Ceremonies

by T E. D Klein

  Stepping back to where the heat is less intense, he takes a stub of blue chalk from his pocket and hurriedly scrawls the circles on the floor, and then the circles within circles. The design is crude, simple, totally unlike a cabalistic star of tetragrammaton. It has eyes, a tongue, and claws. It resembles, in fact, a kind of beast: something primeval-looking, serpentine, coiled with its tail in its mouth.

  The design is ready. He climbs the steps and switches off the light. Now the only illumination in the room comes from the mouth of the furnace, aglow with dragon fire.

  Standing just outside the chalk line, he shrugs off the loose-fitting shirt and drops his baggy pants. Naked, he steps into the circle, his soft pink body hairless as a baby's. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he begins to dance.

  His movements are awkward at first, then more certain. Suddenly he flings his arms wide and hops from foot to foot in an ever more complicated rhythm. From his toothless mouth comes a low ecstatic crooning and a string of unintelligible words.

  'Da'moghu… riya moghu… riya daek… '

  Round and round he dances, eyes shut tight, hands weaving ancient shapes above his head. Faster and faster move his fingers and his feet, faster comes the stream of words. Sheened in sweat, his body glows eerily in the flickering blue light that bathes the room. He bows, he leaps, he spins, pirouetting girlishly but turning ever faster till he's whirling like a dervish, his tiny withered penis flopping up and down, his plump breasts sagging and jiggling like a woman's. The crooning grows in volume, turns into a ululation, then a high-pitched wail.

  'Riya moghu… davoola… DA'FAE!'

  And suddenly with a cry it is over. The vision has come. Exhausted, he sinks to the floor and lies flat on his back with his head in the center of the circle, body still trembling, limbs still twitching from the dance. His eyes, opening, roll back to stare at the fire, but he sees far more. He sees all that he has to.

  The Dhol has come at last. It is out there now. And it is free.

  July Sixteenth

  Sun's been warm today. Blue sky, fleecy clouds, refreshing summer breeze, all that rot. The sort of day that's supposed to make you feel good to be alive. Would have been perfect except for the bugs.

  Got up reasonably early. Butterflies on lawn, cats playing tag. Bwada never came back, which is also nice. Sarr repairing leaks in the barn roof amp; knocking down nests of caterpillars from beneath the eaves; Deborah weeding in her garden, pruning rosebushes, hanging out sheets to dry. They do keep busy, these rural types.

  And I should keep busy too. I've been here three weeks now amp; have yet to write a word on the dissertation. Slipping in my exercises, too. Didn't do them yesterday, and haven't done today's yet, either.

  God, three weeks! Hard to believe. Even out here the time goes fast, when you stand back amp; look. Half of July's already gone, amp; I can almost feel August's hot breath on the back of my neck, something huge amp; angry waiting for me beyond the next hill…

  From his rooftop, with the hot afternoon breeze at his back, he surveys the great doomed city spread before him in the sun. He hears, floating up to him, the hum of traffic, people's voices, the hiss of wind from off the Hudson. Children's cries reach him from the playground on the next block; he leans over the wall for a better view. Two of them down there are fighting. The larger boy has the smaller one down and is kneeling upon the other's shoulders, slapping at the face below him, slapping, slapping…

  Elbows resting on the parapet, head resting on his hands, the Old One smiles as he waits for the tears to start. There; he has seen the gleam. His smile widens, spreads across his face. For a moment, as a wisp of cloud obscures the sun, the shadows change, his skin looks chalky pale, and he becomes a thing of stone, a gargoyle.

  The gargoyle moves, dissolves. He raises his gaze from the playground to the dark green line that slices through the center of the city.

  He has business there tonight – he and the woman. He is prepared. She will be, too, when the time comes: for tonight she'll wear the second victim's dress.

  Last night was his turn to dance.

  Tonight will be the woman's.

  Night, now, amp; tired. Spent a lot of time in the sun this afternoon with Arthur Gordon Pym. The flies made it pretty hard to concentrate, but figured I'd get myself a tan. Probably have a good one now. (Hard to tell by looking in the mirror, though; light's too dim.)

  But it suddenly occurs to me that I'm not going to be seeing anyone for a long time anyway, except the Poroths, so what the hell do I care how I look? Deborah had her chance; no sense trying to look good for her anymore.

  No moon tonight, which works to the advantage of the stars.

  One thing rather troubling: When I came back here after dinner I felt like reading something light, to counterbalance all the claustrophobic horrors of the Poe book with its pirates amp; corpses amp; cannibals – so I reached for the Saki collection.

  Now I know I shelved that damned book under H.H. Munro, where it belongs. I specifically remember doing it, amp; I'm equally sure it was that way last night, because it gave me A.N.L. Munby on one side with The Alabaster Hand amp; Oliver Onions on the other side with Widdershins, all three books in fancy old bindings amp; looking quite handsome together. I remember sitting here admiring them.

  But the Saki wasn't there tonight. I found it under S.

  It's just a little thing, of course. Utterly trivial. Nothing else in here is out of place, that I can see. Nothing's missing. But it means that somebody must have been in here today – somebody who went through my books (maybe my other things as well) amp;, not knowing Saki was Munro, misfiled it.

  Can't believe it was Sarr or Deborah. They've always been respectful of my privacy here, and anyway, when could they have come in? I can't remember a time today (except dinner, of course) when I wasn't here, either in this room or right outside the door.

  Oh, well, maybe I'm wrong; maybe the heat's getting to me. I suppose I might have stuck the book back in the wrong place myself, late last night when I was sleepy, or when I was working today.

  Just to play safe, though, I'm going to start hiding this journal. There are too many things I wouldn't want either one of them to read – I mean, all those stupid daydreams about Deborah…

  I can hear them at their prayers right now, over in the farmhouse; until just a few minutes ago they'd been singing hymns. Comforting, to hear sounds like that on a night as dark as this.

  But when I think about them poking around in here amp; then not telling me, it gets my dander up.

  Meant to write a letter to Carol tonight, after putting it off for several days, but now I'm just too tired. I'll probably have trouble getting to sleep, though; my eyes itch amp; I can't stop sniffing. Must be the dampness.

  He was waiting for her at the subway stop in front of the Dakota, a picnic basket on the ground beside him. He brightened when he saw her. 'Carol,' he said, waving his hands for emphasis, 'you look like a dryad come to life.'

  'A what?'

  'A wood nymph, a tree maiden.'

  She laughed. 'Thank you. I feel like I just stepped out of "La Sylphide." Or maybe the Saint Patrick's Day parade!'

  She was all in green tonight – in that beautiful green dress he had bought her, beautiful even if the fit was a little loose and the hem a little too high, with green shoes she'd discovered in Rochelle's closet, and even a green scarf at her throat. The scarf she had thought of herself, just before leaving the apartment, knowing that Rosie would be pleased. She was beginning to anticipate his taste.

  Of course, she had white on underneath. But even the most puritanical man in the world couldn't object to that; absolutely nothing showed through the tightly woven material of the dress. In fact, she had been a bit daring tonight and hadn't even put on a bra; it was all in perfectly good taste, of course, it wasn't as if anyone could actually see anything, but when she breathed she could feel the dress rub ever so lightly against her nipples, so that they stood out against th
e cloth. She had never walked around this way before. It felt good, now that she'd done it. It felt good to know that men would be watching her, wanting her, good to know that she was desirable to them. Slowly but surely, she told herself, I'm coming along…

  'Come,' he said,*we want to get a good seat.' He reached for her hand. He had already picked up the basket, an old-fashioned wicker one with a blanket folded over the top and the handle of his umbrella peeping out in front. Together they crossed the street to the park.

  Crowds of people were already streaming in the same direction, moving up the paths toward the Great Lawn. Most of them, like Rosie, were carrying baskets or tote bags or blanket rolls.

  'I've never been to one of these before,' said Carol, as they passed beneath the trees. It felt strange, to be walking through what was virtually a forest in the midst of all these people.

  'You don't know what you've been missing,' said Rosie. 'This is the way music's meant to be heard, underneath the stars.'

  She looked up. There were no stars yet – the sun would not be going down for almost an hour – but behind the canopy of branches the sky was already growing dark.

  'They're up there,' said Rosie. 'Take my word for it.'

  The trees suddenly gave way, and before them lay the broad expanse of the Great Lawn, acres of it, already covered with human figures. She couldn't remember ever having seen so many people gathered together, except in pictures of Woodstock. It’s like a religious event, she thought, with a feeling of excitement, and she was suddenly very happy about being here, among all these people, not just in the park, but happy about being in New York where special things like this could happen, happened all the time.

  'Do you want to sit up close,' Rosie was saying, as they picked their way among the people and the blankets, 'or is halfway back okay?'

  'Oh, this is fine,' she said.

  He stopped at the first open spot of ground and, with a flourish, laid out the blanket. Reaching into the basket, he began to pull out paper plates and silverware.

  'Wait till you see the dinner I've packed!'

  There was French bread, and goose-liver pate, and deviled eggs, and cold chicken, and Rosie's own sweet golden wine, and strawberry tarts for dessert. It was absolutely perfect, like a dream, almost, to be sitting here on Rosie's blanket among this happy crowd (some of them surely envying her right now, it was such an extravagant dinner), with the food spread out before them and the band shell in the distance and, behind it, the towers of Central Park South glowing gold in the sunset.

  They were still eating, finishing the last of the wine, when the orchestra began to take its seats. She could hear it tuning up, one instrument at a time, then increasing in volume and complexity until the sound swelled into a wave.

  Suddenly applause swept the crowd, and heads turned; the conductor had appeared. There was an interlude of silence – and then the music began, a gaily seductive piece that made her want to sway her body in time. 'It's Dvorak,' Rosie whispered. ' "Slavonic Dances." Afterward I'll play you something even nicer.'

  'On what?'

  He smiled. 'You'll see.'

  It was dark now, with the only light coming from the band shell and the distant buildings. She looked in vain for a moon.

  'Sorry,' said Rosie. 'No moon tonight.' She hadn't realized he'd been watching her.

  'That's a shame,' she said. 'I would have liked a full moon overhead. It would have been just the right touch.'

  He shrugged. 'This month has two full moons, one at the beginning, one at the end, which makes it pretty special. Right now you'll just have to make do with starlight.'

  The stars had come out – the brighter ones, at least, that could penetrate the haze – by the time the orchestra reached the second half of the program.

  ' "The Rite of Spring," ' said Rosie, as the haunting tones of a bassoon floated in the air.

  'I know,' she said. 'I love it. I've always wanted to see the ballet but never had the chance.'

  'The inspiration for it was the image of a naked girl dancing round and round before the elders of her tribe – round and round until she died.'

  Her heart beat faster. 'Yes,' she said, 'I can picture it.'

  The night grew even darker as the piece progressed; the crowd was still and silent. Lying back on Rosie's blanket and gazing up at the sky, Carol found it easy to forget where she was, and where the strange, discordant music was coming from, with its undertone of menace and ancient evil. At times she almost imagined it was directed at her alone.

  Toward the end, as the woodwinds became strident and the kettledrums pounded like a pulse beat, he turned to her again. She sensed him looking down at her in the darkness.

  'Carol, you're not tired yet, are you?'

  'No. Why?'

  'I just thought, since you're lying down… '

  'No, honestly, I was just enjoying the music' Had she somehow offended him? She sat up.

  'Then you're not tired?'

  'Not at all.'

  'Good.'

  Suddenly, with a drumbeat and a blare of horns, the music ended. The meadow echoed with applause, and then people around them were standing, folding blankets, and pushing slowly through the darkness toward the paths out of the park.

  She and Rosie picked up their things and followed, moving with the rest. On the outskirts of the crowd, vendors were selling hot dogs, ice cream, soda, and white plastic hoops that glowed in the dark. Rosie disappeared for a moment and came back with a hoop, which he fitted over her head like a necklace.

  'There,' he said, 'it's your halo.'

  Around them now the crowd was splitting up, half streaming toward the paths to the east, half to the west. Carol began following the second group, but Rosie stopped her.

  'Let them go,' he said. 'I have a better idea.' He took her hand and they began walking north, away from the crowds.

  'Wait,' she said, suddenly afraid. 'Where are we going?'

  He turned to her and smiled. His grip tightened on her hand. 'Don't worry, it's a special place I know. You'll love it.'

  They went on, cutting across paths and down a slope toward a low wooded area. Soon they had left the crowd far behind them.

  'But isn't this dangerous?' said Carol, in a near whisper. The trees were so thick now that she could no longer see the lights of the buildings that bordered the park.

  'You're safe with me,' he said. 'Honest. Trust me.'

  She still felt nervous; she had heard so many frightening things about this park that she'd even been uneasy walking in it earlier with him. She remembered Sarr Poroth's story about wandering through the park that winter day. He had come out safely enough, but he hadn't been here at night and he wasn't old and frail like Rosie. Though Rosie's grip on her hand was anything but frail.

  They were walking blind now; she had lost all sense of direction and was relying completely on him.

  'I don't know,' she said, trying to control her nervousness with a joke, 'I sure hope you know karate.'

  She heard him chuckle as he pulled her along. 'I don't need karate. I've got God on my side.'

  A few steps farther on, at the entrance to a foul-smelling little tunnel that ran beneath a footbridge, he stopped.

  'Look, remember that little rhyme I taught you? In the Old Language?'

  'You mean the one we sang together on the roller coaster?'

  'That's right. It made you feel braver then, and it'll do the same now.'

  'But I've forgotten all the words.'

  'I haven't. Come on, I'll teach it to you again.'

  As they started through the darkness of the tunnel, their footsteps loud against the cobblestones, he whispered the words, and she repeated them, and the echoes in the tunnel repeated them again. And he was right: it was happening just as before, the fear was leaving her like a dream, a dream that on waking she would never be able to remember.

  They emerged from the tunnel and left the path, moving through a densely wooded thicket where the ground was rocky and sh
e nearly stumbled. Ahead of them loomed an archway of branches… and suddenly she found herself in a grassy clearing, a nearly perfect circle surrounded on all sides by trees so close their branches seemed almost intertwined. She knew she had never been here before, or even near it, but the place seemed somehow familiar – like a fairy ring, she thought – and she knew that here, at least, she was safe.

  He had let go of her hand and was searching in the basket. 'Ah, here we are. I knew I'd brought this old thing along.'

  It was a stubby white flageolet of polished wood.

  'Oh,' she said, 'I didn't know you played the flute!'

  He beamed at her. 'Let's just say I've taught myself to play one or two songs.'

  He brought it to his mouth, but paused.

  'Wait a second,' he said, 'before I go gumming it up, why don't you have a try?' He extended it toward her. 'Don't worry, it's clean.'

  'But I don't know how to-'

  'That's okay,' he said, holding it out, 'just give it a try.'

  She stepped back – he was practically shoving the thing into her face – but she didn't want to hurt his feelings and he seemed so eager that at last she took it and put the end in her mouth. Touching her fingers to the holes, she played a few notes. The sound was jarring, strident, but the fact that she had tried it seemed to please him.

  'Good,' he said, taking the instrument from her. 'I can see you've got real talent!' He laughed.

  'Very funny,' she said, oddly humiliated. 'Now it's your turn.'

  'I'd be delighted,' he said, with a courtly bow. 'But only on one condition – that you dance for me.'

  'Here?' She searched his face in the darkness, trying to see if he was joking. 'What kind of a dance?'

  He cocked his head. 'The one we've been practicing, of course!'

  'I'm still a little stiff from a class I took last night,' she said. 'And I'm not so sure I'd feel right doing it here… '

  'Come on now, Carol,' he said, smiling, 'this is absolutely the perfect place. You've always wanted to be a dancer. Now's your chance!'