The Last Ritual

by S. A. Sidor

  The curly-haired guitar player strummed his guitar. The young woman with the ruffled black and white dress danced, not in any traditional way, but as if she were possessed.

  The tall figure raised the puppets. A man’s deep voice spoke through the mask.

  “Ebuma chtenff! Gnaiih goka gotha gof’nn! Fm’latgh grah’n ftaghu grah’n!”

  The crowd squeezed closer to the flames. Someone shoved me ahead. I tried to protest, but my throat was paralyzed. The guitar player thrashed the strings. The dancer flung herself to the ground, and then it was like an invisible hand jerked her body up again.

  On the edge of the flaming pyre, I saw a painting propped in the flames.

  The crowd pushed me in farther. The temperature was unbearable.

  It was a painting of a city…

  I strained to see the painting better. But flames licked over it. The canvas burned.

  The tall figure, whose mirrors repeated images of the inferno, lifted the man puppet and the woman puppet… was one of them wailing? He muttered in that awful tongue-defying language. The intense heat must have made those puppets wiggle and worm.

  “Lw’nafh. Lw’nafh. Yuyu-Va’bdaa!”

  He spit the final words from his mouth and cast the puppets onto the pyre. His heavy mask slipped. Under it, I thought I saw the end of a long, forked beard.

  He put the mask back in place.

  “Yuyu-Va’bdaa! Yuyu-Va’bdaa!” the crowd shouted.

  Facing them now, his resonant voice boomed out like an almighty drum.

  “YUYU-VA’BDAA!”

  They pushed me closer. I breathed in the harsh smoke from the pyre.

  Then all was blackness.

  Chapter Four

  The child’s poking woke me at noon. I opened one eye and immediately shut it. The sun, aiming like a sniper through the steeple belfry of a church, blinded me. I shaded my eyes and tried again. The boy smiled, approaching cautiously with a half-burnt stick he had used to prod me from my slumber in a kitchen chair. He was dressed as the male puppet had been during the festival.

  I sat up and felt the contents of my skull sloshing like a pail of curdled milk. I was hot, my sweaty shirt peeling from my skin. In my lap rested a sweet-smelling pitcher of macerated fruit, which proved to be the remains of the night’s sangria. I set it on the ground and used my shoe to push it away. A fly escaped the pitcher, buzzing past my cheek. My wicked head ached. I had drunk too much, and what lay in my stomach threatened to reappear.

  The boy jabbed me in the knee with his stick.

  Behind him came the sound of giggling. From under the tablecloth, a little girl of approximately the same age rushed out and stood beside the boy. Her dress matched the female puppet.

  “Buenos días,” I said.

  “Buenas tardes,” the girl corrected me.

  I nodded. My tongue twitched like a dying lizard. I had exhausted my Spanish vocabulary for the day. Remaining as motionless as possible, trying to move only my eyes, I surveyed the wreckage of the plaza. Like me, there were other sleepers lying across chairs and under the tables. The cigar man who had lit the fireworks snored like an old tomcat in the doorway of a butcher’s.

  The pyre had burned to ash. Smoke flavored the air. I attempted to stand and saw the error of my judgment. Daggers cored my eyes. I fell back into the chair, nearly tipping over. The children found this entertaining. Elbows resting on my knees, I held my broken head and tried to piece together the tattered scraps of my memories concerning the festival. The families eating and drinking. Drummers. Goblins twirling sparklers. Pyre burning. The puppets. The tall masked figure with the forked beard. The portrait of a city in flames–

  Poke, poke.

  The boy was holding a glass of water out to me. His chin quivered. His eyes were a beautifully clear, sugary brown.

  “Agua, señor?”

  Parched, I took the glass with both hands and drank. After swallowing greedily, the smell of sulfur hit my nose, and then came the revolting taste of mold and an oily residue. I spat the water in my mouth back out onto the plaza. Coughing, gagging, I stared into the glass. Green and tan globules floated in the warm liquid. It looked like the water from the coin fountain.

  The boy and the little girl laughed and ran across the plaza, screaming happily.

  I wiped my mouth with my shirt cuff.

  Slowly, I approached the ashes.

  No amount of sangria would’ve triggered a hallucination of the grand appalling ceremony I had witnessed. Or so I presumed. I kicked through smoldering embers. Under the scrim of dust, I perceived the outermost markings of a diagram drawn in chalk. I knelt beside the cinders. Whatever this design was, the bonfire pyramid had been built upon it.

  Two large charred footprints were scorched into the plaza stones.

  The tall figure with the full-head mask and the forked beard had left them.

  I rubbed my grizzled jaw.

  What exactly had I seen last night? Under oath, what could I testify to in a court of law? Had there been a crime committed? A double sacrifice?

  No.

  The events might’ve been a festival after all. I might’ve drunk too much sangria. Evidence supporting a more sinister theory was scant. You can’t jail people for having an odd dialect. Sure, they acted bizarrely, even scared you. Ever been to an Arkham gala party?

  The cigar man groaned as he rolled onto his other side. A hot wind blew. I was a stranger here. Who was I to question their traditions, however disturbing they might appear to my alien eyes? How much of it was my own fantasy? I can’t honestly say. Suddenly, I was overcome with a strong urge to return home. I wanted to feel that old familiar strangeness I knew so well. I needed to see Arkham.

  It was surprisingly easy to find the Renault. The streets were deserted, and someone had covered the sewers. I dreaded navigating a route out of this city. But this morning I got lucky. I discovered a backstreet that connected to an avenue I hadn’t passed on my way into town.

  Soon I came upon a highway.

  At the first crossroads I spotted a sign with an arrow pointing in a direction away from where I’d come that read: BARCELONA. So I suppose I never visited that city.

  I started back to the fishing village.

  Travel is a liminal state. In such states the mind is often vulnerable, even fragile. Suddenly I was panicked with a sense of being adrift. What was I doing here? In Spain, and in the universe? These questions attacked my head as I drove.

  But it might’ve only been the worst hangover of my life.

  I assured myself that I would feel better once I got back to Arkham. Seeing the faces of people whom I recognized; friends, acquaintances from my past, my family, even my old dog, Thorn, would offer me comfort and stability. A solid New England rock under my feet.

  Get thee home, Alden, a soothing voice said to me.

  I packed my bags, changed my ticket, and did as I was told.

  Chapter Five

  “Sir, Mr Alden… sir…?”

  A bony hand grasped my arm. The coolness of the fingers penetrated through my silk pajamas. I recognized their icicle touch. It was Roland, our family’s ancient butler.

  The hand shook me.

  “Uhh… hm… grrr…”

  “Sir, are you awake?”

  “No.” I pulled the blankets to my chin.

  “You have visitors, downstairs.”

  “Send them away. I am entertaining no one this morning.”

  “It’s Mr Preston Fairmont. Miss Minnie is with him. They say you are to lunch together.”

  Alarmed, I flipped up the edge of my sleeping mask.

  “What time is it?”

  Roland consulted his pocket watch. “Very nearly noon.”

  I threw off my blankets and jumped up. The room was dim. Thunder rumbled the house. Wind and rain slashed
at the red maples in the courtyard of Oakwood. Our family’s Italianate mansion perched near the top of Arkham’s historic French Hill, where its architecture stood out among the Huguenot and Colonial-inspired residences like a tiramisu in the window of a Paris patisserie. Oakeses were never shy about being noticed in a crowd.

  “What day, man? What damned day is it?”

  I tore free from my pajamas. My bare foot landed in a puddle on the floor. My bedroom’s doors swept inward from the balcony, the draperies darkened from the rain.

  Roland’s white eyebrows wrinkled. “It’s Monday, the 20th of September… in the year of our Lord 1925… You’ve been home for a couple of weeks. You should be adjusted.”

  “Why are those blasted doors wide open? There’s a flood in here.”

  “You insisted they be kept that way last night, sir.”

  “I did? And you listened to me?”

  “You made me swear to it. You said the rain helped you to sleep.”

  “Well, obviously I was correct.”

  Roland handed me a wool suit and a pair of two-tone Oxfords from my closet.

  “Thank you, Roland. You know how confused and cranky I am before breakfast.”

  “And lunch.”

  I nodded, buttoning a fresh, purple-striped shirt. Roland had dealt with my habitual lateness since I slept in a crib. I was an only child. Roland was the closest thing to a much, much, much older brother that I had. While traveling in Europe, I had missed him more than I had my own parents. That isn’t saying much. We had been through a lot together, Roland and I. We shared a fondness for each other’s sense of humor and amusement at our, often uncomfortable, social predicaments, although Roland had to be careful to keep his opinions secret in order to maintain his position in our household. I ran no such risks. Roland’s clear blue eyes twinkled merrily at me.

  “Stall them, will you?” I sighed. “I’ll be downstairs in a minute. Make coffee.”

  “I brewed the Ethiopian Harar you prefer. A cup is ready when you are.”

  “You’re a godsend, Ro.”

  Without so much as a smile, he shut the door.

  •••

  “Minnie! How long has it been? You look scrumptious as usual.” I took her hand and kissed the knuckles. “What enormous jewelry you’re wearing. I nearly chipped a tooth.”

  “Oh, Alden! Preston outdid himself. He must’ve brought this gigantic diamond over the mountains on the back of an elephant.” Minnie’s jasmine perfume filled the foyer as fully as her mellifluous voice.

  “Without a doubt, your beau has spent many nights astride prodigious beasts,” I said.

  Preston shared a look of horror with me over the top of Minnie’s head.

  But Minnie was ignoring both of us as she admired her betrothal ring.

  Roland entered silently as a wraith and announced the coffee’s readiness.

  Minnie jumped at his presence behind her.

  “Join me for a coffee before we venture into the elements?” I said, holding out my arm. She linked up with me. Her free hand clasped onto Preston.

  Conjoined, we followed Roland.

  Minnie pulled me down, whispering, “Your manservant gives me the creeps. There’s something sepulchral about him.”

  “Oh, Ro’s a good egg. Recall that he never once reported your late-night presence in my bedroom to my parents.”

  Minnie nodded in acknowledgment of Ro’s discretion and gave me a squeeze in memory of former times spent in each other’s company. In the drawing room, I pulled out a chair for her. Roland brought in a silver cart with a coffee urn and sweet treats. The gray rain beat tiny fists at the windows. Wind, catching in the throat of the fireplace, groaned. Preston acted distracted. He sipped his coffee and paid no attention to the nuptial details as Minnie ran through them. I guessed he’d heard the plans dozens of times. Perhaps he was feeling trepidatious, anticipating the big day. He appeared dashing as usual, but distant, a tad cool. Minnie, on the other hand, glowed. I’d never seen her so animated. Movement enhanced her the same way stillness improved others. No painting I attempted of Minnie did the woman justice. It always felt somehow less. One needed to meet her in person to experience her enchantment. Aside from the fact of our broken engagement, I had always liked Minnie. I found I still did.

  “Preston, tell him about the tickets,” Minnie said, slapping him on the knee.

  Preston woke from his trance. “Oh, of course, the tickets… it’s a surprise. We want you to come with us. As a gift for returning from France ahead of schedule.”

  “Tickets to what?” I said.

  “Tell him, tell him,” Minnie squeaked with joy.

  “Houdini,” Preston said. He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket.

  “The magician?”

  “What other Houdini is there, silly,” Minnie said.

  “He’s having a show here in Arkham. We’re going. And you’re going with us.”

  Preston handed me my ticket.

  “Why, it’s for tonight. At the Ward Theatre,” I said, taken aback.

  “Afterward we’ll go backstage and meet Houdini himself,” Preston said.

  “Well then…” The idea of spending the rest of the day with Preston and Minnie raised personal alarms. I didn’t want to be a third wheel. On the other hand, I’d always hoped to catch a Houdini show. Denying Minnie was also inadvisable. “…I’d love to join you.”

  Minnie clapped her tiny hands together. “I shall be the envy of every woman in attendance,” she said.

  “You always are, darling,” Preston said.

  They kissed.

  I studied my ticket. “It says it’s a three-part show. I wonder what the parts are.”

  Caught up in Preston’s tweedy arms, Minnie ruffled her fingers through his hair.

  “Illusions, Escapes, and Exposing Frauds,” she said, breathless.

  “Illusions, Escapes, and Exposing Frauds,” I repeated, tenting my fingertips and touching them to my lips, as one does while contemplating deep, philosophical conundrums.

  “The show is a bit of fun and games. Nothing too serious,” Preston said.

  “I was only thinking you two might want to pay especially close attention. The lessons you learn may prove helpful after you are wed.”

  They both laughed.

  “Oh, Alden, how I’ve missed you! You are the perfect antidote to the Arkham gloomies,” Minnie said. Parting her lips revealed the intriguing little gap between her front teeth.

  “I hope you didn’t miss him too much,” Preston said, frowning.

  I was about to interject something clever when Thorn, my blue greyhound, bounded into the room. He was irresistibly drawn to Minnie and tried to climb into her lap.

  She fed him a butter cookie. “Oh! May we take him out with us for lunch?”

  “There’s a bistro right around the corner where Thorn is a welcome guest,” I said.

  “I’d love to walk him,” she volunteered.

  “Be my guest.” I fetched the dog’s leash from the wall peg.

  “While we walk, you tell me all about your time in the Mediterranean. How was it?”

  “Hot, interesting, boring… strange.”

  Minnie smiled. “We’re going to have so much fun together this year! Did Preston tell you? Our engagement party will be on Halloween. Doesn’t that sound positively bloodcurdling? There are so many fascinating new people for you to meet, Alden. Arkham is changing. Don’t laugh, it is. And things are heating up. Remember how hard it was to find a good party years ago? Everyone was still down because of the war and all that dreadfulness. But now it’s gotten to be really fun again.”

  “Who doesn’t love fun?” I said, as the three of us crossed the threshold into the chill.

  •••

  Houdini did not disappoint. He executed the famous
East Indian Needle Trick and his own diabolical invention of the Water Cell Torture, which had us gasping for breath in the balcony gallery of the Ward Theatre. Every escape and trick went off without a hitch. The illusionist also took time to debunk the methods of the Spiritualists and other hoaxers. His message was that one may talk to the dead, but the dead never talk back. During this portion of the show, I happened to scan the crowd below us, and to my great astonishment I swore I spotted Juan Hugo Balthazarr sitting in the front row, near the middle of the stage. I did not have the best angle to confirm if it was indeed him, but when the man leaned forward intently, the resemblance to the photo I had seen of the Spaniard was striking. He had a forked beard and was a head taller than his seatmates. And there was no mistaking the animosity apparent in his brutal visage. It was as if he harbored a personal hatred for the debunking Houdini.

  Minnie had fallen asleep against Preston’s shoulder during this part of the act. But by the end she was awake again. Preston had remained riveted throughout.

  “You enjoyed the show?” he asked me.

  “Very much so.”

  He couldn’t have known my excitement also stemmed from a possible sighting of Balthazarr in the theatre. This might be my chance to meet the famous Surrealist! I searched for him in the post-performance hubbub. But nowhere in the departing crowd did the tall man with a forked beard appear. Perhaps I was wrong and Balthazarr had never been there at all.

  “Ready to head backstage?” Preston asked us.

  Minnie nodded enthusiastically. “They call him the Handcuff King, you know.”

  “Careful. He might lock you up,” I said.

  “Then saw you in half, darling.” Preston pointed. “Through those heavy curtains, there’s the door to the backstairs. Lead the way, Oakesy. If we run into security, I’ll just tell them I’m a Fairmont. We saved this place from closing. They had a dreadful run, some play about a Yellow King, and people literally died. Which is sad because I heard the play was quite excellent. Who can ever understand the dramatic arts?”

  I found the stairway and headed down, with Minnie and Preston pressing in close behind me. The farther I descended, the darker it grew. In the blackness at the bottom, I tripped on the final stair, falling forward against a steel door. It burst open. A narrow hallway. Closed doors on both sides. One weak light bulb dangled from the ceiling by its wire. On the floor, a birdcage filled with white doves. I had crashed through the door so hard that it hit the brick wall behind it, sending a boom echoing down the passage. The doves beat their wings.