The Ritual

Hand-held lanterns lit the dampened concrete, reflections of the twirling flames left in the puddles. About ten men and woman with thick leather boots trudged through the rain and mud carrying the body on rowan beams that rested on their shoulders. Thirty more people followed close behind, carrying torches and bowing their heads. Their faces were covered by gas masks that resembled a witch doctor costume. Ceremonial black capes covered the rest of their bodies, leaving no skin shown. Even their hands that held up that wooden structure were covered by thick leather gloves. Upon the pyre lay a body, and unlike the reapers he lay completely exposed. The skin swelled like there was an internal faucet leak. The man was hardly a man anymore, his pale skin discolored from shades of purple, blue and green. Craters in his face and down his arms resembled a statue with cracks in the stone. A yellow pus had leaked and hardened from those craters.

The vestige of luxury had been lost long ago after the woe of war. Radiation from nuclear explosions across the globe had left a desolate, broken world. Though even if hundreds of years post-apocalypse, the blistering plague of past generation’s mistakes still haunts those left to roam the Earth. The cloaked figures finally reach their destination, hovering the pyre over a giant slab of stone in the clearing. Carefully, they lowered the body. A path was made for a priest. The only difference in his apparel was a giant red, Celtic cross stitched into his robe on his back. In his hand, he carried a wand and a bowl of holy water that reeked of gasoline. He took the aspergillum and dipped it in the bowl, and shook it over the body to baptize him.

With his voice warped by the mask, the priest spoke. It was muffled and echoed, “In the name of the holy martyr, may this soul be cleansed. May it rise up by the grace of god and be washed from this wicked plague. May he find peace in heaven, residing by god’s angels and our brothers and sisters.” One of the townspeople greeted him with a torch and pressed it to the aspergillum, lighting the wand in a burst of flames. With gentle ease, the priest touched the instrument to the body on the pyre, and the entire structure went up in flames. The wand was extinguished in water.

The cult stood still, baring witness to the cremation of the body. No words were spoken. No name was mentioned. If tears were shed, no one could see them. Silence watched the body curdle in the fire, melt upon the stone-cold altar. Not a head turned until flesh was reduced to ash and cinder. The priest was the first to assemble the line. Like the ritual had been performed a thousand times prior, the townspeople filed in rows of two and headed back down the narrow path of the woods.

At the end of the path was a reconstructed village in what used to be West Virginia. Modernized buildings had been tumbled to the ground and obliterated. In their place were hand-built homes of clay and brick. One by one, the people removed their masks and returned to their routines. There were many men and women, none of whom were children. The priest stood on the edge of the woods and listened to the workers resume their day. A man stayed behind to spectate alongside the priest. He removed his mask to reveal dark brown curls, blue eyes and a face that was strong and rugged.

“That’s the fifth one this week, Father Joseph. We can’t go on like this. We have to find the blue-feathered rose,” The young man spoke. The priest removed his mask as well and cradled it within his arms, like a still-born child. Father Joseph had a protrusion of his lower lip, a shaved head, a long grey beard and no color to his eyes. “You and I both know that’s a crock of crap, Emanuel. We both know those dreams I have aren’t a gift from god; they’re a curse from the devil if there even is one. I see death. That one dream I had that was different was a corner of my mind that played on hope and grabbed on to any fantasy it could, even if it made no sense,” Father Joseph sighed.

Emanuel shook his head, “Father, they aren’t silly to them.” He gestured to the townspeople, “They believe in hope. They believe in you. You know those people that had died, did so honorably because they took action. They went beyond the wood in the desert lands looking for that flower because in their heart it exists.

Father Joseph’s face became bright red and he burst at Emanuel, “That’s EXACTLY MY POINT. Do you not realize that hope is what’s killing people? They would still be alive and here if it weren’t for those silly dreams. I am no prophet. I am no priest. I am a man, that’s scared of losing his life and life all around him. I am scared of being alone.”

Emanuel patted the priest’s back, “You’re wrong, Father. Doing nothing is what’s killing us.” At that, Emanuel joined the others. He was long gone now. Joseph stood alone at the edge of the woods, picturing in his mind the people that looked up to him resume their lives, ignoring the reapers on their shoulders.

Later that night, Joseph retired to his cabin at the edge of town. He sat close to the fire and stared within his whiskey glass like a crystal ball. Now dressed in normal attire, his bare skin was shown. From his collarbone to his right elbow were fleshy craters that resembled what marked the corpse. Joseph set the glass on the mantle to scratch his blistered skin until he bled. He hid his face in his hands and sobbed. He felt defeated. Between his tears a loud ringing came from out his window. It was the death bell chiming its nasty tune. In complete rage, Joseph picked up his glass and threw it to the wall. It shattered in a thousand tiny pieces.

At twilight next morning, the ritual continued. New pyres were built. The bodies were carried. Joseph preached his prayer. And each day, less and less hands were there to help. Father Joseph had found himself again retired in his cabin, with thoughts of life and death and the question of faith. The disease on his right arm had swarmed to his left and travelled down his back as well. His eyes were drought from tears.

Joseph had visions of what had transpired earlier that day. His sight had recently been taken from him. The people had saw this as a gift from god, since soon after the visions had happened. Though the priest still remembered the faces of whom he was close to, and the pain that struck them, haunting Joseph each night. Earlier in the day, Emanuel had come to visit. Very matter-of-factly, Emanuel gave word to Father Joseph that he was leaving town tonight. He was going in search to find a cure.

As Joseph recalled their final encounter, his face clenched in pain. Joseph remembers screaming at Emanuel, the boy he had once considered a son. He sat in solitude and wondered if those had been the final words to him. “Leave this town and our home, and you won’t be welcome back,” Were his last words. Tears found the priest again.

After a short period of wallowing, he reached for his robe, his mask and walking stick. He decided to take action. No more people would die because of him. Joseph swore this to himself.

He left no note and gave no warnings. Fog was dense along the narrow path to the stone altar. It made breathing difficult. Joseph fought hard not to scratch at his cracking flesh. He made use of his walking stick beyond the clearing, for the land north of the town was foreign to him. For many years, he had kept himself in a bubble, afraid to make a move. If there were life outside the haven, the townspeople didn’t know it. Surely, no one ever came by to visit in hundreds of years, so there really wasn’t question that life beyond the haven was anything but fantasy. Though still, people were curious. And they all came home eventually, and sooner ended up dead.

Joseph was brittle and in no shape for such a voyage, so he took a break upon a stone to catch his breath. He put his weight against the walking stick and rubbed the sweat from his brow. He became dizzy and nodded off for a moment. When he came to, a familiar voice found him. “Father?” Emanuel sounded surprised. Branches cracked and leaves rustled as he ran towards the priest. “Not a word, son. Let’s go find that hope you’re so insistent on,” Joseph pants and takes off his mask, using the walking stick to stand up. He smiles and Emanuel returns the gesture even though he can’t see it.

The men journey for miles. The woods faded off in the distance as they trekked through the dust bowl where civilization once was. Emanuel has his mask back on, but Joseph is stubborn and carries it in his arm, coughing violently. “Put it on, Father. You’re no help to me dead,” Emanuel scolds. For the first time ever, Joseph listens and puts on the mask.

“Nothing will ever grow again in this desert, son,” Joseph coughs. “You’re wrong, Father,” Emanuel shakes his head. “The blue-feathered rose is real. I can feel it in my bones. You and I will save the town. I know it.” Joseph snickers, “You mean what’s left of it?” Emanuel didn’t give Joseph the gratification of response. The boys kept on.

“We’re getting closer, I can feel it,” Emanuel cheers. “Now you’re just bullshitting. You have no idea where we are. You don’t know what we’re looking for. You have the heart of a little boy and a blind man as a companion. What are we even doing?” Joseph scuffs.

“You’re not the only one with a gift from god,” Emanuel teases, punching his shoulder. “Also, you weren’t always blind. You used to be the most insightful man I knew. I think god was trying to remind you to see with your heart.”

Joseph laughed, “I think we should switch robes. You would make a much better priest than me. When did you grow up so much?” Emanuel returned a chuckle, “When you weren’t looking.” Despite them both wearing the masks, Joseph’s harsh cough continued. He collapsed to the ground and removed his mask, grasping for breath.

“Father!” Emanuel screamed, kneeling beside the priest. He pat his back and cried with the man, throwing the mask to the ground. Joseph unbuttoned his cloak to reveal the craters and cracks in his skin and show the blood he had coughed up. ”I don’t have much time, Emanuel. Maybe if I had found hope like you did, things could have been different. It’s not too late for you. Live. Go do what I couldn’t and take action for our people,” Joseph’s hands were trembling as they reached out.

Emanuel clasped his bloody hand and drenched it with his tears. “I won’t leave you,” Emanuel whispered. “Stupid boy,” Joseph coughed and laughed, “I’m going to a much better place than where we are now. Leave me and don’t look back. I will bear witness myself with god by my side.” Emanuel was hesitant, but respected Joseph’s want for an honorable passing. He kissed his forehead and released his hands as he watched the final breaths escape from Joseph.

Emanuel wiped the tears from his face and secured his mask. He fixed the buttons on his robe and carried on. When Emanuel was out of sight, Joseph’s face muscles twitched into a smile and color returned to his eyes. One by one, the craters in his skin had disappeared. In their place were beautiful blue roses, with petals like feathers from an angel. They bloomed and blossomed instantly until Joseph’s entire body was covered from head to toe. The gust of dust flew over the corpse, but through the storm his smile remained.