Chapter Two - "The First Initiation"

Beautiful day with dark clouds and light rain in the morning, changing to a clear blue sky in the afternoon and now, the sun, winking through the clouds, is beginning to disappear, though the temperture remains comfortably warm.

Because of an overwhelming response to Chapter One of my novel, I've been persuaded to publish my first draft of Chapter Two. Although hesitant, as it is a first draft, we'll forge ahead anyway. Of course your comments are most welcome.

Note: Painting by John Collier, "The Priestess of Delphi" (circa 1880).


CHAPTER TWO

Our situation on this earth is a strange one. Every one of us suddenly appears here involuntarily, uninvited, for a relatively short stay – without knowing why. It is only after many years; usually by the time we reach middle age that we finally get some idea as to the rules of the game. We become somewhat comfortable with the world and ourselves, we settle-in, and usually without warning, it all ends. From this point of view, existence is absurd. Sisyphus pushing the boulder slowly up the mountain for eternity towards a summit, the boulder escaping from his grasp, and rolling down to the bottom; Sisyphus walks down the precipice, his head down, only to begin the task again - for eternity. Because of the apparent absurdity of life, its blatant mystery, we spend most of our lives in pursuit of a reason, a meaning, and a purpose to continue, despite the signs telling us to simply relax and enjoy the ride. Some of us are lucky enough to be endowed with an accepting nature. Rolling with life’s punches, gently walking around the obstructions thrown in our paths – enjoying the moment. There are other’s, like me, who cannot sit back and enjoy the trip. Situations present themselves that demand to be understood. Conditions of one’s existence alter so radically that to ignore the causes would be spiritual suicide. Choosing to remain in a fool’s paradise and knowing you’re doing so is living a conscious lie, a coward’s life. Creating enough illusion in one’s life to make existence at least tenable is a short-term remedy. Sooner or later the false edifice will crumble, leaving you unprepared for the awful truth. And believe me, my friends, the answer to life’s mysteries, the reason for our existence, is a surprising one. Something you’d never expect in your wildest moments of active imagining. But it is there to be discovered if you are honest enough with yourself and pure of heart. Though I’m getting ahead of myself.

Once my wounds had healed, I left the hospital into an entirely new world. Everything had changed. The circumstances surrounding the night of the accident would remain my secret. How could I tell anyone the truth about my family, about that night? The authorities would surely lock me away and study my mind like some pathetic laboratory animal. These supposed shamans of the mind – psychologists, psychiatrists and neurologists - would have a field day with me. I would remain a medical curiosity for the rest of my life. This was not going to happen. I decided on the day of my release from the hospital, that no one, not a single soul, would discover the truth surrounding my mother and father’s death. Not anyone.

Only the hired memorial representative attended the double funeral and two ladies whose job it was to handle the food for the wake. No one else showed. This was my fault. For some reason the date on the invitations had been misprinted, stating the eight of March rather than the ninth. All exceedingly embarrassing. In retrospect, though, it was better that way. Considering my emotional state at the time, facing a hoard of postal workers and their respective partners would have only added to an otherwise torturous affair. My father’s fellow workers all sent their condolences and apologies. My mother’s friends, however, turned out to be even a bigger farce. Because, later, it turned out that her supposed show business career never actually existed. She didn’t have any friends in the business because she never actually was in the business. I discovered this truth when searching through her belongings and coming upon a business card for her agent. I called the agent and he said he had never heard of Cressida Burton or a Janice Parks for that matter.

The funeral service turned out to be a tragic/comical affair with the hired ‘sympathy’ representative giving a clichéd eulogy that could have been appropriate for anyone on God’s earth. The man looked more like an accountant than a professional eulogizer. Dressed in a slick Armani suit, expensive haircut and, ironically, rough, calloused hands like a farmer, he addressed his audience of three with all the emotion and tone of a true priest and friend of the family. I found this extremely disconcerting and false. At one point in his speech, he even shed a tear or two. Considering the amount of money the memorial company charged for the whole thing, the man certainly earned it. What a performance. Throughout the service, I couldn’t help thinking that it was all some kind of set up: a grand one-act play written and performed for a one-man audience. The two catering ladies stood behind the counter of carefully prepared snacks, appearing attentive. The funeral home itself reminded me of one of those garish evangelistic meeting places you see on late night television, designed for enough worshiper’s to fill a football field: light-pink carpet, glass everywhere and an abundance of plastic flowers. I remember thinking that death must be a lucrative business.

After the memorial service, the professional eulogizer stood at the catering counter, stuffing his face with ham and cheese crackers, apologising for the obvious mistake on the invitations. He then asked if I ‘appreciated’ the eulogy, and if it touched my heart. I told him that father and mother would have ‘appreciated’ the sentiment. Looking at his watch, after his tenth helping of the food, he said he must dash off to another service. “The busy season, you know.” He disappeared into the parking lot, driving away in a brand new BMW. I recall wondering if death was indeed a seasonal occurrence - large amounts of people leaving the planet in shifts, like factory workers.

The catering ladies packed-up and left the hall, leaving me alone to gather my thoughts and consider my next move. Rather than a traditional burial, I had mother and father cremated and their ashes scattered over the Pacific Ocean. The Parks estate had left me just enough to cover the funeral costs, pay my father’s taxes and his few remaining debts. He didn’t own the house he was living in or possessed anything of any worth. In a nutshell, the man had been debtless but broke. All his disposable income went towards my college education; three and a half years worth of tuition came to a hefty sum. Father was a good man for investing in my future as an accountant. Unfortunately all that practical knowledge about balance sheets and sums would never be used. My life went in an entirely different direction. It was a direction that I wouldn’t imagine in my wildest dreams.

I drove back to my dorm at the university to find Carrie in my room on my bed waiting for my return. Even though she was an ex-girlfriend, we still managed to remain friends. Generally our relationship was based on wild sex and a common interest in everything medieval. The October Fest held by the college every year was a high point in our lives, and we enjoyed dressing-up in Arthurian garb, drinking stout out of silver goblets and screwing each other behind the jousting tent. Soon the sex and the fantasy waned, and our relationship evolved to a comfortable friendship. Carrie, once all said and done, was my only friend.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m really just glad the whole damn thing is over.”

“You seem to look like you’re doing ok.”

“Thanks.”

The day had turned to early evening and the shadows moving through the room created an interesting colour over her face. Carrie was an incredibly beautiful girl. The shock of the whole experience, my dead parents, my now permanent meant limp, having to use a walking stick to get around, and the realization that I was entirely alone, made Carrie even more attractive. Sitting on the chair at the end of the bed, I thought about making love to her, as she laid there, her hands behind her head. I know now that some men use sex as a type of out-let – this was certainly the case here.

“You have that look in your eye.” she said.

“What look?”

“You know what look I’m talking about.”

“Doesn’t matter. Do you want to get something to eat?”

“Sounds good to me.”

The pizza joint down the road was a good a place as any to eat. In fact, the pizza had to be the best in Orange County. The restaurant, packed as usual, we managed to find a table in the back. The jukebox blasted at full volume; a seventies song that the drunken college crowd seemed to love, because they were singing along like drunken sailors. We got our pizza and Carrie brought up what was on her mind.

“Tell me about your mother.”

Leave it to Carrie to get right to the heart of the matter. This was an aspect of the whole experience that I didn’t want to face. The Parks’ ‘skeleton in the closet’ that was kept from me for a reason, a reason that was not obvious at the time, but would be.

“My mother was diagnosed mentally ill. My father had her committed when I was around three or four years of age. Then she pops-up as my father’s new wife with a new identity, an alias. And rather than telling me the truth, they continue the charade, leaving me in the dark, until it’s too late.” I felt the tears well up in my eyes. Betrayal is not easy to take.

“I’m sorry, Marcus. Maybe we should talk about this another time.”

“No it’s fine. I’ve got to talk to someone about it.”

The dinnertime crowd seemed to be drinking more beer than eating pizza, because the sing-a-long had moved up a few decibels. I loved this particular U2 song but couldn’t quite hear it due to the noise. Carrie wanted to go somewhere else but I felt comfortable talking about my fucked life amongst the mayhem. It felt safer.

Carrie left the table and returned with a fresh jug of beer.

“I think the reason they kept it from you was to somehow protect you from the pain and possible embarrassment. I mean, how do you tell a little boy that his mother is mentally ill?”

“Come on, Carrie. Father could of said that she was sick and in the hospital. Most little boys could take that, however hard it may be. And why didn’t he tell me later on? Why make up this fantastic story about her dying? I’m fucking twenty-two years old for Christ sake. No, there’s something else about the whole thing, a missing piece of information that went with them to their graves. And I’ve got to find out what it is.”

“What are you going to do?”

“The first place I’ll start is the mental hospital. There’s got to be a doctor who knows something. Maybe I can access her medical records. Shit, I don’t know.”

The beer had knocked down my mental defences and the brain’s circuits began to close down. I was getting emotional again, and needed some fresh air. The image of my father standing at the bottom of the stairs glaring as I lay with mother pushed its way into the mind’s eye. We walked out of the restaurant into the warm night, and I immediately started to feel better.

“Do you want me to go with you?” she asked.

“Go to the mental hospital you mean?”

“Uh uh.”

“I don’t know if I want to drag you into my family bullshit.”

She put her arm through mine as we walked along the street. The gesture reminded me of a married couple who are in love and the best of friends. A scene from a romantic, late forties film with Tyron Power and Vivian Leigh.

“I just don’t want you to be alone, that’s all.” she said.

“We’ll see.”

Unfortunately it was the last night in my university dorm because the bills had not been paid for the current term. I had a little money left over from all the expenses, but nowhere to live. Carrie lived off campus in a house with three other rich girls. She said she would have a meeting with them to decide if I could stay there until other arrangements could be made. As it turned out, the four of them agreed to the temporary set up and I moved in the next day.

One of my professor’s took an interest in the fact that I was so close to finishing my business degree and couldn’t afford the remaining tuition. Pulling a few strings, he managed to get me a temporary student loan for the following year. It was now April and too late to catch up on the course, thus I was scheduled to start in September. This never happened. I only mention this to point out the kindness of a lot of people when the chips are down. In times of crises, it is astounding to observe people pulling together. The next few months seemed to go rather well – until, of course, the manifestation, that changed everything.


*

Living with four women in one house is an experience that every young man should have, especially four beautiful, wealthy women. Carrie and her three roommates would be considered part of the privileged class. Their father’s were all-important pillars of the community – doctors, politicians, and media moguls. They all had expensive, new cars, designer cloths, and the best of everything that money could buy. The house was a newly built condominium with a lot of space, filled with art deco furniture and a great stereo unit that was played on a non-stop basis. Peace and quiet was not part of the equation. That damn stereo played twenty-four hours a day – everything from Irish ballads to the Butt-hole Surfers droned on continually, and shouting over the music was the norm. It was only at certain times of the day, usually when all four had a class on, that the house settled to a semblance of tranquillity. After about a week of living there, I finally got used to the environment, adapting you could say, and becoming part of the group. Because I had to hobble around the house with a cane and would sit and listen to their relationship dramas, like a wise grandfather, they seemed to view me as the home’s quasi- patriarch: dishing out advice and opinions concerning their lives. At times I felt like the head witch of a coven, granting approval or disapproval to their various intrigues and spells. This was a silly thought at the time, which turned out to be more true than not. After two weeks of living in the house, they believed they could trust me, and one night, let me in on the secret. These women, as it turned out, were indeed practising sorcerers.

In retrospect, it was not a matter of trust that led them to take me into their confidence, but something I witnessed one evening.

On that night, the house was unusually empty. Enjoying the quiet, I sat outside on the veranda, watching the sun disappear. It was a warm, pleasant evening to be experiencing a beautiful dusk, and for the first time in a long while I felt calm and relatively happy. The condominium is situated on the main street, facing the west. A main thorough fare, it wasn’t unusual to see people at all times of the day and evening jogging or simply taking a stroll, walking their dogs. Watching the sunset, a woman appeared at the end of the street. She was unusually tall, wearing a long black gown that dragged around her feet. I felt a surge of energy, anxiety, as I caught sight of her. The strange thing about her was the fact that she had a group of cats walking around her. I believe there were seven in number, all different sizes and colours, surrounding the woman in a kind of V-shape, their tails sticking straight up in the air. The largest cat took the lead position, the point of the V, while the rest walked on either side of her in single file. The sight was strange because they seemed to move along the road at the same speed, like one body. Reaching the position directly in front of the house, they stopped, and the woman in black just stood there, staring at me with an expression of authority. My mouth became dry and it felt like the earth’s gravity was pulling my body under ground for this woman looked exactly like my mother, as if she had risen from the dead! She then smiled, nodded with an expression of cunning and recognition as the procession continued along the road, disappearing around the corner.

Carrie came home only a few minutes later and noticed something unusual about me. She went straight for the stereo to switch it on and I told her to wait, that I needed to talk to her about something. Immediately she sensed my fear and sat down.

“What’s wrong? You look terrible.”

“Can you get me a glass of wine or something stronger? I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

She rushed to the kitchen and returned with a glass of red.

“Are you in pain? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“No, no, nothing like that – but I saw something a few minutes ago that freaked me out.”

“What?”

As I told her what happened, leaving out the fact that the woman looked exactly like my dead mother, she didn’t seem in the slightest taken aback about it, like it was something one sees every day. When I finished my little narrative, she left and returned with the bottle of wine, poured herself one and began to laugh. It wasn’t a hysterical laugh but a hearty one – joyful.

“Why are you laughing, Carrie? I don’t see anything humorous about the incident at all. What’s so fucking funny?”

She finally settled down and brought out her mobile phone. She pressed a single number, and set it down on the coffee table.

“Before I tell you anything, the other’s have to be present. I’ve called them all and they should be here within half an hour.”

“But you only dialled one number…”

“It’s a multi-auto-call. We use it when any emergency arises and the coven has to meet. Be patient, they’ll be here soon.”

Within half an hour two of my pretty roommates arrived one after the other, looking at Carrie and not saying anything. A few minutes later, Sonya arrived, complaining as she walked through the front door.

“This better be good.” she said. I was listening to a great band at the ‘Last Chance’ when I got the signal.” She then looked at me and smiled. “Oh, something happened to Marcus.” Sonya sat down, crossing her long legs and waited.

“The priestess made an appearance to Marcus.” Carrie said.

No one said anything.

“She not only made an appearance but also showed him her familiars.”

The four of them stared making me very uncomfortable.

Sonya spoke up first. “Have you done anything really evil or really good lately, Marcus?”

I suddenly felt rage. “What the fuck do you think? I killed my mother and my father just committed suicide. Or haven’t you been paying attention?”

Sonya went pale and said, “I’m sorry, Marcus. It’s just that for you to see what you did, you have to do something pretty major. I’m sorry I forgot about your folks.”

Carrie stood up from her chair and sat next to me on the couch. She grabbed my hand and said. “Marcus you didn’t kill your mother, it was an accident.”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now. I want to know who this so-called priestess is, and how she could have a hoard of trained cats?”

Claris poured herself a glass of wine and sat back in her chair. Out of the four women, she was the most beautiful. An arts major studying late nineteenth century painting, Pre-Raphaelite prints covered the walls in her room from Rossetti to Waterhouse. The most distinct quality about her appearance was the whiteness of her skin contrasting her waxen dark hair. Her green eyes were striking, the kind that stare right through you. She also dressed like a gypsy: black stockings, coloured scarfs and costume jewellery. During the first two weeks of my stay in the house, she barely said a word to me. But I certainly admired her from afar. Now she spoke in a serious tone.

“The woman you saw we call ‘The Maiden’. She represents enduring youth, emerging sexuality. She is the huntress running with her cats. We are not quite sure, but we also believe she’s ‘The Mother’, symbolizing feminine power, fertility and nurturing. Then again, she could also be ‘The Crone’, goddess of wisdom, compassion and the one who guides us through the death experience. She comes to us in many forms, sometimes as an animal, a bird or a cat. In your case, she showed herself in human form, accompanied by what we call ‘familiars’: helpers or guides in the form of animals. You’re fortunate to have seen her, and we must discover the significance of this manifestation.”

“I don’t understand. Are you telling me I had a vision?” I asked.

Carrie grabbed my hand again, squeezing it reassuringly. “I think we should just come right out and tell him what and who we are.” She looked at all the women in the room. “Her manifestation is a sign and we should go with our hearts.”

“Marcus, I want you to listen to us with an open mind. We are members of a neo-pagan religion that comes from the ancient Celts. We are practitioners of what is popularly known as white witchcraft.”

Supposed witchcraft recently had a fashionable surge in popularity. Sources on the subject filled New Age bookstores, and movies and television shows proliferated, causing teenage girls to want to be witches, casting love spells, etc. I remembered seeing a particular interview of a witch on a popular show that struck me as an airhead. She carried on about getting anything you wanted through the correct method of spells. Love, fame and fortune achieved by chanting twice a day. Living in LA all my life, strange cults was simply part of the landscape. Of course the whole thing was bullshit. Now I had four beautiful women, friends, telling me they were witches.

“You’re pulling my chain, right?”

Claris stood up and began pacing the room. “We’re not talking about some silly teenage fad, Marcus. We despise the fact that witchcraft has been belittled by popular culture. What you see on the television is fantasy with a few truths thrown in to give it credibility. We are practitioners of an ancient religion. This practice had been suppressed with the evolution of Judaism, Christianity and eventually Islam. These are masculine-centred religions, where ours focuses on the feminine principles. The feminine presence in the major religions was suppressed, forcing our beliefs under ground. Even to the extent that, during the supposed Renaissance, hundreds of thousands of suspected female witches were exterminated by burning or hanging. We had to go under ground to protect ourselves. Even today, ignorant fundamentalist Christian’s spread lies about us, positioning our beliefs with Satanism. We have nothing to do with the worship of some fallen angel. Our goal is to bring back the feminine principle in our views of existence.”

Claris sat back down again, and Diana, quiet throughout this little speech, stood up and began to pace as well. Diana could be described as cute. Standing only about four feet and five inches tall, she reminded me of a miniature porcelain doll that if dropped, would shatter in a thousand pieces.

“You’ve just been through a terrible experience, Marcus. Except for us you are pretty much alone. What you saw was something that we believe is very special. A door has been opened. I think you should walk through it. Nothing happens without a reason.”

My legs began to hurt – a condition that has remained with me for many years. Diana, whether intending or not, made me aware that my life was a total mess. She was right; I didn’t have any friends or family. My parents were dead because I killed them. I really didn’t know who my mother was and unwittingly committed incest. Because of this despicable act, my father shot himself in the head. And now, to top it all off, my mother manifests literally at my front door as a pagan goddess, a sorceress with a pack of trained cats! I was broke and alone. And now there was nowhere to turn but to my new friends – alleged Neo-Pagan witches who I sincerely thought were there to help me.

“What do you want me to do?”

Sonya spoke up: “The first thing we’re going to do is give thanks to the goddess. Once this is done, we can ask her what our next move should be.”

“Should we take Marcus to the ‘place’?” Carrie asked.

All three women nodded their heads.

The ‘place’ and what occurred there turned out to be one of the most frightening and meaningful experiences of my many lives.



*


It was a brisk night for spring. We drove in two cars. Carrie and I in her Honda while the other three drove with Diana in her Mercedes. I asked Carrie several times where we were going and she would only respond with: “You’ll see.” We exited the freeway amongst the foothills to the east of the city. The mountain air smelled clean and natural. I commented to Carrie that my stomach was churning from nervousness, and she said it was to be expected. We finally pulled off onto a dirt road, drove for a little while longer, and then parked. Getting out of the car, I noticed how magnificent and bright the moon appeared over the hills. As I discovered later, for my companions, the moon was a significant factor in their beliefs. We now stood together in the quiet of the evening.

Sonya opened the boot of the Mercedes and took out a box. It was decorated with eastern type symbols and writing that looked Arabic or Turkish.

“Is anyone going to help me with this?” she asked. “It’s heavy.”

Claris strolled over and grabbed one end of the box.

“What’s in it?” I asked.

Carrie answered. “We might show you its contents later tonight, depending how everything goes. But we need to do something that might seem strange to you.”

“What?” I asked.

She pulled a scarf from her back pocket.

“Blindfold you.”

“You’ve got to be joking, right?”

“No, Marcus. I’m dead serious.”

The nervousness in my stomach now turned to a dull pain. I wanted to trust these women but this seemed ridiculous.

“What is it that you don’t want me to see?” I asked.

“Marcus, please. You’ve got to trust us. All your questions will be answered tonight. That is, of course, if all goes to plan. Please.”

What did I have to loose. I thought. “Ok, let’s go for it.”

Carrie wrapped the scarf around my eyes. Grabbing my hand, we began to walk. I knew we were off the main road because I kept tripping over stones and brushing against plants and bushes. None of the women said a word. Blinded, my sense of hearing amplified, hearing the sound of birds and unknown animals. From time to time, I would ask if we were almost there without a response. Their silence bothered me. I continued to tell them to slow down because my legs started to hurt. Walking blindfolded with Carrie holding one hand and my cane in the other put me at a slight disadvantage. We finally stopped and Carrie guided me backwards, setting me down gently on what felt like a small boulder.

“Leave the blindfold on, Marcus.”

“What are doing?”

“We’re building a fire.”

Sitting in the darkness I could hear the women throwing wood on a pile. Soon the heat from the fire touched my face, and I could see a shade of orange through the scarf. The fire popped and spat and felt soothing in the cool air. I wanted to pull the blindfold off my face to see what they were doing but decided to follow their orders and experience whatever they had in store for me.

“Listen carefully, Marcus. We’re going to lay you down into a large box. Don’t be afraid. Take off the blindfold only when we tell you to. Do you understand?”

My body felt numb. I felt like all my volitional will had disappeared and there was nothing I could do but follow their commands. This was an entirely new experience for me. I had always felt in control of my life. Now, at this moment, I had no control whatsoever.

A woman took each arm and we hobbled a few metres next to the fire.

“Step down, Marcus. That’s it. Now lay down. Watch your head. Good. Ok, we’re now closing the lid. Don’t be afraid. Well done.”

I heard a creaking sound then a solid thump.

“You can take off the scarf now, Marcus.”

There was hardly enough room to move my arms to remove the scarf from my eyes. I finally managed to inch my arm up to my face and fold the blindfold down around the top of my nose. Directly in front of my eyes was a small grill, revealing a portion of the night sky and the bouncing shadows made from the fire. Suddenly it was difficult to breath and I started to panic.

“I don’t know what the fuck you assholes are trying to prove, but I want you to get me out of here. Now!”

“Try to breath, Marcus. Take deep breaths and you’ll feel better. I promise.”

Carrie said these words in a whisper near to the opening of the box. Though I couldn’t see her face.

“You’ll be all right in a minute. Breathe.”

I did what she asked and took long, slow breaths until the panic seemed to subside.

“Marcus, I know this is unusual but we want you to lie there as quietly as possible. We are going to conjure the goddess, Anat, and we need you to be silent. Understand?”

I felt totally helpless. There was nothing I could do. These crazy women had me trapped in some kind of fucking coffin. At the time, however, I believed screaming wouldn’t get me anywhere. So I just lay there like a trapped hyena without a hope in hell.

Then I heard wine being opened, corks popping from their respective bottles. The women then started drinking the wine, toasting each other in some foreign language. Time passed and they began singing, laughing and dancing around my box. The fires continued to blaze as I could feel its heat through the opening and see the reflection of the flame and their hysteric shadows. My legs started to hurt, badly. I screamed through the opening to set me free, but they ignored my pleas and continued to sing and dance directly above me. They now began stomping their feet on the lid of the box. The sound was so loud that it hurt my ears. I realized these insane women were dancing on the box, smashing their empty wine bottles, looking through the grill, and screaming obscenities in my face.

“You pathetic man!”

“Now what can you do? Where’s your power over us now?”

“You are where you belong!”

“Here, would you care for some wine?”

Red wine spurted though the grill, splashing over my face.

“Drink the nectar of Anat, and feel her power!”

Wine poured over my face, into my eyes and up my nostrils.

I was drowning.

“Open you mouth you fool, and drink!”

As instructed, opening my mouth, a steady stream of wine poured down my throat. To prevent myself from choking, I swallowed the wine in giant gulps. After a minute or two, I screamed for them to stop, because I could feel the excess wine around my head, it streaming under my body towards my legs: I imagined the box filling with wine and slowly drowning to death.

Then it stopped. Silence.

They had poured so much wine into the box that I was literally floating, bobbing up and down, my face occasionally bumping against the grill: drunk, dizzy and swimming in a sea of red wine with no way out. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to die.

No sound above me. Had they abandoned me? I couldn’t hear anything, except for the sloshing of the wine against the sides of the box. I had to strain my neck to keep my head above the surface. It reminded me of the ocean slapping against the shore, a peaceful sound. A feeling of deep serenity moved from the top of my head and over my body, relaxing every fibre, bone and cell of my being. Through the grill the full moon came into my view, pulsating what felt to be a warm light. Its presence signalled a transformation, a change of heart; there was a connection for me at that moment with a celestial body that otherwise had always been taken for granted. The moon was no more an inanimate object but an intimate friend – the feeling was something akin to what one feels after travelling for years abroad in distant lands and finally coming home -a warm happiness. I had returned to the beginning and would never leave again. I was home.


Through the opening of the box, I observed my new found friend, the moon, moving across the sky, and disappear. Looking at the darkness and the stars, a strong sense of sleep pervaded, though I forced myself to remain conscious for fear of drowning in my sea of red wine. It was then I felt a surge of power, a strong intuition that I had the capacity to escape my prison. Moving my hands above me, I felt something metallic, a latch, and hit it hard with my fist. The lid suddenly popped open and, like a newborn child entering the world, rose from the coffin, and into the night air.

The last embers of the fire burned, casting only a small amount of light around the camp. My tormentors, my friends, lay passed out around the dying campfire. Each had an empty bottle of wine in their hands; their bodies sprawled in strange positions. Smashed bottles lay everywhere and the place looked as if a battle had transpired and the dead lay as they fell. A gust of wind passed through me, reminding me that I had been soaked to the bone from the wine. Noticing the unusual box that Sonya and Claris carried from the car, I walked over and gazed at its contents. Inside were more bottles of wine, eastern style cloaks, and an assortment of knives. Removing my drenched shirt, I wrapped one of the cloaks around my shoulders. Sitting by the dying fire, I glanced across the camp at the strange wooden contraption. It was a perfect coffin, buried half in the ground, now full of red wine. My legs started to throb again. I remembered my cane still lay in the box. Limping over, sticking my hand into the blood-red pool retrieved my cane. Putting more wood on the fire, it came alive, lighting and warming the camp.

The heat from the fire felt good.

Carrie lay asleep closest to the fire. Her body was positioned like someone who had jumped to their death from a seventh floor skyscraper. Her face looked upward and her arms and legs seemed twisted in odd ways looking extremely uncomfortable. She breathed through her mouth, occasionally making a snorting sound. She also wore a multicoloured cloak that suited her - an odd observation, I thought, considering the circumstances. The other women also wore the eastern style cloaks, sleeping in various positions around the fire. I didn’t notice it at first, but they were all quite naked under their strange gowns. Sonya’s had opened, I guessed, from the wind as she lie unconscious. Diane and Claris slept huddled arm in arm like little kittens one sees on sentimental birthday cards. Their cloaks were spread open too, revealing their naked bodies. These were indeed sexy woman - all of them the dream of lonely men. But sex was the farthest thing from my mind. What I wanted to feel was hate for these women for putting me through this ordeal. But I didn’t feel anything, really. It was more a crystal-like state of mind, a clean awareness of my surroundings, and a healthy exhaustion, similar to what one feels after a hard day’s work. Too tired to attempt waking the women, my eyelids felt heavy, and I soon joined them, falling asleep, the sun just making a show over the hills towards the east.


My sleep was dreamless.


Chapter Three

"The Initiations' Continue"

Emotional State: Tired & Optimistic.