The Lodge
Olena stared into the river, past the water striders skimming gracefully between the bulrushes, deep down into the saucer-shaped wells of her reflections' eyes. She was high; her reflection never lied to her. The quantity hadn’t been sufficient to incapacitate her, but it was enough to ensure that the short trek down the wood-chip path from the lodge had exhausted her completely. Her muscles had begun to sag beneath their own, negligible, weight as she had stumbled off the path and along the water’s edge until her legs gave out. Eventually, she had dropped here, her fragile knees embedding themselves firmly in the dirt-matted grass of the riverbank.
Her faint, ludicrous, dreams of freedom evaporated into the soft spring breeze as the wet ground soaked through the thin, violet material of her silk nightie. Overwhelmed, she could do nothing but stare into the cold, distant eyes of the emaciated, alien girl looking back at her as her mind began to fog and drift.
They had slipped her something again, maybe in the ice-cream, possibly in her drink. It didn’t really matter either way, though it was usually in the ice-cream, Donna had taught her that.
Poor, Donna.
A dragonfly darted into her vision, momentarily distracting her from the leaden shame of bitter defeat. As she watched, enthralled, the new comer misjudged its flight path, dropped too low, and abruptly sent her reflection rippling as its frantic wing movements grazed the clear water’s surface. Tiny tsunamis surged from the rapid impacts, sending water fleas skittering across her liquid cheeks like ambulatory freckles, and Olena smiled genuinely for the first time since…
As abruptly as her fleeting taste of ordinary childhood had begun, so, it was ended by yet another unwanted memory.
She missed, Donna. She missed, Abby too, and Anya, Maria, Sarah, Evelyn. But they were all gone now. There were new girls, of course, there would always be new girls; but none of them understood her. They looked up to her because of her age, but they didn’t listen to her warnings. Just as she hadn’t listened to any of the warnings or tips given to her when she first came to the lodge seven years ago.
Still, they were just kids. They would learn for themselves soon enough and after the pain and humiliation she was always there to clean and comfort them, to guide them through the guilt and anger as her predecessors had her. It was tradition. Everything about the lodge revolved around tradition, she knew, and the role she had inherited from her departed friends was vital, even if the grown-ups didn’t fully comprehend its magnitude.
Olena had been five when Brother-Uncle Merrick had come to her parents’ house to collect the lodge’s annual tribute from their town, (Brother, was his title, Uncle, his personal role). She didn’t remember much, save that her mother had wept silently behind her loom whilst her father, the blacksmith, was restrained by his friends and family as he screamed at the black-hooded men who had come to take her away. He had continued cursing and screaming until one of them shot thin strands of metal into his face which had made her father convulse, vomit and urinate until he fell asleep at her feet. She had willed herself not to cry as Brother-Uncle Merrick took her hand, lest the same should happen to her.
She dimly recalled the strange vehicle, (metallic outside, soft within,) that had transported her, Brother-Uncle Merrick, and two other lodge members from her house, all the way to the girl’s cabin, far beyond the settlement’s charted limits. Once they had arrived she had met, Sister-Aunty Catherine and two older girls whose names she couldn’t recall. Her situation was explained to her tersely and in terms she was, as yet, unable to comprehend.
After a short lecture on etiquette she had been shown to her room, which was the same size as her parents’ house and filled with toys she fell in love with, as well as other toys she would quickly learn to dread. Her first new Uncle had visited the lodge the very next day, and it was Donna who had held her afterwards, refusing to let her go, even when Sister-Aunty Catherine used the wires on them because Olena wouldn’t stop crying.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Olena.’ The rasping voice of Brother-Uncle Merrick abruptly brought her back to the river-bank and she was surprised to discover that the cold, afternoon sun had been replaced by the deceptive warmth of dusk.
‘You are the eldest now; you should be tending to your sisters whilst they prepare for their evening visit, not lazing by the river. What is the meaning of this insubordination?’
Olena turned around to face the black-robed figure towering over her, noticing as she moved that she had regained a degree of control over her body that she had not expected so soon after being dosed.
‘What happened to Donna, Brother Merrick?’ she cracked her voce slightly to sound weaker than she felt. It was an old trick she had, unfortunately, learned through necessity during her visits with several of the lodge’s younger members. Sister-Aunty Catherine had explained to her that it gave them a sense of dominance when she used the voice. She hadn’t understood at the time, but she had learned how to use it to her advantage quickly enough. Right now, as her mind began to furtively plot a new escape strategy, she needed him to believe she was as weak as she sounded.
‘She ascended, child. Just as you will ascend one day, for the glory of our great nation and the Lodge of the Black Light.’ His thin lips curled a cruel smile as he spoke; relishing each word as he enunciated them with sadistic glee.
‘But,’ she glanced around for a rock or a stick, anything she could use as a makeshift weapon to surprise him with, ‘what is the ascension, Brother Merrick?’
She knew the answer already. Ascension was death. Brutal, savage, senseless death at the hands of the highest members of the lodge. But the longer she could keep him distracted, the longer she had to calculate her move. The feeling was creeping back into her bruised knees now and she began subtly shifting her weight to accelerate the process.
‘The ascension, child, is your raison d’être. It is your ultimate contribution to the lodge and your country. The final celebration of your fading youth before your spirit raises up to, He Who Created This Glorious Land as the lodge consumes your beautiful, delicate flesh at your, passing feast.’
She could see from the way his eyes narrowed as he began to speak that he was becoming mesmerised by his own sick thoughts and an involuntary shudder writhed down her spine as she realised he was recalling memories of things he had done to her friends. Sickening, animal things. Thrusting, ripping things. The adrenaline, forcing itself through her narrow veins was urging her to react. But she held it in. She wanted to scream, to rip his hideous throat out and to run. Just run.
That wouldn’t work.
‘Come!’ She had been focusing so hard on suppressing her impulse to attack and flee that she hadn’t realised he had stopped speaking.
‘You should clean yourself before Brother James and Sister Mary arrive. Though I’m sure they won’t mind joining you in the baths, it would be rude of you to greet them in dirty clothes.’
Panic gripped her. As he began to turn back toward the path she had so recently traversed in her quest for freedom, she launched herself toward his retreating legs. She pushed herself up from the moist ground using her anger to propel herself toward where, she approximated, his knees should be beneath his stupid robe. Her full purpose was to take him down. Take him down, grab the wire machine from inside his robe and make him writhe and squirm and wet himself until he passed out, just as she had so many times. Then, she would run. She would run and never look back and finally the ceaseless cycle of pain, humiliation, depression and abuse would end.
But it was not to be.
Her face slammed hard into the heel of her captor’s boot as her malnourished body betrayed her for the final time, and she sank into a pool of her own blood and tears as an intense, throbbing pain coursed through her face.
Merrick whipped around as Olena’s front teeth shattered against his foot on impact and, for a second, he looked down at the howling child with a mixture of disgust and glee as her slender hands clasped her bloodied mouth.
Slowly and deliberately he bent his knees to lower himself to her level. Snot, blood and tears streamed down her face and ran through her hands as he studied her frail body. He noted with a smirk that she was finally beginning to develop beneath the stained silk slip he had hand-selected for her. She would have to go soon. But for now, he thought as he rolled her over with one hand and lifted his robe with the other, for right now, the stupid Amish bitch would do.
Her faint, ludicrous, dreams of freedom evaporated into the soft spring breeze as the wet ground soaked through the thin, violet material of her silk nightie. Overwhelmed, she could do nothing but stare into the cold, distant eyes of the emaciated, alien girl looking back at her as her mind began to fog and drift.
They had slipped her something again, maybe in the ice-cream, possibly in her drink. It didn’t really matter either way, though it was usually in the ice-cream, Donna had taught her that.
Poor, Donna.
A dragonfly darted into her vision, momentarily distracting her from the leaden shame of bitter defeat. As she watched, enthralled, the new comer misjudged its flight path, dropped too low, and abruptly sent her reflection rippling as its frantic wing movements grazed the clear water’s surface. Tiny tsunamis surged from the rapid impacts, sending water fleas skittering across her liquid cheeks like ambulatory freckles, and Olena smiled genuinely for the first time since…
As abruptly as her fleeting taste of ordinary childhood had begun, so, it was ended by yet another unwanted memory.
She missed, Donna. She missed, Abby too, and Anya, Maria, Sarah, Evelyn. But they were all gone now. There were new girls, of course, there would always be new girls; but none of them understood her. They looked up to her because of her age, but they didn’t listen to her warnings. Just as she hadn’t listened to any of the warnings or tips given to her when she first came to the lodge seven years ago.
Still, they were just kids. They would learn for themselves soon enough and after the pain and humiliation she was always there to clean and comfort them, to guide them through the guilt and anger as her predecessors had her. It was tradition. Everything about the lodge revolved around tradition, she knew, and the role she had inherited from her departed friends was vital, even if the grown-ups didn’t fully comprehend its magnitude.
Olena had been five when Brother-Uncle Merrick had come to her parents’ house to collect the lodge’s annual tribute from their town, (Brother, was his title, Uncle, his personal role). She didn’t remember much, save that her mother had wept silently behind her loom whilst her father, the blacksmith, was restrained by his friends and family as he screamed at the black-hooded men who had come to take her away. He had continued cursing and screaming until one of them shot thin strands of metal into his face which had made her father convulse, vomit and urinate until he fell asleep at her feet. She had willed herself not to cry as Brother-Uncle Merrick took her hand, lest the same should happen to her.
She dimly recalled the strange vehicle, (metallic outside, soft within,) that had transported her, Brother-Uncle Merrick, and two other lodge members from her house, all the way to the girl’s cabin, far beyond the settlement’s charted limits. Once they had arrived she had met, Sister-Aunty Catherine and two older girls whose names she couldn’t recall. Her situation was explained to her tersely and in terms she was, as yet, unable to comprehend.
After a short lecture on etiquette she had been shown to her room, which was the same size as her parents’ house and filled with toys she fell in love with, as well as other toys she would quickly learn to dread. Her first new Uncle had visited the lodge the very next day, and it was Donna who had held her afterwards, refusing to let her go, even when Sister-Aunty Catherine used the wires on them because Olena wouldn’t stop crying.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Olena.’ The rasping voice of Brother-Uncle Merrick abruptly brought her back to the river-bank and she was surprised to discover that the cold, afternoon sun had been replaced by the deceptive warmth of dusk.
‘You are the eldest now; you should be tending to your sisters whilst they prepare for their evening visit, not lazing by the river. What is the meaning of this insubordination?’
Olena turned around to face the black-robed figure towering over her, noticing as she moved that she had regained a degree of control over her body that she had not expected so soon after being dosed.
‘What happened to Donna, Brother Merrick?’ she cracked her voce slightly to sound weaker than she felt. It was an old trick she had, unfortunately, learned through necessity during her visits with several of the lodge’s younger members. Sister-Aunty Catherine had explained to her that it gave them a sense of dominance when she used the voice. She hadn’t understood at the time, but she had learned how to use it to her advantage quickly enough. Right now, as her mind began to furtively plot a new escape strategy, she needed him to believe she was as weak as she sounded.
‘She ascended, child. Just as you will ascend one day, for the glory of our great nation and the Lodge of the Black Light.’ His thin lips curled a cruel smile as he spoke; relishing each word as he enunciated them with sadistic glee.
‘But,’ she glanced around for a rock or a stick, anything she could use as a makeshift weapon to surprise him with, ‘what is the ascension, Brother Merrick?’
She knew the answer already. Ascension was death. Brutal, savage, senseless death at the hands of the highest members of the lodge. But the longer she could keep him distracted, the longer she had to calculate her move. The feeling was creeping back into her bruised knees now and she began subtly shifting her weight to accelerate the process.
‘The ascension, child, is your raison d’être. It is your ultimate contribution to the lodge and your country. The final celebration of your fading youth before your spirit raises up to, He Who Created This Glorious Land as the lodge consumes your beautiful, delicate flesh at your, passing feast.’
She could see from the way his eyes narrowed as he began to speak that he was becoming mesmerised by his own sick thoughts and an involuntary shudder writhed down her spine as she realised he was recalling memories of things he had done to her friends. Sickening, animal things. Thrusting, ripping things. The adrenaline, forcing itself through her narrow veins was urging her to react. But she held it in. She wanted to scream, to rip his hideous throat out and to run. Just run.
That wouldn’t work.
‘Come!’ She had been focusing so hard on suppressing her impulse to attack and flee that she hadn’t realised he had stopped speaking.
‘You should clean yourself before Brother James and Sister Mary arrive. Though I’m sure they won’t mind joining you in the baths, it would be rude of you to greet them in dirty clothes.’
Panic gripped her. As he began to turn back toward the path she had so recently traversed in her quest for freedom, she launched herself toward his retreating legs. She pushed herself up from the moist ground using her anger to propel herself toward where, she approximated, his knees should be beneath his stupid robe. Her full purpose was to take him down. Take him down, grab the wire machine from inside his robe and make him writhe and squirm and wet himself until he passed out, just as she had so many times. Then, she would run. She would run and never look back and finally the ceaseless cycle of pain, humiliation, depression and abuse would end.
But it was not to be.
Her face slammed hard into the heel of her captor’s boot as her malnourished body betrayed her for the final time, and she sank into a pool of her own blood and tears as an intense, throbbing pain coursed through her face.
Merrick whipped around as Olena’s front teeth shattered against his foot on impact and, for a second, he looked down at the howling child with a mixture of disgust and glee as her slender hands clasped her bloodied mouth.
Slowly and deliberately he bent his knees to lower himself to her level. Snot, blood and tears streamed down her face and ran through her hands as he studied her frail body. He noted with a smirk that she was finally beginning to develop beneath the stained silk slip he had hand-selected for her. She would have to go soon. But for now, he thought as he rolled her over with one hand and lifted his robe with the other, for right now, the stupid Amish bitch would do.
Ben Durbin
Ben likes to think of himself as a writer, though it is true to say he has only begun to focus on his writing in a professional capacity over the last six months. He has previously written a host of short stories & flash fiction spanning the sci-fi, horror and pulp genres, some of which have featured in, Indigo Rising UK, whilst most others are awaiting publication in a variety of on-line publications & anthologies. He also sporadically posts new stories and articles to his blog, along with other fevered ramblings, at: http://distractingdelusions.wordpress.com