritual for days. In some ways, he was prepared for it. It was almost a relief that he had found out what the Célèstines did and how they did it. But what he could never have prepared himself for was the smell. It was similar to frying pork only it was quite unmistakably not pork. It was strong and meaty and (in a nauseating way) almost appetizing.

  Xavier added a little fennel to the pan, and stirred the finger around to make sure that it was properly cooked. M. Fontenot watched Charlie with dark eyes that never once deviated as one of the white plates was set in front of him and the finger, still steaming, was placed on it like a small morsel with which to begin a very much grander dinner.

  ‘Your contribution to the holy covenant,’ said M. Fontenot. ‘Your sacrifice, your very first; and let us hope you will give many more.’

  Xavier took the bloody gauze away from Charlie’s left hand, and replaced it with a clean pad. Already the wound was beginning to clot, and Charlie had to admit that M. Fontenot was right: the human body did have extraordinary powers of recovery.

  ‘Do I... share it?’ asked Charlie, trying not to look down at the crisply fried finger.

  M. Fontenot shook his head. ‘This one is all for you. Later, perhaps, when you wish to have your legs removed... then you can share your flesh with your brothers in Christ. For this evening, however, your meat is your own. For what you are about to receive, may the Lord make you truly thankful.’

  It was a long time before Charlie could pick up his fork and prod at the finger on his plate, but M. Fontenot and the rest of the Guides remained silent, watching, giving him as much time as he needed. Charlie had the feeling that they had watched such reluctant ceremonies before. The room was filled with such expectancy that it almost seemed to exert a gravitational pull, as if the rest of the world would be irresistibly drawn towards it like nuts and bolts to a powerful magnet.