Chapter Thirty-Seven - Cult

The figure in the long cloak glanced around the cavern. Grey walls, streaked with scintillating white where cracked geodes of some crystalline rock were poking through surrounded them, lit only by the flickering red light from a few candles strategically placed around the room.

The air smelled of incense, sweat, and that nervous energy that they only recalled smelling just before a big exam. It energised them, sent thrills down their spine that were only suppressed by the creeping fear that lingered in the dark.

“Have all the members arrived?” they intoned, voice deep and tenebrous.

There were six other figures in the room, all wearing long robes that masked their faces and made their bodies entirely indistinct. No one would be able to tell much about them other than their height and perhaps a hint of their gender in the set of their shoulders.

With no reply but the bob of a few cowls, the speaker continued. “In that case, I declare the start of the sixth bimonthly meeting of the Cult of the Dreaming Hopefuls.”

“Oh come on!”

“That’s the worst one yet.”

“Nah, that’s Marge’s idea. The Dreamy Dreamers? I still can’t get over it.”

As was normal for one of their meetings, it immediately devolved into a bunch of bickering and whining. John was glad for his hood. It prevented the others from seeing his eyes roll or hear the longsuffering sigh he let out.

It was an hour’s walk away from the academy to get to this cave. An hour where they had to make sure no Inquisitor was following them and where they had to carry their stuff with them. This week he was responsible for the candles and after-ceremony snacks. Those were the speaker’s job, and he took his job seriously... when it was his turn.

John cleared his throat. “Regardless of what we call it,” he said. His name wasn’t that bad, was it? “The meeting has begun. First, shall any of the dreamers here express any news? New dreams to enlighten the future? New visions of our lady?”

A hand raised. He thought it might be Smith. “So, I had a dream about Miss Desperau again,” he said.

Everyone groaned.

“Hey! It might actually have been a vision this time,” Smith said.

“Was she punishing you again?” Another asked.

“Well, sort of,” Smith said.

There was a giggle from one of the smaller members whom John pretended not to know was Cynthia. “Did she have a cane this time? Or was it a ruler? Did she bend you over your desk?”

“It wasn’t anything like that!” Smith said.

“Did you wake up with some wetness around your loins?”

“Okay,” John said. “Setting aside Smith’s... dream. Did anyone else have a dream or vision from our lady? A real one.”

He waited a heartbeat, then was about to move on to the next part with someone coughed. Cynthia? “Um, I had a dream where the lady entered an Inquisition call box, then was whisked away. Everything in the world started to move backwards, birds flying in the wrong way, people walking backwards, leaves fell up onto trees. It was strange.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

John agreed, that was strange.

“And you complained about my dreams,” Smith muttered.

“We’ll keep an eye out for, ah, the Inquisition and any... time related things,” John said.

Everyone nodded along. It was always best to be safe with these kinds of things.

“That brings us to the most important part of the meeting.” The air grew a little more sombre, and it almost felt like the shadows twitched in anticipation.

Two of the group members scurried off to the side and returned with a great big cast-iron bowl (Smith’s family had a lot of blacksmiths in it, and he got the bowl custom made for them. It had convenient little handles on the sides). They placed it in the middle of the cavern, where everyone could see into it.

John, as the speaker for the night, bowed to the bowl first even as he reached under his robes. “I offer onto thee, our lady of dreams, this box of fine pastries.”

He pulled out a box of pastries, tied with a neat bow at the top. Inside were cookies and a slice of cake, as well as a few slightly burned croissants.

His sister made them.

He placed it into the bowl and stepped back.

The next places a large loaf of bread, then some sausages. Everyone rolled their eyes as a member added a large jug filled with expensive wine. Timothy always trying to flaunt his wealth.

Finally, the bowl was filled with enough food to feed someone to bursting. John reached his hands out to the side, and they were gripped by those nearest him. The circle was formed of living bodies. “Oh, Dreamer, She who Eternally Lies. We give unto you this bounty, that you may bless us and ours so that we may feed your eternal dreams forevermore!”

John loved the way his voice bounced off the walls.

He paused, nervous for a moment about whether or not the lady would reply.

Then the air rent, and from that rent came a flurry of tentacles that poured into the bowl like intestines falling out of a sliced gut.

They rested there for a moment, then were pulled upwards, leaving the bowl entirely empty.

There was a long silence, then a sigh.

“That last part always makes me nervous,” Smith said.

“I know,” Cynthia agreed.

“Whelp, that’s it for this week’s meeting,” John said. “Did anyone bring cards?”

“I did!”

“Oh, I brought some cake from that little cafe, the new one? Anyone want some?”

It was strange, being part of a cult. It meant that John had to spend a lot more time with some very strange people than he’d normally want, but in the end it proved to be a lot of fun. He was actually growing fond of his strange new friends.

It was a small price to pay for immortality.

***