The Arcadian Society

NOTE TO READER: This story contains themes of violence, gore, suicide and mental and physical abuse.

It was exactly a year ago to this day that I received my invitation to join the Arcadian society, with little knowledge of the horrific events I was setting in motion, brought together by a disturbing synchronicity. My involvement in the secret book club had seemed at first to be a harmless coincidence, the invitation, actually, being from a college classmate who sat next to me in English literature, where our teacher had felt an urge to take us outside for an hour of golden summer sun, with the task of reading the book we had chosen for our extended research project.

Looking back I should have realized the danger I was in purely from the strange circumstances that led up to me choosing the book for this project. I had obtained it on the High street, hunting for a good crime fiction novel. when a stallholder had somehow read my mind and thrust a leather-bound edition of “The name of the Rose” by Umberto Eco into my hands. I remember him vividly for the mark of jaundice in his eyes, how it had frightened me at first, but then I was put at ease by a feeling that I could not place until this present day – familiarity. Had I met him before? When you live in a small town its not unlikely. The urgency and imperatives behind his gaze made me want to clutch tightly onto the book and treasure it with my life, knowing somehow it was special, though in what way I could not have known. Maybe my classmate had sensed it too, as she glanced over at the book in my hands and bookmarked it with a formal invitation to join the Arcadian society.

Everyone knew the reputation of the Arcadian society. Which is what makes my decision to join so frustrating to look back on. I knew! I knew by accepting the invite, I would be taking the place of the last member, who had committed suicide the week before. I didn’t know him personally, his real identity, or his Arcadian identity, though my instincts told me that something was very, very wrong. Call it morbid curiosity, call it stupidity, but something was compelling me to discover the truth behind the veil of ignorance, that had mislead this town since the societies enactment. Whatever you want to call the impulse, it wasn’t long before I found myself trekking through private land, in search of an ‘idyllic paradise’ characterized by pastoral harmony and simplicity.

The paradise I found that first night was blissful. A hideout underneath the stars, where lovers might retreat to in order to gaze upon the moon in a shared embrace. Patchwork, flickering candlelight, the sounds of insects and night creatures. A place to vanish, to hide, a secret world. And its inhabitants came in all shapes and sizes, strangers I had the pleasure of meeting, combined with recognizable faces I would never have expected to see in this setting. We laughed, we drank, we debated our favorite fiction, and then when the clocks chimed midnight, the Master of secrets revealed himself to the congregation. Edgar Rook, a figure I had seen before in passing, finishing his final year of college. There was a roar of applause when he entered the hideout, a love for him that was stronger than religion, a devotion that transcended the binding precedent of matrimony. He commanded the room with surprisingly natural authority, professing his love for the death of ‘everyone’s dearest and most beloved friend Thomas’ but counteracted this by introducing me as his replacement, which yielded a series of whoops and cheers. I should have questioned their happiness in the wake of Thomas’ death. But I would not realize the full extent of the danger I was in until the ceremonies began.

I was made aware of the ‘book blessings’ in my second week of joining the Arcadian society. It was Edgar who led these ceremonies, where in honoring the murder mystery novel of the week – he would elect a sacrifice, to recreate a murder scene of his own choosing. That week it was Adelaide, a girl with a shock of feisty red curls and thick, round glasses. I watched in horror as she was humiliated within the baying circle of members, how she was thrown into a see-through tank, and dowsed in pigs blood. Edgar never told us what part of the novel this scene was from, mainly because it wasn’t in the novel at all. But whatever Edgar said was the truth, even if it was a lie.

The worst part was when she was suffocating, panicking, thrashing about in the blood of a slaughtered animal, as it seeped uncomfortably into every crevice of her skin. Those that tried to help her were held back and forced to watch, until Edgar decided to save her, pulling her out of the tank with one foul swoop and holding her tightly center stage. "Shh, you're safe now. You were lost, but I’ve brought you back to the light."  She felt for his face, his mouth, his jaw, her terrified shaking suddenly subduing in his reassuring embrace. We all stared in shocked silence for what seemed like hours, as the pigs blood dried on Edgar’s cheekbones, sealing the bond between him and Adelaide. The way she clutched onto him, she was in love, she was enamored. The members around me began to celebrate, applauding the heroic masculinity of the Master of secrets who had saved the day once again. But I could not find the same enthusiasm within me, as I went home that night with the knowledge that now I was submerged in their practices, I was submerged deep below the surface, with no discernible escape.

I went back week, after week, after week, worried sick that I would be the next sacrifice. And soon the lucid dream that once seemed so welcoming and familiar, had become a waking nightmare. Even at college I was no longer safe. I dared not speak two words to my English literature classmate, in fear of what would get reported back to the Master of secrets. I scarcely could look people in they eyes anymore, a fragile shell of what I used to be – as though I were some wounded animal, my life fundamentally reduced to tragedy and meaninglessness as I was subject to an indifferent universal will. I noticed Edgar Rook a lot more too, walking around campus like any ordinary student, his new plaything Betty cradled under his arm, the irony lying in the fact that he had held her head underwater at the last ceremony, till she had fallen unconscious.

I learned new things about the Arcadian society as I went along. I learned from Digsby that the books we were reading were often priceless first editions stole from protected libraries. I learned from Jordan’s broken jaw how if you told anyone about the Arcadian society without permission, a gang of five members would turn up to your place of rest in the middle of the night and beat you senseless. But most importantly – I learned from Edgar, if you refused to be the sacrifice, you would end up falling from a building to the point of no return like Thomas. In my case there was no question of this outcome, which is why I played along with their games, with Edgar’s games, because I’d already seen too much, I knew far too much.

Then the inevitable happened. To this day it gives me goosebumps. In many ways I knew it was my time, which is why I drank no alcohol that night, I couldn’t explain how, but I knew this night would be the making or breaking of my soul. I remember how abruptly he got to his feet, silencing the book blessings circle that had formed to witness the sacrifice. His tall frame moved with a predatory grace, every step calculated and deliberate, as if I were his prey. I expected him to guide me to the center as he did with the other girls, but instead he grabbed the back of my head and raked me to the middle of the stage, yanking my head backwards so I was staring into his eyes. There were shocked gasps, and a faint smirk played at the corners of his lips, perhaps he had always known I was the defiant one of the group, the one that would cause him the most trouble. Perhaps now he looks back on this moment and relishes the power he had over me. “Ladies and gentleman, your sacrifice.” The Arcadian society applauded as though this were a night at the opera, and with an arrogant grin, Edgar Rook shoved cyanide down my throat.

It was my breathing that failed me first, as the oxygen in my lungs was reduced to sharp agonizing breaths. My vision rapidly blurred as dizziness made my head spin and the churning in my stomach threatened me with the prospect of violent vomiting and sickness. I recall digging my nails into Edgar’s flesh, begging him for the antidote as every fiber of my being screamed in agony, a searing pain coursing through my veins as if someone had set alight to my bloodstream. But there was nothing behind his icily cold eyes, and darkness crept in at the edges of my vision, I truly believed that he was going to let me die. Then, on the edge of oblivion, the encroaching darkness was parted with a guiding light, the pain slowly began to ebb away, the world stopped shaking, the sickness receded. Eventually, I propped myself up on my elbows, to be met with the mortified stare of my audience for the evening. I didn’t understand until I looked up at Edgar, blood dripping down his figure from what looked like scratch marks scored across his face and arms. Had I done that to him? Was I as savage as the rest of them? Slowly, there was a faint applause, but Edgar and I did not break eye contact. A realization had dawned on me, and I saw a flicker of fear spasm across his complexion seemed to confirm the synchronization of everything that had been happening to me in my mind. In this breakthrough I had realized a vital piece of information that had evaded me all this time, the ceremonies followed a pattern that I had read before.

I ran straight home that night, and tore the place upside down, finding The Name of the Rose hidden underneath some overdue homework assignments at the back of my cupboard. Each chapter aligned with my experiences, the pigs blood, the drowning, the poisoning, the lying, the manipulation, the pain, the torture. It was all too easy to break down into tears, knowing I had foreseen how the story would end for me and yet I hadn’t made the connection. And after crying for what seemed like an eternity, I reported everything to the authorities. Which is why I am now sitting on the bonnet of a police car, surveying the scene as sirens blare and the Arcadian society are brought down with a sense of poetic justice. Edgar didn’t get far, having been immediately wrestled into the back of a waiting car with Adelaide desperately trying to get to him for one last kiss goodbye. All I can think about now is that book and bathed in the arrogance of having outsmarted the Mastermind behind the secrets.

So this is where my story ends, with me and The Name of the Rose. Though something about this book feels unfinished, as though the story is not so complete. Maybe it was the strangeness of how I came by it that doesn’t sit right with me. How that stallholder had insisted upon me having it. Did he know it would cause me this much trouble?  There was something in that ghostly gaze that told me he knew. The jaundice, that piercing yellow, that had been so familiar to me, as though I understood his past just as much as he seemed to understand my future. Those eyes, they reminded me of that boy I read about in a news article, his picture in the crime section. He was the spitting image of that boy. The spitting image of Thomas.