The day had come to pass again.
There was an expectant hum rumbling in the shed of mortar and bricks, even the harsh fluorescent bulbs dangling above dimmed and flared in crackling anticipation. Unbidden, the odor of stale food and drinks, abandoned in the room as if to feed wandering sprites and pixies, that rode the old musty carpet wafted up, setting the gathered masses’ noses a-crinkling.
Beyond the enclosure, the sun scorched the land with an intensity that could only be experienced in the height of noon.
The Shaman lifted his arms, a simple gesture, but one that rippled with authority and demanded reverence from those seated before him. He was clad in somber black; the inky color ran the length of his body uninterrupted, though the solemnity was betrayed by the expression on his face, which reflected a significantly different mood. Perhaps it was his belief in the powers of the ritual, or perhaps it was a manifestation of the many years of performing the sacrament, but his being seemed to exude an air of mad exultation.
“Today we shall give our thanks through the glorious hymn of the Kaldumisi! Is there anyone who wishes to step forward and offer their servitude to the Great Lords of Du and Mol?”
Shadows of fear flickered across the pale faces of the people seated behind blue and green planks of wood that served as pews, each of them struggling to keep their eyes averted from the Shaman’s by staring intently at the shafts of paper containing the notated passages of the rite, with every individual’s own interpretation on the pronunciation of the lines scribbled messily across the pages. Desperation rose like bile at the back of the throats.
He clicked his tongue impatiently – a dangerous sound; the Shaman must not be tried. A wobbly hand pierced the clouds of bowed heads. The first sacrificial lamb.
A sense of finality settled over everyone. Of course, it was not to be deluded that this was the end; it was merely the beginning.
“Ah good! Come come!” he tapped gleefully against the Altar: a rickety but massive slab of wood, its sides painted in the shade of the night, as if licked by the tongues of flames till charred, though it had a glossy sheen to it.
The girl ambled to the front of the House of Aural and sat gingerly on the stool placed before the sacred Instrument of the Dark. She stroked the crude rectangular pieces of carefully varnished hollowed wood that would strike and ring forth the voice to accompany the ceremony.
Slowly, creeping, the dark rite of Kaldumisi began. It is a rite that asks not for Blood, but only for Time and Patience. It demands not for Hands and Feet, but for Ears and Mouth. Singing is the sole medium of commune, and a show of devotion that yet seemed to be devoid of amongst the herd.
The melody that came from the girl was haunting, a tuneless tune that ignited a sense of forbidding. It sang of unyielding frustration, of a fruitless harvest, of pointless suffering, and of a rigged game in which only the bystander could win. Soon, the Shaman’s voice joined the girl’s, imbuing the disturbing song with dark intentions. From the depths of the unwilling worshippers’ minds, a beast took form; a creature shaped by the mold of panic and dread was conjured till it was almost a physical, tangible writhing mass.
The silence that followed the last note was eerie and deafening. In the lull, the Marks on the girl’s slate shifted and swirled, and at the Shaman’s nod and touch of his fingertips, a pattern formed and stayed. There was a stir among the ranks, like a huge animal shivering; the Curse of the Marks, the Judgment of one’s devotion.
The Shaman’s expression did not betray the girl’s fate; it never did. She would receive her Marked slate later, so would those who had performed the ceremony, but for now, more would be called upon to sing their loveless love to the Goddess of Aural.
The second volunteer came forward a little more hesitant than the first; hating to submit his fate to the nonsensical chanting, and yet hating more to risk the wrath of the Shaman.
It is a painstaking ritual that gnaws at a person’s Time and reserves of Patience, at times even biting off chunks of them if he is not careful. Thank the Chords that the voodoo garbling needs only to be executed once in a fortnight, maybe longer. And it ought to be noted that completing the sacrament is by far a wiser and, surprisingly, less painful choice than the alternative, which would be denying the Shaman a sacrificial subject and setting fire to a tantrum that had the ability to burn for days. No, better to ride out the storm as best you can and pray that your ship does not capsize than try to steer and flee in the opposite direction.
For the dark rite of Kaldumisi, there is no fight or flight, there is simply endure.
