The Ritual

It is hard to remember a time when I felt truly free. When my every action was not tied to the whims of a cold, uncaring captor. I could have been so much more; I should have been. But, apparently it was not meant to be. Stopped in my tracks as I made a life for myself, I entered my eternal prison, under lock and key of one who delights in my torture.

Sometimes I think there may be some great scheme, some monumental reason for my capture and imprisonment. Perhaps this is simply how I fool myself. If it were meaningless, a fully thoughtless action by my captor, how could I go on, knowing my life was simply a game to them?

My only amusement is to watch their daily rituals. I assume I am curious to my captor, and in turn, I cannot help but admit they are curious to me. Every day it is the same. The monotony only broken by the quick flashes and spontaneous bursts of my captor’s inscrutable activities. We are, I supposed, tied together in our fascination, because every day, I find myself following, and sneaking into a hidden place to watch.

It is hard to know if my captor has ever seen me there, or is even mindful of my presence at all. But whatever they are doing has so thoroughly captured my interest that I barely care. I was first drawn into the ritual when I saw them put on a curious hat. My attention was captured mostly by a shiny ribbon affixed around the wide brim, which encircled a tall pointy cone atop their head. 

Investigating the ribbon seemed to be of some importance, so I followed them silently to a room I’d never ventured into. From there, I saw the ritual for the first time, and it was so wondrous I forgot entirely about the ribbon. A miraculous feat in itself.

Thankfully, a rather bizarre object was already set up in the room, in the back corner. It was easy to sneak up the side and into a cavern which had carelessly been left unoccupied. There were many platforms above said hiding spot, but anyone who rested there would be spotted immediately, so it was an obvious choice to stay low.

The first time I witnessed the ritual, everything was a surprise. I could not be blamed for becoming entranced, waiting for each new step, ever stranger than the last. I am not above regarding myself as a bit silly for being so fascinated each and every day, even though I have now seen it dozens of times.

My captor first starts with a cauldron, bigger than any pot I’ve ever seen, covered in the soot of hundreds of fires underneath. They set it on the table, overtop a small flame that burns through a handful of stones on the tabletop. The cauldron hangs in midair, with nothing tangible holding it up. 

An assortment of powders go in to start, from plain-looking white bottles with scribbles plastered all over them. They are varying shades of white and beige and tan. Underwhelming as the first few components. Almost enough, from time to time, to release my devoted attention and allow me to walk away once and for all.

But then, before the dust has settled, my captor selects several jars of liquids, all different–and much more exciting–colors than the powders. Some dark like the night, some as vibrant as a sunset, some sparkling like the waves in the sea. My captor moves so rapidly, one splash of this, a hearty pour of another. It is as smooth as a graceful dance. By the time all of the jars hit the table again, it seems as if my captor is almost out of breath, and I always fear for the continuation of the ritual.

And then, in another flurry, they produce, spinning through their fingers, a pestle, which they immediately use to grind the mixture together, the sound of stone against metal ringing through the room in a nonstop symphony. I wonder, does my captor know how well I hear? Is this simply to torment me, as they know I cannot look away?

They flick the smooth paste from the pestle before the ringing has stopped, carelessly dropping the heavy stone instrument to the table. I know what comes next. If I were ever to speak from my hiding place, it would be then, to recite the words I now know by heart with them as they chant.

The words, though I know their sounds better than my own likeness, mean nothing to me. I could not reproduce them independently of this ritual. Perhaps I am too enthralled by the sparks that emerge to really understand what is being said. The mixture bubbles and sparkles, producing its own light, not unlike the fire still burning beneath the cauldron. When I was free, I remember bigger versions of these lights in the sky occasionally, but they were not as beautiful or lovely. They were loud, intrusive to my movements as I attempted to remain undetected.

I am almost sad to see them go when my captor ceases chanting. But at this point, I am reminded of the true beauty of the ritual. My captor reaches to the table and picks up a metal cylinder, which they open with a pop. I watch in bated breath as they pour the can’s contents into the cauldron and pick up a tiny pitchfork, which they use to break the mixture up one last time.

In this moment, I am overtaken with joy. I cannot contain myself as I run from my hiding place, ignoring every stern word I have for my actions, to weave between my captor’s legs. My favorite part of the day has arrived.

They scoop the mixture into a shallow dish, avoiding my frantic excitement as they maneuver to another corner of the room. I dig into the wondrous meal before it hits the ground, wondering once again how I could ever be angry with my captor. I even allow two gentle pats of my head before their footsteps wander away.

My skepticism of my captor, nor, indeed, the wonder of the ritual, shall never fade. On that, I bet all eight of my remaining lives.