5. The Seemingly Endless Opening of Doors #3
They could just leave. Presumably they’ve not actually been kidnapped.
But little eleven-year-old Briar wouldn’t have left, either.
Not when they were so close. Seven years ago - had they received the right sort of post - it would have been them shivering in a big underground hole, waiting in the dark to be subjected to various horrors, trusting it would all be worth it in the end.
Briar looks for Westby and the others, but can’t see them amongst the littles or lurking in the shadows. Perhaps they’re directly below, out of Briar’s field of vision.
All the pips turn in unison to the far side of the cave, and then a dark flock of twenty caped and masked scholars comes sweeping in holding lanterns.
Some of the kids shrink away, and Briar can’t blame them: the newcomers look like death.
Their pale masks are a nightmarish cross between theatre grimaces and plague doctor hoods, anonymising them entirely.
When they come to a stop, they fan out into a silent semi-- circle, precise as synchronised swimmers. Only one of them breaks rank, lifting a hand to touch their fingers under their mask, a brief scratch of the chin.
‘Jones,’ somebody whispers, and Briar nearly gasps out a lung.
Westby’s head has just appeared to Briar’s left, as he summits what Briar had assumed to be a sheer cliff.
He hauls himself up and over the edge breathing hard, and the other two follow, silent but for scuffing feet and the pattering of loosened rocks, the sound obscured by the quiet rush of waterfall.
‘What have you done?’ Hadley hisses, as they all flatten themselves against the wall. ‘You were on door. This isn’t door.’
Westby whacks a finger to his lips so fast that it bounces off his teeth, and then jerks his thumb at the passageway behind them. He wants Briar to go - but one of the masked scholars has clapped their hands for silence, about to speak.
Briar doesn’t move.
‘You must all be pretty proud of yourselves,’ he says, in a clear, lazy voice.
The pips blink nervously back at him. ‘Got the call-up, kisses from Mummy, housekeeper packed your things, bragged to everybody that you got into Temple. Hmmm? Well, you did, didn’t you?
It’s all right, who wouldn’t? I was bursting when I got my letter.
’ A couple of the pips smile, laugh nervously.
‘Destiny was calling. Such an enormous privilege. I wanted to tell my friends. Some of you did, too.’ A few of his audience make the mistake of nodding, lulled into a false sense of security.
‘I thought so.’ His tone drops into the bowels of hell. ‘That’s not how we do things here.’
Two of his associates abruptly start walking into the crowd, which balloons with panic
The scholar deliberates. ‘Him,’ he says eventually, pointing.
They seize a pip and start marching him towards the water - the other scholars are on the move too, herding the rest of the group forwards.
They move reluctantly, eyes darting, like sheep who’ve caught the whiff of slaughterhouse.
Once they’re at the water’s edge, they’re crowded together so tightly that one shove would send the front row tumbling in.
‘Jones.’ Briar jolts as Tate touches their sleeve. ‘Come on.’
Briar shakes their head. It’s grotesque, but they can’t look away.
The death-masked scholar who’s been talking steps up onto the rickety bridge, the pale spine that runs the length of the pool, and starts walking idly along it.
‘You’ve got too much of the outside on you.
You reek of it, honestly. It’s quite disgusting.
’ Cold laughter from some of the other scholars.
‘Don’t fret, because we’re going to scrub you nice and clean.
’ He spreads his arms as he walks back towards them, a malevolent preacher.
‘See it as . . . a sacrament. A holy rite. Once it’s done, the worthy will be reborn. ’
The pip who’s been singled out is seized by the collar and dragged out onto the plank. He’s forced to his knees, and without pause or further ceremony, the scholar shoves his head and shoulders into the rank water and holds him down with both hands.
Drowning him. He’s drowning. He’s trying to jerk out of the scholar’s grip, head obscured by a panicked flurry of bubbles, the wood creaking as he attempts to get enough purchase with his legs to push away from the water.
‘What the fuck,’ Briar says, too loudly, but nobody hears them over the desperate sound of a submerged eleven-year-old fighting for his life. They’re not thinking when they push fully away from the wall, but Tate is there in an instant, holding them back.
‘Briar,’ he whispers. ‘Wait.’
Briar doesn’t want to wait. That kid’s been underwater for way too long, and it feels like another eternity before the scholar eases off and lets him back up. He’s bright red, choking down these ragged gasps of air, making keening sounds when he manages enough breath to cry.
‘Baptism,’ says the scholar in charge, sounding like he’s offering them something delightful, ‘readies the body for admission. You’re filthy now, but you will be made clean.
Three times in—’ The crying, waterlogged boy is grabbed again, and this time he manages to get out half a desperate shout before his mouth is full of water.
‘For the trinity, you know. We decide how long you get, because we know exactly how dirty you are. And if you opt out’ – underneath his mask, the scholar sounds like he’s smiling – ‘you can fetch your things and fuck off straight home.’ The boy resurfaces, shuddering, quieter now he’s really struggling for air.
‘Trust me. Everyone begs to be cleansed by the end.’
He says something in the pip’s ear that makes him come to stillness. He’s still coughing quietly, but as the scholar lets go of him, raising his hands as if to proclaim innocence, the boy serenely lowers his head back in the water - and stays there.
It’s magic. It must be. Because Briar’s holding their breath too, and their lungs are already burning, but still the boy stays under.
Briar has to breathe; they expect the initiate to surface as well, but he stays, perfectly obedient, until his small body is convulsing, at its limit - and only then does the scholar grab him by the hair and heave him back out.
Gagging. Retching. Breathing. He’s still breathing.