It was a wet night in the ancient French town of Chartres. The wind swept the rain along Rue du Massacre. There were few people on the dark streets; those that were out hurried about their business.
Down a narrow alley sat an old cafe called Le Moine. Inside, the walls were stained brown with nicotine; in fact, most things were brown with nicotine. The linoleum tiles on the floor, which were once black and white, were now black and brown. Some curled at the edges. The tables and chairs looked as if they were out of some nineteen sixties museum exhibit.
At the bar sat a regular with half a bottle of Pastis in front of him. He was talking to the barmaid about French patriotism, but she was more interested in the soap opera on the old television in the corner above the toilet door.
They watched as the dark clad members of the club filed through the door at the back of the bar.
They met every Tuesday in the basement. Different clubs used the room, and the owner didn’t much bother as long as they paid.
Behind the locked and bolted door downstairs, the brethren donned their black habits and pulled up their hoods. All except for Jacques Rancourt who stood and watched as they unlocked a cupboard door and brought forward an altar. He had been approached to join the Order and had accepted. He felt as though it was the right thing to do; it was as if his whole life had been leading up to this. The man who had approached him was Judge Didier Grondin a well-respected official of the local community. He had hinted at being able to help Jacques with his career. He watched them set out a sculpted bronze idol of a grotesque female-like figure as he donned a black habit given to him. Jacque stood in the centre of a circle drawn in chalk on the floor.
The brethren gathered around the inside periphery of the circle. Then one of them approached Jacque and blindfolded him after which another placed a goblet full of red wine in front of him. He then heard a familiar voice.
“Welcome brothers. Oh, brethren of the Order of the Gate.” It was Didier Grondin, thought Jacques although before he had never heard him speak with such power.
“We are here to initiate brother Rancourt tonight,” continued the voice.
“Yes master,” said the men in unison.
Grondin chanted words which meant nothing to Jacques, he assumed they were Latin. The others joined in, softly at first, but then gaining strength. This continued for some time, always increasing in volume and then speed.
The next thing they did would have disgusted Jacques if he could see. For the brothers raised up their robes, pulled out their penises, and masturbated, while chanting. The mantra chanting got faster and faster until it stopped, and they ejaculated into goblets placed in front of them. They then took their goblets and poured the contents into the cup before the initiate.
“Brother Rancourt, do you swear allegiance to the Goddess Hel, and to merge your eternal soul and your body with ours,” said Grondin. His voice sounded like it could start an earth quake.
“I do, “said Jacques.
“Then drink the fluids of life and death.”
Jacques was handed his goblet; he raised it and drank the contents. The chanting began again; different this time and at a slower pace. As he drank Jacques thought, fluids? Surely, he meant fluid as in the red wine for the blood of Christ in Christian communion, and this tasted like red wine…
frothy red wine!
The new brother then had the blindfold removed and took his place in the periphery of the circle with the rest of the order. He joined in with the chant which was again increasing in volume and speed.
Jacques glanced around; the others were in a trance. Grondin was kneeling in front of the altar with his head swaying from side to side. Jacques, to his horror, noticed that the Master’s facial features were distorted. His eyes were crimson and his skin had taken on a sallow complexion.
Jacques looked away in revulsion. But he couldn’t resist another look. When he glanced back Grondin’s face was normal. It must have been a trick of the light, or something to do with the wine, he thought.
After the meeting broke up Grondin told Jacques that he would be contacted about the next meeting and what was expected of him. He then approached another brother.
“We need to talk Georges.”
Georges Lagrange was Grondin’s right-hand man. He was a big well-built man with short cropped red hair.
“What’s up?”
“The time has come, you must go to Scotland, and take Alain Caron with you,” said Grondin.
“I’ve been contacted by our brothers behind the veil. They know who and where the new carrier is and they’ve paid him a visit. But could do nothing but scare him…you know how they are,” he continued.
“But if they have Jonas, does it matter.”
“Yes, he could have contacted this person before they got to him,” said Grondin.
“I’ll leave the details, tickets and money at the usual place,” he continued, while moving away.
With that they disrobed and locked the altar away. Then the brothers filed out past the bar maid and the regular who had now finished his bottle of Pastis. Grondin put 30 Euros on the bar as he was leaving.
Outside, the wind was still blowing the rain along Rue du Massacre as Didier Grondin buttoned up his coat and disappeared into the night.