a dark, dark celebration -- by derek odom

 

“Trent! Grab the staff,” Luther boomed, his large frame tense and golden. The cave walls shimmered as the fire crackled and popped, casting the shadows of half a dozen men. Trent did as he was told because Trent always did what he was told, especially when it came to Luther. People knew Luther, knew he didn’t mess around. Had this gone too far? Absolutely. Trent knew that. He suspected that the Hashtons were no more a threat to their small town than fly to the moon. But, what was he to do? The fire was roaring and Christina, the last remaining Hashton, was tied up a few feet from the fire on a custom spit Luther himself had crafted.

As he handed Luther the staff, which was long and heavy and knotted, Trent bowed. Luther had never required him to bow, but he was pleased when it happened, usually in times of seriousness, when things were heavy. Luther smirked, then smiled ear to ear and dismissed Trent, who reclaimed his place in the circle of men surrounding Christina.

Trent thought Luther looked magnificent in that moment. He was a tall man, and bigger than most, but not the dull type. There was a glowing intelligence in his eyes that seemed to complement his long, blond-red hair when he was animated, as he was now. The light of the fire shone his rich and glistening skin while the stern expression on his face commanded respect.

“For tonight,” Luther continued, “we have justice at our fingertips!” Hoots and hollers from the small crowd of men, who all secretly knew Luther was a few cards short of a full deck, but felt the cause was good if their lives improved. “Too long, have we waited. Too much, have we given. And too little, have we received. That all changes tonight. Right now.” He walked a few feet to his right and addressed that side of the tiny cave. “You! My men. My warriors! You have procured the very thing that can end this curse.” He threw his hands up in the air almost comically and shot them to his side, palms up, toward the spit. “Christina. The very last of the Hashton clan—the same clan that has been taking your rights and your money for generations!” The men clapped, yelled obscenities, grabbed their crotches and made jeering, teeth-laden faces toward the condemned young woman.

Luther continued, and there was silence. “We are men of honor, men of pride, men of grit. No more shall the people of this community be misled by the Hashton family. They have been in control for too long and have done too much damage to allow such a moment, such an opportunity, to pass in silence. No, tonight we fight. And tonight... we win.”

The men cheered and ghouled again, and with more fervor. One went as far as to unzip and pee on the girl, who was tied up in such a way she couldn’t see him. The men howled. Luther stood on his makeshift stage of large rocks and long weeds, and beamed, hands on hips. His eyes were fiery orbs. Trent studied the man, awe and comfort nestling in for a long winter’s nap. There was fear, of course, but that only seemed to comfort him further; if anyone could do this, Luther could.

Christina, who was rag-gagged, fought against the ropes, creating painful-looking, shiny red marks on her wrists and ankles. Trent sympathized, but knew it was for the best. After all, and Luther had said it himself, her family aimed to destroy the tiny town they loved so much. He and the other men were thankful that Luther had what it took to set the uprising in motion. Trent’s gaze was on the incapacitated girl, and not-so-pure thoughts had begun whirling round in his head when Luther pounded his staff on the rock stage, snapping him to the present moment.

“Friends, warriors, we must gather now in earnest and in silence, for the Rite of the Feast begins!” He motioned toward the spit. “Get her on the fire! We can't eat if she isn't cooked!”

Three men—boys, really, in dopey-looking and dirty, adult bodies—with knives got to work slicing off the woman’s gown, leaving her only in white, cotton panties. Her pale skin was wet with sweat, her ample breasts askew because of the way she was hanging on the wood. For the first time in a long time, Trent felt a stirring from his crotch, a familiar tug of the fabric.

But then the contraption was rolling toward the fire with two men on either side, Luther yelling ferociously about damned souls and karmic retribution and the beginning of a new way. Dread and fascination crowded Trent’s mind, and any stirrings that may have started down below ceased as he watched the men roll Christina over the flames and then jump away. As she burned, melting and writhing and screaming through the gag, no one said a word. They all just stared on, unable to do anything else. And then she stopped moving and hung there, burning meat on rope hooks.

“Behold!” Luther shouted, breaking the silence. “The last of the Hashtons, dead before your very eyes! Don the wine! We celebrate our freedom!” His hands were out wide and his smile showed too many teeth, as if he were a magician who had just performed a mind-bending trick. But there had been no trick, Trent knew. There was only a girl, burned to death while a bunch of twisted fucks with emotional issues and no backbones gazed on, cheering, throwing things, shouting swears.

Trent watched as they passed around wine, cigarettes and joints; watched as the girl’s skin blistered, popped, then ran off her body like liquid. His stomach tightened. The stench was awful, especially in such close quarters. Wait, was that music? Trent scanned the cave. Yes! In the corner, a full band of five or six members in bright and striped suits. But, how was this possible? The cave couldn’t have been but fifteen feet across. Now, in the wake of the festivities, it showed gigantic.

The fire cast strange shadows on the walls of the cave and caused the distorted, wrecked-up faces of the men to appear even more dramatic and more grotesque. The din grew louder and the shadows grew longer, more fierce, as the last of Christina sloughed away into the fire, leaving behind charred wood and dripping, sizzling ooze.

Luther again took his place on stage and the riot softened. “Oopsie! I guess we’ll have to order out tonight. It seems our splendid Hashton dish was a wee bit overcooked.” He laughed then, hands over his stomach and mouth comically wide, and the crowd soon followed, escalating into insane fits of madness. Some laughed so hard they cried. Others simply cried, losing themselves. Two of the men disrobed and cut themselves with bone knives and rubbed their blood onto one another, moaning and sighing.

Trent was looking for Luther in the ever-growing crowd, looking for anything sane, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and wheeled around. The hand belonged to a man dressed all in white who had a kind face and soft features. He seemed to have a glow all his own, like the fire in Luther’s eyes, only it felt safe to Trent, it felt warm and good. “I wouldn't bother,” the stranger said, removing his hand from Trent’s shoulder. “It’s too late. Look around. These people aren't going to be convinced. Luther won't be convinced. You’ll only show yourself as weak if you try to stop them.”

In spite of the man’s outwardly safe appearance, Trent wasn't sure he trusted him. He wasn't sure he trusted any of this. “What makes you say that?”

The stranger nodded toward the fire. “I mean, the girl’s dead. The time for a dissenting opinion would have been before she fried. Don’t you think?”

Trent nodded. “So, what to do now, then? I… I didn’t know it would be… I didn’t know it would be like this.”

The man smiled, shook his head. “Nothing to do then, is there? It is done. An entire bloodline up in ruins and nobody to run the town. You've done it now, Trent.”

“Done what? I've done what?” Panic was setting into his tone.

“Exactly what every other vile creature in this room has done, other than celebrating.” The stranger shrugged, held up a glass of whiskey. “Might as well have a drink or nine, my boy. It’s the last night. For you, and for every one of these black souls. You don’t fully understand what’s happened here. If you did, you’d have killed yourself by now. But, since you haven't done that, you might as well join them.” The man’s smile disappeared. “Because after all, Trent, you are them.”