Copyright © 2007 Mack Mani
All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.
The pale moonlight of the witching hour streamed in through the high windows of the abandoned building, but was lost among the light of the many candles. Around thirteen people had assembled to take part in the ceremony, the others just there to watch. A low turn out. The building, huge, empty, and intimidating, was just dark enough to hide the area surrounding those who gathered in the center.
Tanis Root burned all around Him, the only one in a hood. The smell permeated the air. The onlookers made a gauntlet up to Him, ten people on each side. One by one, the participators marched past, gazes fixed ahead, their only thoughts centered around the event at hand.
If they looked into the crowd of faces, they would have seen a panorama of people from all walks of life. At first, only the kids who painted their nails black and listened to The Cure came. Then slowly but surely more and more had been drawn into the web. He didn't judge. He didn't turn anyone away. Maybe that's why they all came.
They'd drawn circles on the ground, as instructed. They'd made all of the right signs, and scattered the ash in just the right way, all trying to please the one they called Father. They got their praise and relished it and Him. He instructed them to get back in line and turned towards the gauntlet, and those waiting at the other end--those ready to leap into the next step.
He pulled his cowl back and revealed his charismatic face. Scattered gasps of shock flitted round the cavernous room. He ignored their outbursts, told them the story He told every time. Some people had heard it half a dozen times and still weren't ready to let Him help them. The story they keep secret, for Him. His unwavering voice filled the air, telling them how they could help Him. Lighting the candles with the dying embers of the Tanis Root, he set them on the podium and walked to the end of the gauntlet. He looked down at those who stood at the other end; they looked back at him with an excited fear. He told them to come. They obeyed.
They made a single file line up to him. The first stood in the circle of chalk on the concrete floor, three triangles intersected beneath his feet. He got on his knees in front of Father, his arms making an X across his chest, clutching, just like he'd been taught to. Father looked down and whispered his prayer. It was whispered back. Father put his hand on the boy's head and told him and him alone it was time for him to go.
The first stood and turned, his arms still crossed. Father faced the second, who smiled, looking calmer than he had in a long time. He was still smiling as one of Father's hands reached around and grabbed his chin, and the other came up to the back of his skull. And he looked free when Father twisted his hands in a smooth familiar way. He then asked the third to step forward and repeated the process thirteen times that night. A terribly low turn out.
Then he read from The Book. The book He'd written. He told those remaining that He would change the world. Make it a place for the rejected, for the unloved, for the forgotten. He said all He needed was their help. They all wanted to be part of something. To not die in vain.