The Ritual
by Keith Gillison
The four
figures entered the chamber, bodies and faces
covered by hooded white cloaks. Their steps were
slow and in unison as they carefully carried
their offering towards the altar.
‘Halt,’
a voice said. ‘Who goes there?’
‘Servants
of the dark lord,’ came the reply.
‘And what
business do you have in this temple?’ the
priest asked.
‘Sire, we
have come to present this sacrifice to the master.
To thank him for his mercy in allowing us, his
humble apostles, to serve him.’
The priest
squinted to appraise the wooden tray, upon which
rested the offering. The room was dark, save for
the flicker of candlelight. Sunlight was
forbidden. The air was thick with smoke from the
burning incense on the altar. The priest
approached it, bowed his head and knelt before
the image of the goat’s head inscribed
inside the inverted pentagram. Silently, he
offered a prayer. Moments passed. The priest rose
to his feet.
‘The dark
one has spoken. He will accept your sacrifice.’
The servants
stepped forward and the sacrifice was lowered
onto the altar. They bowed to the altar, then to
the priest and finally to each other. The priest
returned the bow. He then took a bottle from the
altar, and poured a dark liquid into five goblets,
handing one to each of the servants before taking
one himself.
‘Our
darkest lord and master,’ the priest began,
his arms outstretched, ‘as we drink your
blood, we ask that you accept our sacrifice and
grant us your favour…’
The priest and
the servants jumped as the door was flung open.
‘For God’s
sake, not again! Every Sunday this is now. I can’t
even go to the pub without coming back and
finding you lot sacrificing a chicken.’
‘You said
you’d be out for hours,’ said the
priest.
‘Yeah,
well,’ the intruder said, flinging open the
curtains to let the light in, ‘there’s
a Simpsons double bill on at three.’
The priest
looked flustered.
‘I think
we need to establish some ground rules here. If
you say you’re going to be out then
…’
‘Look, I’ve
put up with this nonsense for long enough. I didn’t
mind at first because I get a nice Sunday roast
out of it, but this has gone far enough now,
Nigel.’
‘It’s
just a bit of fun, Stuart,’ Nigel replied.
Stuart walked
over to the altar, shaking his head.
‘I mean,
how can you have a sacrifice when the chicken’s
already dead? You bought it at Asda yesterday.’
Nigel flushed. ‘And I see the roast potatoes
and cauliflower cheese have made it onto the
altar this week as well. And have you been at my
Ribena again?’ Stuart asked, eyeing the
goblets with suspicion. The servants looked
sheepish. ‘I’ll let it go this time,
but if this happens again, I swear I’m
telling the Dean.’
Nigel sighed
and removed his hood. The jaws of reality bit him
and his thoughts returned to his sociology thesis.
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