The Last Ritual

by S. A. Sidor

  “It marked a new direction for me.”

  “A new direction for New Colony!” Balthazarr clapped his hands. The explosive sound hurt my ears. “What to make of this one? A train to Hades? Don’t tell me a word. The painting speaks for you. Never explain your paintings, Alden. That is not your job.” On the adjacent wall, hanging separately and alone, was the vision of my experience in the Black Cave. Balthazarr framed his hands around the edges of the canvas as if he were trying to squeeze the ritual images together. “I feel like I was there with you. In this Black Cave. You are painting nightmares, whether you know it or not. Dreams. The landscape beneath the conscious mind.”

  “How do you know about the Black Cave?” I said, trying not to sound suspicious.

  His arm struck out toward the wall. His finger indicated the white card with the name of the painting typed on it. “It is titled The Black Cave.”

  “Oh, right. So it is.”

  “But my favorite of your paintings is this one.”

  Balthazarr stepped over to the wall behind us. There was a canvas on the floor, facing away from the room, tilted against the wall. He turned it around. Then he hung it on a nail.

  “What do you call this one? Witness to A Ceremonial Beheading?”

  It was my unfinished depiction of the observatory’s dome room. Clark’s body lying on the floor. Preston and Minnie. My self-portrait refusing to deny the mutilated corpse.

  “How did this get here? It’s not supposed to be in the exhibition. It’s unfinished.”

  “The incomplete condition is unimportant. It is finished, Alden.”

  “No, I abandoned it.”

  “It is a work of genius. If I were you, I would not change a thing.”

  Nina hadn’t said a word.

  “What do you think?” I asked her.

  “We should listen to Balthazarr.” Her voice had a flatness, as if she were hypnotized.

  “There! You see!” He grabbed the back of my neck with his pincer hand. “I want to say it is my privilege to be in the Colony with you. To belong to this commune with you.” He kissed my cheek with effusive affection. “What an exciting time to be alive and in Arkham!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  After Balthazarr left us alone to rejoin the party, Nina and I stayed there in the room. Outside, we heard the gathering regain its former volume, as if they’d hushed up to eavesdrop on our meeting with the Spaniard.

  “He called you a genius, Alden.” She held tight to both my hands.

  “I know.” I squeezed her and looked again at my paintings, one by one. “What do you think it means?”

  “I think it means you’re a genius, silly boy.” She kicked the door closed and switched off the light. Did she feel, as I did, that my paintings were somehow watching us?

  Nina and I kissed for a long time in that dark room. We couldn’t see each other, but we could feel. Weirdly, I started imagining these amoeboid lifeforms crawling in the black air around us. Some trick of the eyes caused by the absence of light, no doubt. Like gigantic pseudopodal protozoans trapped under a microscope, the magnified apparitions constantly reshaped themselves. Slither and flow. Had I had not been otherwise preoccupied, I might’ve watched in fascination. As it was, my observations came from the periphery of my vision. The mirages shone iridescently as drops of oil in water do. There was a chance that at any moment someone might walk in and catch us. Short of breath, we paused for a laugh at the absurdity, the headiness and unreality of it all.

  “Things are changing for you,” Nina whispered.

  “You’re the cause of it. Surely you can tell that.”

  She nuzzled my neck, her warm breath tickling me, sending shivers.

  “I don’t mean that. I’m talking about your career. Things there are changing.”

  “Yes, that too.” I stroked her back. “They really are. Aren’t they?”

  She laced her fingers in my hair and pulled me in for a last kiss.

  “We’d better join the party before they find us,” she whispered.

  “Reluctantly… I must agree.” I switched the light back on.

  We repaired our states of dishevelment. At first, I detected what seemed to be a chorus of chanting emanating from down below us. Chanting! But it was only the end of some sea shanty type of song the attendees were finishing. An alien and unfamiliar tune, which the harpist and pan flutist both seemed to know, for they played in support of the voices. We’d worried about a romantic interruption for no good reason, apparently. The hallway stood vacant, eerily so. We felt a bit like a pair of children sneaking down to see what their parents are up to at the grownups’ party. In any case, that was how I felt. How was it we hadn’t been missed?

  I followed Nina downstairs into the only room large enough to hold all of the visitors. It must have been a dining room in bygone days; long and rectangular, with accesses from both ends, and a chandelier hung in the center where a table might’ve been. Despite the size, the crowd had packed themselves in. It was a ridiculous sight, like a game almost. See how many we can fit in here. The light fixture above looked like a dead spider flipped on its back, trapped in a chain web of its own fashioning. Beneath the spider stood Balthazarr beside a circular stand, atop which rested an odd golden bowl. He had a little space cleared out around him, but he was the only one. I almost turned back.

  “You are here right on time, my friends.” Balthazarr beckoned us closer to the action.

  We proceeded to the front of the crowd.

  In the center of the odd bowl, a thin spike protruded; it looked alarmingly sharp.

  “What is this old relic?” I was amused by the ornately embossed basin, its outer shell decorated with rows of concentric circles aligned and alternating bands of hammered nubs.

  “Alden, you jest. But do you know you are correct. It is a relic.”

  “Where’s it from?” Nina said. She traced her finger along the rim of the bowl.

  “I brought it with me from Spain. But it is much older than Spain herself. Are you aware that people have lived on the Iberian Peninsula for thirty-five thousand years? Before the Romans, Phoenicians and Celts lived there. Is this Celtic?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. More likely Phoenician. Its origin is mysterious. Suffice it to say, it is ancient.”

  “What’s it used for?” I said.

  One of the attendees chuckled behind us.

  “It’s a tub for taking bloodbaths,” the man said, sounding intoxicated.

  A woman shushed him. Balthazarr’s stare grew hostile at the interruption. Two men slid quietly across the room and removed the drunken man.

  “Hey, whaadid I do? I wanna watch. Aw, c’mon guys. Don’t be sore. I’ll be good from now on and keep my trap shut. Lemme go back. Pleeease…” But he did not gain reentry.

  Balthazarr pointed to the hole in the crowd where the man had been. “In a way he was right. Though the gin has given him a flair for the overdramatic.”

  The crowd laughed.

  “It does involve blood,” Balthazarr said.

  “Whose blood?” I asked.

  “All of ours! We are going to swear an oath of artistic dedication. Of brotherhood and sisterhood. We are proclaiming ourselves New Colonists. To mark our bond with one another, we are going to give a symbolic offering of our physical selves. A drop of blood. No more. I don’t want anyone fainting.”

  I felt unsure and glanced at Nina, but she was transfixed by the bowl.

  The crowd laughed again. A nervous tension was building in the atmosphere, like a coming lightning strike. The crackling of electrically charged fields.

  “You want us to cut ourselves, so we bleed?” Nina said. She didn’t sound afraid.

  “No, no, no. Not a cut. A simple quick tap on the end of this nail. Use your pinkie finger if you like. You won’t even feel it, I assure you. The nail is
so sharp. Then a drop in the bowl. A token act to represent our vital connection, our collective lifeblood, if you will. You’ll be surprised how good you will feel once we have all taken our turns.”

  “Shall I go first?” Nina said.

  “Please, yes. Unless you prefer that Alden takes his turn before you.”

  I said, “Maybe one of the people who came down earlier should do it.” I was no fan of bloodletting. The bowl seemed unclean, though I couldn’t pinpoint why.

  Balthazarr stiffened his back. “I am offering it to you out of respect, Alden. Artist to artist. It is my bowl, and I want you to be the first. Think of it as a game we are playing. We will all have our chances. Please, don’t insult me.”

  “I’ll go first,” Nina said. “I’m not afraid of a little blood.” She pushed up her sleeve.

  Balthazarr spread out his arms. He looked like a statue standing there.

  “Your hand… I will guide you.”

  Nina stretched out her arm. I wanted to stop her. But I didn’t. She’d be mad at me. It was only a little prick on the finger. Hell, I was pushing up my cuff and thinking about what it would be like when I went next. That might sound cowardly. But I felt very brave.

  Balthazarr seized Nina’s wrist and pulled her over the bowl. In a swift motion, he pressed her hand down and the end of her middle finger touched the ancient golden needle.

  “Ow.” She winced. “You promised it wouldn’t hurt.” Nina stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked the tip.

  “See? I’ll bet it’s already stopped bleeding, hasn’t it?”

  Nina inspected her fingertip. “No. It’s still bleeding.”

  Balthazarr was reaching for me. “Alden, it’s your turn.”

  I hesitated. But I couldn’t back out after my girlfriend went, could I?

  Balthazarr took hold of my wrist. His fingers were like a shackle pinching too tight. I knew that I couldn’t pull away from him if I wanted.

  “I’d prefer to do it myself. If that’s permitted.”

  He smiled. “By all means.”

  I tried not to stare too hard at the pointy thing. It looked worse the longer you stared. But you had to keep it in your sight, or you might end up impaling your hand! So, what I did is, I went sort of soft-focus. In the blurry haze, I reached for the spike. I tapped my finger down like I was checking for wet paint. The blood bubbled out, a swollen red berry. And I squeezed my finger with my other hand. The drop made a soft ping when it hit the bowl. I must’ve squeezed too hard because I heard a couple more pings. I put my finger in my mouth and tasted salt and copper.

  After that, the line went faster. There was champagne making its way around the room on new trays. The waiters must’ve been hanging around until the made-up ritual ended. That’s what it was really, a ritual. And like I had in Spain, I felt I’d witnessed something forbidden.

  More than witnessed this time. I’d acted a part in it.

  The blood offering wasn’t the end, though.

  Balthazarr had something more to give than blood. He offered his drops last. Last man standing, I thought. Because I felt kind of drunk even though I’d only had that one flute of champagne and now here was my second that I hadn’t even sipped yet. But word went out that we were supposed to wait to drink this glass. Balthazarr was going to make a toast. Everyone who was a member of the Colony, and a few rich people who’d come to buy art (they gave their blood offerings too) paused. Balthazarr was like a conductor. We were the orchestra. The members of the orchestra looked a bit glassy-eyed, like I felt. I saw a spirit of sleazy debauchery traveling around the dining room like a secret. Mixed in with the alcoholic lushness was a glaze of lechery and a languid slothfulness, an overripe sense of gluttony and satiation. We were like a den of fat vipers, our bellies full of a fresh kill and our mouths dripping venom, slits for our eyes.

  “Attention!” Balthazarr called out.

  He tapped a spoon against the side of his crystal flute.

  To my ears it sounded like a gong. So loud and piercing.

  The vipers met his gaze.

  Nina was at my side. The two of us slumped against the wall. Her hot fingers were playing with mine. I felt a desire to look at her, to do more than that. First, I had to hear Juan Hugo make his toast or whatever it was happening in the center of the crowded house party.

  “Each of you has made a blood sacrifice to New Colony. This cannot be changed. We are linked, brother to brother, sister to sister, brother to sister, sister to brother. A commune with a single cause. To change the world.”

  “Hear! Hear!” voices agreed.

  I mumbled along. But my lips felt fat. I touched my face. Hot and numb.

  Balthazarr lifted his champagne. “New Colony!”

  “New Colony! New Colony!” people began to chant.

  “Success to our ventures! Merciless vengeance to our enemies! Power is ours alone!”

  The crowd cheered.

  I thought I hadn’t heard the outlandish Surrealist correctly. Had he said, “Merciless vengeance to our enemies!” and “Power is ours alone!”?

  The moment passed. My legs were weak. I braced my back against the wall.

  Balthazarr said, “Drink, Colonists. Drink!”

  We all did. Maybe it was the heat, the room being too close. My head was swimming. I thought drinking something might help. The champagne must have come from different bottles than the first round. It tasted metallic, a tad briny. The bubbles were slack, and the temperature grew so it was like standing in front of a furnace. I made a sick face.

  Balthazarr smashed his glass flute on the floor.

  We copied him.

  My movements were automatic. As if my body mimicked what it saw.

  Shards flying. Broken glass crackling under our best shoes. The harpist and the pan flute player began a peculiar melody. Dissonant and sour; their instruments had fallen grossly out of tune. But no one seemed to care. I felt both exhausted and frantically awake.

  Balthazarr, after throwing down his empty glass, had not moved. Now he picked up the golden bowl from the stand and he raised it over his head. His deep voice rang out.

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

  He lowered the bowl, tipping it into his open mouth, and swallowed our blood.

  The music grew louder and louder. Flutes and harps and unseen gongs.

  I gasped for more air.

  As the house and all its occupants fell into a dizzying and impenetrable darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I awoke to the sunshine blazing through a window. The curtains were open. Nina lay by my side, curled away from me, the blankets pulled up to her ears. My head ached dully. I sat on the edge of the bed. This was Nina’s apartment. At some point during last night’s delirium I had shed my tuxedo; like flotsam from a shipwreck, items snagged on the rocky coast of Nina boudoir. Nina’s red dress was also there, hanging over the back of a chair, a shed skin. Also, I had apparently collected Thorn from my place. He perked up his ears, but left his narrow face resting on his paws; his lithe form stretched on a Persian rug at the foot of the bed, tail wagging to greet me.

  I stumbled like a sailor to the bathroom and drank for a long time from the sink tap. Thorn appeared in the doorway, looking concerned. The room shifted at sea under my feet.

  “I’ll live,” I told him.

  He answered with a small whimper. He wanted to go outside. What time was it?

  Nina had no clocks. How could anyone function with no clocks?

  I washed my face but tried not to view my reflection. I feared I looked as bad as I felt.

  When I came back out, Nina hadn’t moved. I gathered my clothes and dug for my pocket watch. A quarter to twelve. Poor Thorn had been holding it a while. The thought of putting my tuxedo back on repelled me. It smelled
of sweat, wine, smoke, and musky incense. Had we burned incense at the gallery house? I couldn’t remember doing that. But I couldn’t remember much of anything after Balthazarr’s bloody rite. Certainly not coming home. Or the end of the party, for all that it mattered. I felt as though I’d been drugged, or the way I did as a child emerging from a case of the measles. Drained, depleted. Luckily, I kept some clothes in Nina’s closet. I found pants, a flannel shirt. I retrieved my cigarette case and shut the curtains before slipping out. Nina snored, a soft burring sound. The gray room put me in mind of a zoo.

  Thorn’s leash was on the counter. Nothing appeared disordered in the apartment. It was in strange contrast to my state of mind, which felt uncannily dislodged, and vaguely guilty of something, though of what I couldn’t say. Here were our shoes and an empty bottle on the floor.

  I took the dog out to do his business. I dropped the bottle in the trash.

  Fortunately, the weather had warmed. A sulfurous fog loomed over the water. Dampness clung to me like pond slime. I lit a smoke and squinted at the sun, glaring diamond-sharp in the sky. Thorn snuffled at the ground. I unhooked his leash, and he appreciated the freedom, trotting around the apartment house’s backyard toward the riverbank but never straying out of my sight. God, my head hurt.

  “Alden, hey Alden,” a voice said to me from the fence at the far end of the yard.

  I turned, seeing no one.

  “Alden, over here.” The fence on that side of the property was made of tall pickets. The slot between two of the pickets was darker than the others. It was a person standing on the other side, blocking out the light. I saw them pressing their face tight against the boards.

  An eye blinked.

  “Calvin, is that you?” I started to walk over to the fence.

  “Stay there.”