The Initiate

The icy rain pelts down hard enough to make it feel like it pulls Brandon’s hair from his scalp before it runs into the collar of his jacket. He has a killer headache, and the lights on all the yellow taxis that drive past him are off; the cabbies heedless to the way Brandon’s toes squelch in his shoes. He would be upset about how the cars driving past splash him with the water from the gutter, but he’s already drenched, and the rain washes the dirt away as fast as it appears. 

All hope he has of hailing a taxi home diminishes with every second that passes. No matter. He’ll use the tube. He picks up his pace as he ducks through several small alleyways littered with old newspapers and cigarette butts. At least the rain might help wash away the smell. 

He sighs in relief as the stairwell comes into view, but frowns as he gets closer. He wipes the droplets of water that drip down his face, and gapes at the sign that hangs across the staircase that leads underground. 

Closure due to flood.

Of course. Brandon shivers and stifles an eye-roll. The wind whips around him, drowning out the sound of the rain and Brandon closes his eyes to the cold sting of it. Brandon reaches into the pockets of his coat in search of his cell, but instead, something damp catches his fingers. He has no memory of the crimson flyer he pulls out, but it would be rude to toss it away. 

He unfolds the oddly coloured flyer and frowns down at the little information. It reads: Lost? Followed only by an address and an odd, fork-like symbol. Brandon is not technically lost, but he is cold and wet and tired, and most importantly, unable to get a cab. At least the flyer address is close by. 

He’s never seen the symbol before, but there are new organizations every other week in the city. Perhaps it’s a group of people who help tourists get back to their hotels or children back to their parents. Anything is better than being stuck in the rain, so Brandon tucks the flyer into his coat pocket and heads down the street. 

The crimson door shines from four blocks away. The lights in all the shops surrounding it are turned off. Businesses closed due to the storm, but the golden light reflecting off of the door glows into the night like a light at the end of a tunnel.

He picks up his pace, the sight of the door making him more eager for the dryness within. 

There is no handle on the door, only the odd fork symbol. Brandon pushes the cool metal open. It groans on its hinges as he steps through and after he lets go, it swings back into place with a loud clang that echos behind him. He winces at the noise and turns around with a sheepish smile. 

The stone room is as cold as it had been outside and only slightly brighter. Candle sconces hang on the walls in lieu of actual lights and send shadows cascading over the wooden benches lined up in the room. Brandon remembers going to Church as a child, but it had never looked quite like this, though there is something familiar about it. 

He clears his throat in the empty room. There is a platform at the far end of the room, though he wouldn’t consider it an alter. It’s more like a stage, and upon it, in the middle of the back wall, a staircase curves down, a brighter glow emanating from within. 

Brandon shuffles on his feet. Should he wait out the storm where he is? The risk of someone finding him at the door promises an awkward conversation and Brandon prefers to avoid those. Plus he doesn’t know how long the storm will last. 

He grimaces at the wet shoeprints he leaves on the floor as he walks toward the stage. The water seeping out of his shoes with each step and the drops that fall from his coat are the only sounds. 

The closer Brandon gets to the stairwell, the warmer the air. Small plumes of fog rise across the arch of the tunnel before they dissipate into the darkness of the main hall. With each step Brandon takes down the long, curved staircase, the more earthy and clean it smells. He expects the usual damp, dusty smell of most basements, but the stone steps extend beyond the depth of one story, and the air smells fresher the farther he goes. 

By the time Brandon makes it to the bottom of the many stairs, the damp cold of his clothes is all the more uncomfortable due to his warmed body. The plumes of smoke grow into a thick mist that tastes of fall as Brandon catches his breath. 

The glow he had seen upstairs has emanated from two large torches on either side of the small room he finds. The grey of the walls glow golden in the light, and across from him, two figures stand on either side of another archway. Brandon swallows his nerves before he approaches. He can’t very well run back up all those stairs. That would be rude.

Each of the figures is hidden under a thick, crimson cloak, and despite the bright glow of the torches, Brandon can’t see under their hoods.

“Are you the new initiate?” a deep voice bellows out from under one of the cloaks. Brandon can’t tell which, but he can feel the deep voice in his chest.

Brandon doesn’t know who is under the deep red cloaks, or what sort of… group they are. But he also doesn’t know what they might do to him if he’s interrupting something. Would they toss him out into the rain? Would they remove their cloaks and offer him a ride home? Would they lock him in a cellar somewhere; never to be seen to the outside world again? Brandon doesn’t know, but he knows that the kind of people who offer initiation and wear ominous cloaks are not the type of people he wants to cross. There is only one thing he can do. 

“Uh… yep.” Brandon nods.

“Enter the chamber, brother, and shed your worldly possessions. Cleanse yourself of your hardships and don the colour of the syndicate before you proceed into the sanctum.” The voice rings in the air as the figures step aside and each gesture through the archway. 

There is no turning back. It would be impolite to turn away, and Brandon is fearful of what would happen if he tried. He is glad he can blame his shortness of breath on the long staircase, and he hopes the figures can’t hear the way his heart thumps. At least they gave him clear instructions. 

Torches hang in regular intervals on the curved wall, casting everything in a hazy glow. Brandon finds himself in another stone room, dominated by a large pool set into the floor. There are bits of leaves and foam that float atop the milky liquid, and thick steam rises from within it. 

Brandon wants to stall in the chamber. Those cloaked figures expect an initiate, and Brandon has replaced whoever it was they were waiting for. What will they do to him if they found out? He rubs his face and runs his hand through his still-wet hair. The mist in the air not conducive to drying, no matter how warm the room is. 

He has gone too far. It isn’t like he could go back out and say ‘hey, I was lying before. Please don’t lock me in a dungeon or something. I promise not to tell anyone about your weird cult or whatever!’ He has to pretend he knows exactly what he is doing. 

Brandon pulls his drenched coat off and hangs it on one of the many brass hooks that poke out around the room. He’s glad to be rid of his shoes. It had been like stepping in a puddle each time he moved, and he wiggles his toes after he peels his soggy socks from his feet. His wet clothes cling to him and he struggles to free himself of them, but once he’s out of their cool dampness, the warm air in the room is of some small comfort despite his nudity. 

He rubs his arms as he eyes the odd liquid and shivers despite the heated steam. Would they be able to tell if he skipped this part? Probably. Brandon sighs and pads over to the edge of the pool. 

The murky liquid is more slippery than water as Brandon dips his foot into it. It’s just shy of intolerably hot. His toes discover a few steps descending into the pool and Brandon wades in, allowing his body to adjust to the heat in small degrees. The mist is so thick it almost feels like he is underwater. 

The steps stop at his midriff and he stands with his elbows tucked into his sides. Should he dunk himself? Exactly how is one supposed to cleanse themself of their hardships? What the hell is he doing? Brandon shrugs. What else can he do? He doesn’t have any experience with the social protocol of stumbling upon a cult. He lowers his body into the forest-smelling liquid, holds his breath, and pushes himself into the heat. 

After Brandon stands, he rubs the droplets away from his face and pushes his blond curls out of his eyes. Bits of leaves stick to him at random, and he picks them off as he walks to the other end of the pool. Another set of stairs helps him out of the liquid, leaving Brandon’s skin silky and soft. A red robe hangs on a hook above a fluffy, white towel folded on top of the wooden bench that circles the room. 

Brandon dries off as well as he can in the mist. As odd as the situation is, he’s glad to finally be warm and mostly dry. He eyes his clothes on the other side of the room, dripping a puddle onto the floor. He’ll have to apologize later if initiation is, well, survivable? 

Surely there aren’t murder cults in the city? Brandon swallows the lump in his throat as he pulls the thick robe over his body. There’s no hood on it, but it’s dry, and Brandon is quick to tie it closed. 

There are no shoes or slippers, so the dust on the floor sticks to his damp feet. Brandon can’t remember if the figures he’d seen wore shoes or not. He hadn’t been able to see any part of them. The robes hung off of their hands like oversized sweaters before the excess billowed to the floor. 

Brandon’s robe fits him perfectly. He fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves as he walks through the next archway and around another curved tunnel. He pauses at the end of it. A cathedral carved out of stone, rows of cloaked figures stand on either side of the room, watching in silence. 

Sconces along the wall throw the figures’ shadows into crisscrossing patterns on the large pathway between them. Across from Brandon, elevated by more of the golden stone, sits a large throne with a tall man smiling in a fitted robe like Brandon’s own, though the man’s is decorated with leafy, golden trim. 

The man’s legs are crossed at the knee and his elbows rest on them. He leans forward with his fingertips steepled below his chin. 

“Approach,” echoes around the room. The man hasn’t moved his mouth and, like before, the voice emanates from beneath every cloak and reverberates in Brandon’s chest. 

Brandon takes a deep breath and walks across the room. The cloaks turn with him as he moves and his eyes flit to either side before he looks at the man who still smiles down at him. 

He seems the kind of person who wouldn’t look out of place with a crown shining above his green eyes. His sharp features remind Brandon of a cat, and he is overcome by a bone-deep notion that he ought to look away. 

Brandon stops at the foot of the staircase that leads to the throne and casts his eyes to the floor before him. 

“Kneel.” 

The same booming voice shakes throughout the room and Brandon is quick to follow the order. He should never have looked at that red flyer. He should have just walked home and hoped a taxi would take pity on him along the three-hour journey. All he wanted was to get out of the rain and now he kneels in a stone throneroom deep underneath the city with some sort of King or something padding down the stairs toward him. 

Brandon’s breath comes in short pants as the point of a silver dagger meets his chin. He should have run while he had the chance. The blade urges his chin up and Brandon tries to remain calm as he stares into the angular face before him. His hands fist in his robes as the man smiles down at him. 

“What is your name, my child?” the man asks, his voice as smooth and soft as the liquid Brandon had bathed in.

“B-Brandon,” he stutters and he eyes the ruby embedded in the hilt of the dagger. 

At the silence, Brandon looks up. The man’s smile gives way to utter confusion.

“Brandon?” the man asks and pulls the dagger away and holds it to the side as if it was an extension of his shrug. “You can’t be called Brandon.” 

“I-I’m sorry, sir. It’s my name.” 

“I refuse to have someone with such a boring name as Brandon in service to me.” The man crosses his arms and glares down at Brandon as the blade glints in the candlelight. 

“Are you going to kill me?” Brandon gulps and a few members of the crowd laugh while the man scoffs. 

“Kill you? What do you think this is, some sort of sick cult?” 

Brandon looks around to the multitude of figures shrouded in crimson, to the dagger and the stone throne, and finally back to the ethereal man before him. What else could a syndicate be? Brandon shrugs with wide eyes. 

“How terribly rude,” the man says before he knocks Brandon in the side of his head with the hilt of the dagger. Everything goes dark. 

Brandon groans as he opens his eyes. His head hurts, and the incessant patter of the rain on the tin roof of the bus stop isn’t helping. 

He rubs his head, the notions of an important dream fleeing from his memory and though he tries to remember, it slips through his fingers; like mist. He can’t remember much of anything except that he had been trying to get out of the rain. He must have missed the bus, though. Brandon reaches into his pockets to see if his phone is charged, and frowns at the soggy, crimson paper her pulls out of his pocket. It reads: Lost? Followed only by an address and an odd, fork-like symbol.