The Coven

A coven comes to an unintended end

Approximately 632 words

Author's notes.  My local writer's group is doing a writing exercise for our July meeting.  The idea is to write a story inspired by one of three songs.  It's also supposed to include the three words scorch, scald, and sizzle.  Variants, like sizzled, are acceptable.  Finally, it's supposed be less than 1000 words AND be a complete story. 

This is my attempt at such a story.  It's inspired (kind of) by "Great Balls of Fire," and even quotes the lyrics in a couple of places.

When we do these things, I always struggle with the word limit, but not this time.  I woke up this morning with the vision of this story in my head and spent about an hour this afternoon writing it. I can't tell if it's any good or not--it's too fresh for my eyes to be objective.  Feedback would be especially appreciated. Of course, it's just for our silly writing exercise, so it doesn't have to be good.

At the meeting, we'll read the stories anonymously--they will be in plain envelopes, with no author identification, so even the person reading will not know who wrote the story.  The "game" is to guess the author. I'm pretty sure no one will guess this is my story, especially since it's so short. 

I'm thinking a better title might be "The Summoning" or "The Awakening," but those might give too much away.  Thoughts?

                                               

The Coven

It was the chant that woke me. In the beginning, I was nowhere and had no body. It was just me and the murmured voices. I was one with those voices, voices full of dread and yearning.  Voices that hung suspended in the void and darkness.

         Samael te vocamus.

         That chant, those voices, they called to me.  Having woken my spirit, they now woke my body. It was as if they quickened my heart and brought breath to my lips.

         Cor tuum pulsum. Os tuum repirare.

         As though wakening from a dream, my body, now roused, struggled against yet unseen bonds, unable to move.

         Pater Tenebrae. Dominus Profanorum. Exorior!

         Those voices, those merciless voices, continued their solemn incantation.

         Dominus Ignis. Praecipimus te excitare

         At last, I managed to squeeze open my eyes. Reality, cold and harsh, assaulted me. I sat in a pool of dim light, bound to a hard wooden chair.  Five candles guttered in shallow bowls arranged on the floor around my person.  A fire flickered in an adobe fireplace, casting ruddy shadows that flitted across the murky room.  A window looked out to a moonlit forest. I inhaled the rancorous odors of charred tobacco, unwashed bodies, and ancient spilt blood.

         A dozen or more hooded figures huddled before me, half hidden in the shadows. Their chant shook my nerves and rattled my brain. It was enough to drive a man insane. The chant took my will, but, good gracious! The thrill of fear it sent shuddering through me took my breath away.

         I lived, but for how long?  What horror might these evil ones, these chanters, have in store for me?  From nowhere, haunting memories cascaded through my fractured mind.  Memories of youthful gangs, of satanic cults, of human sacrifices. Memories that curdled my blood and chilled my gut.

         Even more terrifying was that I had no memory of how I came to be here.  I couldn’t even recall my name. They must have drugged me, stealing my very identity.  All that remained was my body.  And fear, scalding, nerve-shattering fear.

         One of the robed figures held up a hand, and the chants ceased.  Silence closed like a shroud. 

         The one who held up his hand—he must be the leader—reached into his robe. When he pulled his hand out, firelight glinted off the dagger he now brandished. 

         My throat constricted and a trickle of perspiration burned my left eye. I managed to croak, “Wait.”

         Two red flecks of light gleamed from the depths of the leader’s hood. The eyes of darkness. The devil's eyes.  When he spoke, it was with a schoolboy’s innocent tenor.  “Ave, Pater Tenebrae. Ave, Domine Profanorum.”

         Father of Darkness.  Lord of the profane.  How did I know those words?  I imagined his dagger slitting a throat, committing a murder.  My throat. My murder.  I quavered, “Wait. You don’t have to do this.”

         He stepped closer.

         Panic twisted my arms.  Ropes tore the skin on my wrists. My breath came in shuddering gasps. 

         He was relentless. Closer he came, step by slow step.

         Somehow, I knew not how, I found the strength to free my hand. My left hand. The hand of darkness. I suddenly knew what I must do. I reached out with my clenched left fist. When I opened it, great balls of fire flew from my palm and engulfed the leader and his cult. Exultation filled my heart while the flames scorched their flesh and their bodies sizzled and smoked.

         While they burned, my identiy, Dominus Ignis, Lord of Fire, returned.  I gloated over their shrieks, those beautiful shrieks,  as hellfire—my hellfire—consumed them.  Those  shrieks fulfilled  me, completed me.  My bonds fell away, freeing me to at last ravage the world. My memories, my destiny, my self, finally flooded back.

         Not my soul, though. 

         I never had one of those.