Shane O’Callaghan
Fiction
There was a dripping sound and Ezra hung suspended from the Obelisk, naked and unmoving, pressed firmly against the stone slab. The horror of his last moments still clung stubbornly to his face. His mouth hung agape, and his pupils still seemed to hold the glint of a soul. His cheeks had paled, and his ears had been neatly cut from both sides of his head. This had happened before the Witnessing, not during. James had not been allowed to see that part; he had been forced to stay in the cave. The cold, dark, and lit-only-by-fire cave where mold crept slowly up the walls and formed stalactites on the roof. Ezra’s eyes had not closed and blood still poured a gentle river down his bare chest. Before death, his hands were bound to his sides and his legs held. He did not want to be Witnessed. Of the parts James had read about the cult, this was by far the part he feared seeing the most. The Witnessing, that’s what they called it. It was a horrific sacrament that, to them, was akin to enlightenment. The Witnessing was closely followed by the chance to be Visited by Nádúr. If you were Visited, it was supposed to be an honor. James, on the other hand, could think of no greater horror.
Ezra had not gone proudly into death. He had been raised as an íobairt from birth, but, by the time the Visiting had begun, his mind had been changed. Ezra had climbed the stairs to the Obelisk slowly, and had stumbled on the last step, landing hard on his hands. He had been silently weeping for thirty minutes by this point, but, upon falling, he began to wail and scream, calling and begging for his mother. James watched as the thirty acolytes standing in front of him, hooded in red and black robes, let out unnatural moaning sounds that he knew to be laughter. The sounds of the low moan did not echo around the cave, the noise going dull the moment it was released. A moment passed and Ezra was hoisted into the air by an unseen force, and the acolytes moaned again as Ezra was thrust by the force against the cold, flat, black face of the Obelisk.
Ezra thudded against the stone, he thrashed and screamed, attempting to free himself. His head had been pulled up so that his chin pointed upwards and his neck was exposed. With each jerk of his arms, the invisible force locked him more sternly into a stasis. There, once again, was the moan. James stood about four meters from Ezra’s feet as he hung, and saw a bubble beginning to form under the skin of his sternum. Ezra must have seen it too, his screams became more frantic, and he erratically pounded his head against the stone so hard that blood stained the black rock. The bubble lingered in his chest for a moment and James waited. When he had read about this part, the Welcoming, James had become increasingly more curious, and finally the moment was here. But James, as he always had, denied this part of himself. As the other priests had taught him, Watch, don’t want. Many of the acolytes were biting hard on their lips now. The unseen force had moved Ezra away from the Obelisk and high into the center of the cave, James now standing side on and down from him. The acolytes that had been biting their lips now spat on Ezra. As the spit landed, the flesh welcomed it. Each strand of saliva was absorbed into his skin with a shrill, wet sucking sound.
The bubble rose in his chest and grew bigger as it did. It climbed higher; a pink mixture of saliva and blood foamed from his mouth. His face had become a royal purple. Upon reaching the base of Ezra’s neck, blood and vomit, again, spat from his mouth and landed five feet across the cave. But he was still conscious. Through Ezra’s slow choking, James heard the other man cry and plead. He made a dull choking noise as the bubble reached his throat, and soon his neck swelled outwards. His skin had torn and stretched, his olive complexion now purple. It was as though someone had pushed a stick through rubber. The bubble expanded out from his throat until it stuck out three feet in front of him. Ezra could not move except for his eyes, which bulged and darted around the room, becoming impossibly wide.
For a moment, James prayed that somehow Ezra might survive, that somehow the sacrament would fail. But alas. Eventually, the stick tore through the rubber and Ezra’s throat exploded outwards. James winced at the large bang that sounded and, this time, the sound echoed for a third and fourth time around him. James felt a morbid, and, he reassured himself, purely academic satisfaction as he saw Ezra’s eyes pop from his head and dangle to his chin, his eyes still moving. There was a harsh choking sound coming from Ezra’s body, and with each sound spewed more blood from his popped neck. The space between the noises became increasingly longer until Ezra’s eyes no longer moved. The force slowly shifted the body back to the Obelisk and lifted Ezra’s eyes back toward their sockets and placed them gently inside. It did not bother to close Ezra’s eyes.
The force slowly shifted the body back to the Obelisk and lifted Ezra’s eyes back toward their sockets and placed them gently inside.
The insides of Ezra’s throat hung on the outside, and a river of blood flowed down to his chest. From here, the river divided into three meandering streams. One ran quickly down the middle of his body toward his genitals where it rushed down his manhood and dripped slowly to the floor. A paste-like puddle of blood simmered on the ground beneath, beginning to boil. Each of the two other streams oozed slowly down his legs and dropped to the floor from his feet. James watched fascinated as the puddles grew and, with each drop of blood, an individual chorus of drums sounded to its beat. The three choruses marched with the rhythm of their stream, not missing a beat, and not a second out of time.
As the puddles of blood simmered and stewed on the floor, they became increasingly viscous. And once all of the blood had stopped flowing, James saw, in the puddles, hundreds of small thin arms appear. Their wrists were thin and their fingers long, each bearing a nail that was rough and sharp. The drums had not dared to stop. The chorus pounded in James’s head; he felt a shudder of frisson down his spine. He watched as the arms lazily started a lurking grab at the ground below them, pulling themselves slowly toward the Obelisk. The sounds of nails on stone rang in James’s ears, and a shudder begged to crawl up his spine, yet it did not come. Instead, as the arms pulled themselves before the Obelisk, the shiver teetered at the base of his lower back. All of the acolytes in the room now dropped their jaws to their chest and began to sound a low scream in unison. The arms came to a stop. They hoisted themselves from their wrists and became taut in an upright position. They formed a fist and extended the pointer finger, seeming to scan the room. After a second, every one of the hundreds of hands pointed at James. A shudder of frisson flew down his spine easily this time. The acolytes that surrounded him on all sides turned to face him, their mouths still open and still screaming. Before, James had not had such a clear view of the acolytes’ faces.
As the faces stood and stared, he recognized one of the acolytes as The Lady From the Hill above his parish. He gulped hard, realizing that the woman also had recognized him now. With her mouth still open, she gritted her teeth hard and curled her lips upwards so that James could see black gums and yellowing teeth. Then she opened her eyes wide, revealing black marks above the whites of them and scrunched her nose so creases formed on the bridge. James’s breath went shallow, and he could not recall what he was meant to do. His breath shortened and he closed his eyes tight. He felt the acolytes take a step closer. And another. And another. He was sure that Maester Royce had not mentioned this when he was trained.
James decided to take a guess, a leap of faith. He prayed again to the Gods, and he unhinged his jaw as much as he could. He let out that same low moan and attempted to match the pitch of the acolytes. His breath was shorter still, and he dared not open his eyes until, from his left, he heard a reaffirming grunt. All of the acolytes but The Lady From the Hill had turned away from him now, and it was not long before the hands resumed their crawl. The Lady continued to stare strainingly at him, her red eyes now piercing the darkest depths of his soul. She kept her teeth gritted and her eyes wide. James tried to ignore The Lady and watched past her face as the hands resumed their crawl, but he found himself meeting her eye every few seconds. I’m not to be distracted. It felt like an eternity, but, eventually, the blood reached the Obelisk and a single chime sounded, and The Lady had still not turned away from him.
The drums still pounded as two men bearing torches stood from the crowd and walked toward the front of the cave. The Lady still stared, her head now violently tremoring. James continued to try to pay her no mind. But he found himself distracted. He had not seen the fire pits on either side of the Obelisk until they had been lit. The two men with torches rejoined the crowd. As the fire roared, four seemingly random acolytes took slow strides toward the Obelisk, still screaming. As they went, they dropped items of clothing from their body, eventually leaving them naked. Upon arriving at the fire pits, they performed an unnaturally low bow before the Obelisk, one of them managing to kiss the ground. Two people approached each fire pit. They were not apprehensive as they raised a leg and stepped their bare feet into the fire. They did not look to be in pain, and all but one of them continued the low scream. As their bodies stepped into the fire pit, their screams became higher, but they did not falter. Each couple turned to each other and welcomed from the other a passionate kiss, each of them running their hands along the bodies of the other. They sacrificed for us, they went proudly, James caught himself thinking. He felt pleasure as the bodies burned. It’s because they’re bad people, he reassured himself.
The smell of burnt hair and charred flesh filled the room, and yet no smoke rose in the cave. He knew what was to come next, but the puddles of blood did not move. James knew they should have but they did not.
“You, brothers and sisters, have failed him,” a voice said from above. Simultaneously, the drums and screams stopped. Even the echoes obeyed and did not sound after the voice had spoken. Silence had never seemed eerier. James looked around. He had not seen them before, but on a ledge at the back of the cave sat a naked man and woman high above the rest. “She did not go proudly.”
A horrible, visceral sound was released from all of the acolytes, and everyone save James and The Lady dropped to their knees. The acolytes on their knees began banging their heads against the sharp floor; James heard the sound of ripping skin against sharp rock, and he realized that he, too, should be kneeling. He felt The Lady still standing over him as he knelt.
Her eyes pierced down at James, and he felt her penetrate the back of his skull, but he did not dare to look up. He knew who sat above him, and he knew that he would be the next one to go. And I am certainly not going to go willingly.
“He is not real.” The Lady said in a screech similar to a fox. She had seized in place now and everything but her head, which was still tremoring, had become rigid. But the voice from the ledge did not seem to hear, or perhaps care, what she had said.
“You have volunteered. Will you, Mereketh, go willingly?” the voice responded.
“He is not REAL!” She had screeched the word with such anger that James, who had been carefully placing his head against the rock, jolted and cut open his forehead. With this, he felt the pleasure. As he pounded his head into the stones, he felt the ideas of Nádúr corrupt his mind: it was not just educational prowess that brought you here, it was a fetish-like wonderment. Something you have long since lost with the Gods.
He hit his head harder against the rocks, the enlightenment filling him, warming his insides. It was as if warm liquid had filled a cold glass. A glass that had always been cold, a glass James had always known to be cold. He continued to smash his head down into the rock. His vision had gone to black, and he felt as though he had one purpose. Praise Him. It made sense to James now. All of it. You do not need to research anymore. You know it all now. Then, just for a second, there was a moment, an infinitely long moment, in which James knew he could return. He stopped his head from pounding to the ground and pondered his options.
He hit his head harder against the rocks, the enlightenment filling him, warming his insides.
Return. Or praise. Praise. Praise. Praise. He slammed his head hard against the ground and was filled with an unearthly pleasure. He did not want to stop. Stop. Please, his own voice called. But then, he felt an unseen force act upon his body. It opened his eyes and mouth wide and stood before him in the darkness. He let out the low moaning sound that he could not replicate before. It was as if beauty itself had been revealed to James. There was the voice, as there always is, of doubt still lingering in the back of his head. But the beauty was too gracious not to be beheld.
“He will become real!”
The woman let out another toe-curling scream.
“You must want it, Mereketh, you know this,” the voice said. “He is starting to want. You have volunteered. Will you, Mereketh, go willingly,” the voice repeated, “knowing that you will go alone?”
“Yes.”
James’s vision had returned now, but everything had been coated red. He was now an acolyte. The acolytes stood in unison as Mereketh approached the fire pit and she went willingly into the fire, letting out her low scream one final time before her charred body fell to the ground with a bang. You do not want to be Visited, the voice of doubt sounded at the back of James’s head. You are not lost. You are still here. You do not want to be Visited.
The puddle of blood continued its crawl once more. This time, it climbed the Obelisk and embedded itself into the rock as though it were veins or nerves inside a body. It stretched and sprawled across the whole stone and resembled a spider web.
“Visit,” all of the acolytes chanted in unison.
And yet the voice remained at the back of James’s head. I do not want to be Visited. The voice began naming the Gods and pleaded with James to remember.
“Visit!” they called again, louder this time. The drums had resumed their previous beat.
“Visit!” The acolytes grew angry. I do not want to be Visited. The voice in the back of James’s head grew louder now.
The blood glowed on the Obelisk now; the shining red wrapped around Ezra’s body and absorbed it into the rock. James heard the cracking of bones and watched as the occasional patch of skin fell to the ground. The pyramid on top of the Obelisk unfolded side by side, and a glowing white light emerged from the inside. A bubble-like light illuminated the cave, and James did not see it in red. James had been staring at the orb for so long it nearly blinded him. I do not want to be Visited, the voice called as loudly as his own voice once was. The bubble grew bigger as it elegantly floated into the center of the room where Ezra’s body once hung. I do not want to be Visited, he called out to himself again.
The rest of the acolytes had their heads bowed now, but James could not take his eyes off the bubble. He did not want to be Visited. He decided in an instant and, with his decision, the crimson curtain that had been drawn over his eyes disappeared. But he was too late. The bubble had begun to expand now, forming itself into a rift in reality itself. It was a splinter, a blood-red splinter. From the other side, a hand emerged and pulled open the fracture.
The beast was ghastly. A man with the head of a deer and antlers towered before the backdrop of a crimson desert. The God had molding, rotting skin that had receded from its right cheek, leaving four rows of bare teeth in its place. Its breathing was monstrous, and one exhale took nearly a minute. Inhaling sounded like a dry heave.
It held a sword in its right hand, which was crooked and made of Damascus metal. Cleaves were left in the side of the sword to mutilate the body of anything it impaled. It wore a white silk robe with a red inscription on the collar, not too dissimilar from the prayer robes James himself had back at home. Slowly, Nádúr reached a misbegotten leg through the rift. His feet were thin and long, and he stood at twelve feet tall. James expected to see cloven hooves, but, instead, there were ten toes on each foot.
James stood shocked as he made eye contact with the God. His eyes were not beady, nor like that of a deer. They were oval-shaped, human. They pierced deep into his skull, more so than Mereketh had managed. James could not take his eyes off the beast. He had not lost faith in what he once believed; he had always known there were the old Gods and the new. But he had never considered something quite like this, something quite as grotesque or hellish. He made a low bow to the God. Standing up, and with all the strength he could muster, he managed to utter one lowly phrase.
“Deer Lord!”
Shane O’Callaghan is a freshman double-major in creative writing and psychology. He has traveled to six continents and once kept a balloon for two years.
The Rocky Mountain Review 