The Last Ritual

by S. A. Sidor

  “Got a little rhythm, a rhythm, a rhythm

  That pit-a-pats through my brain;

  So darn persistent

  The day isn’t distant

  When it’ll drive me insane…”

  Dancers kicked their legs, threw their arms in the air, and shook themselves. A tray of glasses hit the floor, shattering. A woman screamed in mock terror. The pianist hit the keys in a frenzy. It grew hotter in the room. The windows fogged up. Everywhere, people howled with laughter, enjoying what surely was the swankiest party of the year.

  I shouted my last question to Norman.

  “Tell me, professor. Do you really suppose we aren’t top dogs in the new cosmos?”

  Norman’s eyes narrowed. His gray eyebrows bristled. Gently, but with a degree of urgency, he nudged me into the corner under a candlelit sconce. I soon realized he wasn’t concerned with me but instead was staring at the floor along the wall next to the table’s edge.

  A brown beetle scuttled from under the baseboard.

  He crushed it flat.

  The old man chuckled. “We might just be the cockroaches.”

  Holding up his leg, the astronomer regarded the gooey insect remnants sticking to his boot sole, before wiping them off with a napkin and tossing the paper into the trash.

  Chapter Eight

  After Norman returned upstairs to his lab, I walked to the back entrance to get a breath of fresh air. I was leaning against the doorjamb, lighting a cigarette, when Preston approached me from behind to shout in my ear.

  “Was that Methuselah you were talking to?” Preston asked.

  I jumped as if I’d been hit with a jolt of electricity, dropping my cigarette in the grass.

  “Don’t do that!” I said.

  “Sorry to panic you, Oakesy. You seemed lost in deep thoughts. I wanted to make sure you were having a good time.”

  “I’m having a fine time when my friends aren’t shocking the hell out of me.”

  Preston bent over. “Here’s your Lucky back.”

  I picked a bit of turf off my cigarette and stuck the tobacco between my lips. “It wasn’t Methuselah by the way. His name is Norman. Norman Withers.”

  Preston joined me on the threshold. People had to walk between us as if we were standing guard. They nodded cordially at Preston and gave me odd glances as if they were trying to figure out who I was, or maybe if I belonged.

  “Never heard of him. Must be from Minnie’s side.”

  “Norman’s not from either side.” I blew out a plume of smoke. “He’s a scientist. Works here at the observatory, studying the heavens. He’s an intriguing fella. I don’t think he talks to outsiders much. By outsiders, I mean non-academics. He had a lot to say.”

  “Oh, about what?”

  “The cosmos. Deviations floating around up there. He painted an alarming picture.”

  “Funny old bird.” Preston slipped a flask from inside his jacket and took a slug before he passed it to me. “Well, I hope he was having a good time too.”

  “That’s some fine whiskey.” I said, wiping my lips. I felt a comforting warmth, like a cozy campfire aglow inside me. “Canadian?”

  Preston winked. “You have a good palate. But you should. You’re a painter!” He looked drunker than I first thought. Eyes red, collar askew. A spot the color of dried blood stained his cuff. His clothes smelled like patchouli smoke. “What do you think of this crowd? I know people, Oakesy. Wonderful new people. Soon enough you’ll get to know them too.”

  To me they didn’t look very different from the old people we knew.

  A cluster of merrymakers – arms linked or hugging tightly as if they’d been cast off the RMS Titanic and were clasping together while they waited for the rescue boats, slippery hands grasping slipperier hands – attempted to pass between us.

  “We probably should move,” I said. The slow crush had me backed up on my tiptoes.

  “My party, Oakesy. I’ll stand where I want. But you’re right, as usual.”

  They knocked me against the door frame while blasting a mixed chorus of “Let us through!” and “Gangway!” as they passed us. A happy, absolutely sozzled stampede that posed no real threat to anyone but themselves. The next morning their hangovers would arrive overly bright and shiny, clanging pots and pans, marching into their bedrooms as the morning sunbeams cut into their skulls: so many weekend actors in smeary makeup and gaudy rented wardrobes. Preston enjoyed a high status with this crowd – his guests, his new people – so I bore the brunt of the bodily pressure. I’m making it sound more unpleasant than it was. What I felt mostly was a thrilling, though fleeting, symbiosis with the others, as if, however briefly, we became a composite creature. Palpable energy surged through the whole group with a crackling power. Preston’s Canadian hooch was good, but not good enough that my head was humming louder than the jazz band. It had to be something else at work here.

  Preston followed the crowd back inside.

  I felt like I needed more air. As soon as I took two steps away from the building, my clown pants began to hang low on my left side, and a heavy weight brushed against my thigh. I reached into my pocket and withdrew a broken piece of limestone carved in the shape of a curved horn. It came from the gargoyle at South Church. Doomed Dunphy’s last handhold.

  When I’d figured out what it was, I looked up to see the woman I’d met in the churchyard. Now she was standing in the smoky, yellow flickering of the party’s bonfire.

  I couldn’t make out the details of her face, but I knew it was her. She had one leg raised up, her bare foot resting lazily on a tree stump, and there were ribbons hanging off her. She was watching me, the corner of her mouth hooked in a smile. Chin out, head back. I saw that much. So, I walked over. You would have too. Hell, any man would have, possibly a few women as well. Not ribbons, I decided. Bandages – that’s what they were supposed to be. They wrapped around each of her legs and her torso. She wore a short, nude-colored dress under them. Unraveled bindings trailed from her wrists. Assorted metallic bangles were stacked nearly halfway to her elbows, catching the firelight. Around her throat she’d taken a piece of shroud and tied it in an ascot knot, as if it were the chicest couture. Her head, free of encasement, was topped simply by a small gold crown with an aqua stone set dead in its center. She’d straightened out her bob. The color was a shade darker than I recalled, but maybe the night was doing these things to her, or to me. She looked knowing, yet expectant. Kohl rimmed dramatically around her big, luminous eyes. Bordeaux lips, wet teeth. A person waiting for something, perhaps something owed? Not harmless, not by a mile. Those piercing eyes were capable of shocking and showing outrage in the same instant. I never want this woman angry at me, I thought. She’s the kind of lady who might stab you with a pair of scissors if she figured you deserved it. Or she might die for you. It all depended.

  On what exactly, I wasn’t sure.

  I tried my best not to look too eager. I’m sure I failed miserably.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  She acted insulted. “You mean you can’t tell?” She took the cigarette holder from her right hand and clenched it between her teeth. Then, very tall, arms stretching high overhead, she twirled. “I’m an Egyptian mummy.”

  “But your face isn’t wrapped.”

  “Would you wrap this face if it was yours?” She blew smoke at me.

  “I can’t say I would.”

  Her gaze fell to my hand. “What have you got there?”

  “I think you know,” I said.

  “I don’t.” She was playing a game now.

  What was she doing at Preston and Minnie’s party? Was she one of the new people?

  “You put this in my pocket.” I showed her the gargoyle horn.

  “I did? My, my, that was awfully presumptuous of me. What business do I have going in your pocket?”

&nbs
p; “Let me decide that.”

  “I’m not making any promises,” she replied. Her hands were dusted with a golden powder that sparkled whenever she moved. There were traces of it on her cheeks and chin, from when she had touched her face. Her feet were bare, also gold. I saw a pair of black heels she must have kicked off in the grass behind the stump. She had no drink, but I smelled gin.

  “Why give this to me?” I asked, pointing the end of the horn at her. My hand glittered now too.

  “To remind you of the unfortunate reason we met,” she said.

  “Courtland Dunphy?”

  She stuck out her lower lip. “He lived across the hall from me. Not for very long, though. He’d recently arrived in town. Did I tell you that before?”

  “No, you only said you saw him in passing.”

  “Court was the serious type, all business. He had a kind face. You know he wasn’t the first. There have been quite a few. He was only the latest.”

  “Latest what…?” I wasn’t following her. I thought I was for a second. But I wasn’t.

  “The latest death… suicides, murders, missing people… It’s practically an epidemic.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I heard about them. But I’ve been out of town so I’m still catching up.”

  “I’ll cross you off my list then.” She turned away to light another cigarette.

  “What list?”

  “Of suspects,” she said, offering me a smoke.

  Before I could accept her offer, a hooded monk lunged out from the shadows carrying what I took to be a beer keg over his head. Finally, I recognized someone I knew from the old days. It was Clark Abernathy, another of my college classmates, costumed as Friar Tuck. He wasn’t carrying a beer keg but a gnarly log, which he tossed on the bonfire. Craaack! Sparks exploded into the sky. The black cherry tree branches were lit up. Their fleshless, ghoulish arms hovering above us, making witchy signs over a boiling cauldron.

  Clark hadn’t seen me. I thought about calling to him.

  But I was in a conversation, you see.

  “Arkham’s always borne its fair share of tragedies,” I said. “I’ve chalked most of them up as legends and rumors. This town likes to tell stories.”

  “Not all legends and rumors,” she said. “These things really happened. People died.”

  “What are the police doing about it?”

  She scoffed. “Nothing. What did they do about Court?”

  “I thought what happened to Court was an accident.”

  “Was it? Court had a premonition a bad thing might happen to him.”

  I blinked in surprise. “Did he tell you that? I thought you didn’t really know him.”

  She took the horn from me. “I don’t really know you. But if you were feeling under threat? I’d pick up on it,” she said. “For instance, I could tell if you were scared.”

  “And am I scared?” I looked right into her eyes.

  “Definitely.” She smiled. “Anyway, I think something in that church killed Court.”

  “The gargoyle?” I was puzzled, but intrigued now.

  “The gargoyle literally did kill him.” She arched her eyebrow, challenging me to argue. When I didn’t, she continued. “I don’t mean it came to life. That’s goofy. I’m talking about a more subtle force. What made Court go up there? Why was he standing so close to the edge? You know it rained that morning? The roof was slick. The gargoyle was scheduled to come down in a week. Its removal had been meticulously planned. They were bringing in scaffolding, ladders, ropes and pulleys; a safe, logical system. Court never told anybody he was going up there. Father Michael didn’t even know. Court had his own key to the church. Why did he grab that horn? Was it for balance in a moment of panic? He knew the gargoyle’s condition. He’d inspected it many times. Was his fall simply chance?”

  “One might call it fate.” But I was beginning to understand what she was poking at.

  “Or, maybe, just maybe… it might be something else.”

  “Like a curse?”

  She shrugged. “I prefer to call it an intelligent influence.”

  “You mean someone, or something, made him do it?”

  “Oh, damn, here she comes.”

  I looked through the bonfire flames and spotted Minnie approaching.

  “There’s my favorite clown,” Minnie kissed my painted cheek. She wore a sequined gray leotard. “If you’re wondering, I’m a peacock.” She turned around so we could appreciate her colorful iridescent plumage. “Have you seen Preston? He was supposed to join me for a duet with the band, but I can’t find him anywhere.”

  “Last I saw him, he was heading inside with the crowd.”

  “Uggghhh. When was that?”

  I shrugged. “Five minutes ago.”

  Minnie frowned. “I do hope he can remember the words to our song.” She paced around the fire, her eyes searching the murky yard for her misplaced beau. “Preston has gotten to be such a worry wart lately. The smallest bump in the road and he startles. I’d think he was cheating on me, too, the way he slinks off without telling me where he’s going. Keeping odd hours. A regular Count Dracula. He barely sleeps a wink, even when he’s not with me. It’s the wedding, I’m sure. We’re both terribly excited. But I swear he’d frighten me off if I didn’t know the real him. Preston is not one to be bothered. Alden, you lived with the man. He usually takes life as it comes, right? And to Hell with tomorrow.”

  I nodded. “A cool cucumber is what he is. He looks fine to me.”

  “Well, he isn’t,” Minnie said.

  What I didn’t say was that Preston didn’t worry about tomorrows because somebody had always taken care of his, ensuring he’d be given his choice of the best money could buy in all the things life had to serve up. It was impossible to imagine any true harm coming to him. From birth, he’d led a privileged, boyish life. Maybe he thought that was ending.

  “Well, I’d better go find him.” Minnie marched off. After she rounded the fire pit, she paused – her head swung back – to ask a parting question of me. “Who’s your shy friend?” But she wasn’t really asking, only being polite. She didn’t wait for my answer.

  “Who is my shy friend?” I said. “You never told me your name. I’m Alden Oakes.”

  “Nina Tarrington,” the mummy queen said.

  We exchanged bows.

  “Nina Tarrington. Where have I heard that name before?”

  “Preston was going to marry me once, too.”

  If I’d had a drink, I’d have spit it out into the flames. God, I thought, she’s telling me the truth. Now I remembered that Preston was engaged to a Nina Tarrington. A Boston woman. Her father was a publisher who owned a newspaper chain. They’d butted heads, Preston and Nina, and fought constantly. Ultimately, the wedding was called off only days before the ceremony. A wild tale accompanied the news. Something about a sword and a wrecked sailboat. Champagne bottles smashed; a man lost tragically overboard.

  “You’re that Nina Tarrington?” I said.

  “See, I told you people overlap in Arkham.”

  “We certainly do.”

  “Alden, now that we know each other better, do you think you could find me a drink?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “What more could a woman ask?”

  I held out my arm, and Nina took it.

  “You know, I was engaged to Minnie. That makes you and I related, I think.”

  Chapter Nine

  “You and Minnie? Knock me over with a feather. We must learn from our pasts,” Nina said.

  “I plan to do just that.” We were returning from a trip to the punch bowl. I raised my cup in a toast. “Here’s to learning!” Nina clinked her cup with mine.

  We entered the observatory library, which appeared cozy at first, but upon further exploration revealed a warren of nooks an
d tome-packed aisles that curved around one whole side of the building. People wandered in and out, but no one stayed for too long. For a library it was awfully dim. The room’s electrical lighting wasn’t working for some reason. I thought it strange, but wiring in Arkham was sometimes a spotty business. Turning the library switches did nothing, leaving us with the moonlight to guide our way. Nina and I found a secluded corner. She curled up catlike on a cracked leather brandy-brown wingback. I perched on a lowboy bookcase filled with scientific pamphlets. Everything was looking very nineteenth century, very Victorian. The music from the band thumped like a heartbeat in the walls.

  “What were we talking about?” I asked.

  “Outside, before Minnie came over? I was telling you about the unexplained deaths.”

  “That’s right. Arkham’s had a run of bad luck lately.”

  Nina’s gaze narrowed. “It’s more than bad luck. I think the incidents are connected.”

  “To what?”

  “To each other, for a start,” she said.

  “Heavens! Do you have any proof of this theory?”

  I scooted my bottom back onto the bookcase and bumped into something behind me. It was an orrery depicting our solar system: the sun, planets, and all their moons. I picked it up. The cool brass apparatus resembled a faceless automaton juggling semi-precious orbs in its spindly arms. Gears moved inside the glass dome which formed its base; quite a mesmerizing clockwork model. It reminded me of Norman the astronomer’s cosmic lesson.

  But I set it aside to listen to Nina.

  “I’ve dug up a few things,” she said. “The big picture’s still fuzzy.”

  “A series of murders? That’s gruesome.” The mood in town seemed dark these days.

  “They weren’t all murders. Some were suicides.”

  “That hardly makes it better.”

  “I agree,” she said. “There’s been an uptick in missing persons cases too. We can presume a few of those will turn out to be suspicious deaths. And I’ve come across a couple of other oddities. What the coroner calls ‘deaths by misadventure.’ But they’re far from ordinary accidents.”