CARTER [P2C6] – The Ritual
The Chronicles of Samuel Carter – Part II: Chapter Six
This is Part Two of the Chronicles of Samuel Carter. If you haven’t read Part One, please follow the link below.
And now for the continuation…
Part II – Chapter Six: The Ritual
When is a choice a choice? When is a decision truly one’s own and not dictated by the circumstance we find ourselves in at any given moment? Samuel, tied to a cold stone table, naked, exhausted, hungry, and his body sore and covered in bruises, contemplated how he had gotten here. From his comfy sofa in his cosy little apartment in London to this middle-of-nowhere cabin in the woods with a cult who either wanted to kill him or carve runes into his flesh, turn him into a prison for the energy within him, as they said, a living cage, walking the earth for eternity, carrying the devil inside until a new vessel emerges. Both a death sentence, both equally not a choice. Who would he be? Who was he now? And why—why was this happening to him?
“It is time, Doctor Carter.” The stolid man removed his hood, long black hair, clean-shaven face, lithe and fragile, gentle grey eyes gleaned his torment and asked again, his lips barely moving, “Do you accept?”
Samuel looked at the circle of men and women and then at the leader. “I don’t even know your name.”
“I am One of Seven, Servant of the Circle. My name is of no import.”
“Tell me at least why. Why me?”
“You know the answer. Each rune will bring you closer to that knowledge. Each rune will unlock memories of your past stolen by those who seek to destroy this world, those who would use this power for their gain, no matter the consequences.”
“Why don’t you just do it then?”
“Only the willing flesh can serve The Circle.”
“You can’t kill me. It will bring me back.”
“We will not kill you, only your mind, keep your body alive, hide it from the world until such a time when a new vessel is found.”
“Splendid… these runes… they will protect me?”
“No. Nothing can protect you, Doctor Carter. The runes will keep the energy at bay. It will most certainly rage within you, most likely consume you, possibly drive you insane. It will also keep you alive indefinitely.”
“You’re not selling it…”
“Humor in the face of abject devastation. A fine quality, Doctor Carter. You will battle this Evil. Maybe it’s possible… the human mind is a true wonder, a miracle. We have never attempted this before. Maybe you’ll learn to co-exist. Maybe it will not hollow your soul. Maybe you’ll live and know you have sacrificed everything for the greater good.”
“The greater good? So you’re the good guys?”
“Good, bad. Semantics. A victor’s perspective. We are The Circle. We are neither. We serve one purpose. Equilibrium. And you, Doctor Carter, cannot be allowed to threaten that. Now—Your choice?”
“I don’t suppose I could have a pretzel before we start?” Samuel said with a wry smile. The leader said nothing. “Do it. Before I change my mind.” He squeezed his eyes close.
“You will endure pain, Doctor Carter. For seven days, your flesh will be carved. The runes must cover all, without fail.” The leader nodded to someone with a razor and a bowl in hand.
They shaved him, massaged oil into his skin, applied essences of such potent scents it made his head spin. They painted his body with symbols and hieroglyphs, some of which Samuel recognised from the Ancient Egyptian Scriptures, others he realised were similar to the ones Jackie had found on the Staff, every last inch covered in a dark, sticky substance, stroke after stroke, a sensual tickle, the kiss of a soft brush. One of them swung a thurible, all seven chanted, and soon, the whole room was filled with thick smoke. The incense bit his eyes, burned in his lungs, and little by little, his senses dulled. Then came the first cut. He felt blood trickling down between his legs.
“Sam, come on. Quick. There’s no time. Forget about it. The farmer will catch us!”
Operation C-Bird was in full swing. They had managed to break into the chicken coop, had lured the fattest hen to the fence with plasticine food pellets and had snatched it by the head and tail, heading for the nearby woods where they had their treehouse when Samuel noticed his Swiss Knife was no longer in his pocket.
“It’s not mine. My Dad will kill me if I don’t bring it back.”
“He’ll kill you twice over if the farmer catches us!”
They ran, the chicken protested, waking up the whole neighbourhood. Mrs Helfinger, their nosy German neighbour from downstairs, was out on the balcony, indulging in her morning ritual, smoking a couple of cigarettes for breakfast.
Whenever they passed the skeletal woman, she’d rasp in a deep, cancerous voice, “Wer Reval raucht, frisst auch kleine Kinder.1” Otto’s older brother had translated it for them, nodding gravely to give his words weight. It had all made sense, of course, and from then on, they were convinced she was a cannibal. She looked and smelled the part, not that they had ever met a cannibal, but if they had, she’d be it.
“HALT! Lauselümmel!2 I vill tell your parents!”
Scared out of their wits, they dropped the chicken on the spot. With a last feeble cluck, it rolled into the bushes. Sam and Otto dashed for the woods, hiding, waiting, delaying the inevitable. Then dusk came, and resignation set in.
On the second day, he lay still tied to the grey slab of stone, barely conscious, bandaged in stained linen, where the work was completed. He thought he saw the face of his Mother before him. Drink your tea, my dear, she said. And he drank. A bitter, warm taste filled his mouth. He swallowed, and the chant, the incense, the cuts continued.
Back home, their parents waited for them. The disgruntled farmer was there with the plucked poultry. Having lost his most productive egg hen, he demanded adequate recompense. Mrs Helfinger had sold them out.
The next day, they had chicken for lunch. No one spoke. In front of him, on his cheap plate, lay a large slice of white meat. He didn’t want to eat, but the silence was deafening. He took a bite. It tasted of all the bad things to come. That evening, his Dad, after another furious fight with Mum, left and never returned.
Otto was forbidden to associate with such a bad influence, and soon after, they moved away, too. Samuel felt it was all his fault. His Mother would cry for days, and he would crawl into his bed, hiding under his blanket, his heart thumping in his chest, unable to understand what was happening, but tears would not come.
Then, one morning, the doorbell rang. It was the Cannibal. She had called social services. Samuel heard another woman’s grating voice asking questions, and soon after the door closed, Mother stormed into Samuel’s room, told him to pack and like that life as he knew it was over.
They had moved to the city. Some benefactor, a doctor, had provided an apartment in London. Samuel had never seen the man before, but his Mother had. She knew the man so well that he often stayed for hours, and the sounds that came from her bedroom painted a picture even he could understand yet refused to accept. He hated that man. Every fibre of his being knew he was the reason. He had destroyed his life.
On the third day, he felt like he had died many times over, a fever dream, a nightmare, repeating day after day, cut after cut. The midday sun shone bright, its beams warm on his face. The scent of herbs wafted into the room. Through the window, he could see snowflakes tumbling from the sky, sparkling with excitement, curious spectators drifting inside, eager to see before melting away. An acolyte of the Circle entered with a steaming cup of ceremonial tea and spoon-fed it to him, wiping off any drops from his chin. She was about his age, dark skin and hair, tribal tattoos covering her arms and face, fingers bony and long. It was time to turn around; his back needed to be prepared for the second part of the Ritual. Two robed men turned him over with ease, spreading his arms and legs and tying him down again.
“Will you tell me your name?” his voice was hoarse.
She massaged the essential oils into his skin, from head to neck and shoulders, back, and arms.
“Please?” he begged.
“Nadine,” she continued down his buttocks to the legs and feet and by the time she finished, his mind was numbed, his body ready.
The chant began anew as she traced the runes, one by one, then the cuts, inch by inch.
All blood will flow. Release me. He wanted to if only to stop the pain of being carved alive, but then he remembered, more and more, with every cut, with every rune, his resolve grew: Beaumont must die.
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Anyone who smokes Reval also eats small children.
All shall be revealed. Well, not all but some!
In the face of adversity we remember things that otherwise stay hidden. Spoiler alert: There is a Part Three of Carter (The Final Chapters, seven of them). ;) Thanks for reading, Sharron! Part 2 concludes next week!