A Side
As soon as Black flung the door open, the candles seemed to dim. All shadows took on a more sinister presence, including the hooded shade steadfastly approaching the dais. Every eye in the room followed the dark figure. Ignoring the attention, Black glid wordlessly up the stairs and took helm behind a podium. In an ancient midnight-colored cloak and matching plague doctor’s mask, Black looked like Darkness incarnate.
Black gazed out at the party. The plague doctor’s mask was flanked on either side by a chalice. Like the robe and mask, they would look more at home in a Medieval Castle than a university library. Scarlet wasn’t sure how long the Order had been around. She would never know the truth, but the Order of the Raven was older than her university, her republic, and even the language she spoke.
It seems the chalices’ role came later. Now, Black rummaged through a velvet bag taken from inside the podium. The contents clinked noisily until an object was selected. Black held it out for everyone to see: a large, peacock-blue marble.
Where have I seen that color before? Scarlet wonders, as she hears some shuffling behind her. She turns around and sees that her fellow attendees have parted on either side of the floor. They’ve cleared a pathway from the library floor to the dais. A woman in a glittering dress and mask that matched the marble appeared from the crowd. The woman was probably in her mid-fifties but had rock-hard biceps and well-defined shins that popped above her silver heels. A train of sheer fabric colored like a peacock’s tail chased the back of her ankles.
Oh, that’s right—the nosy one. During the party, Peacock would intermittently cast an appraising look at Green, White and Scarlet. It seemed like she had more interest in eavesdropping and judgment than actually speaking to the trio.
Scarlet—and everyone else—watched Peacock walk slowly down the aisle. She looked completely unafraid. No matter, Scarlet was more than afraid enough for the both of them. The fear settled in her bones as Peacock confidently strode up the stairs.
The crowd silently shuffled to close the gap. There were no solemn whispers, no looks of any kind. Scarlet stole a look at Green and White: even they stared stoically at the dais. She felt like the only one in the room who felt like something was wrong. Like screaming RUN! to characters in a scary movie—people that can’t hear you and never will. Like those movies, Scarlet had no control over tonight’s story: those claimed by death would perish.
And someone would die. Wouldn’t they? Would it be Peacock this time? Or would she be the one to make the kill? The notes attached to the deceased communicated nothing except that they died willingly, in service of the Order. Past sacrifices included people from varying social strata around the world. Some of them were even famous. Others, like Scarlet, were on the path to greatness. No sacrifice had cause to take their own life; rather, they saw it as giving their lives to the Order.
Peacock joined Black at the dais. From underneath the podium, she brought out three more marbles colored green, white, and scarlet. Upon seeing that last marble, Scarlet began sweating profusely through her elbow-length gloves. She felt her face break out in hives as Peacock added them to the velvet bag Black held open. Scarlet felt that, at any moment now, she would burst into flames. Every muscle, every neural fiber, every instinct in her body told her to run. But there was no escaping now: from the moment the invitation and mask arrived at her doorstep, she had no choice. The Order decreed that on this night, she was to be here. And so it was.
Black stored the velvet bag and brought out an old bottle of Petrus. Peacock stoically looked on as Black poured some red wine into each of the Medieval chalices. Since its invention, wine has been used in sacred rituals. Whatever perverse, death-culty thing that was to happen—it was happening soon. Yet nobody on the library floor moved a muscle.
All of Scarlet’s fears reached a fever pitch in the following moment: From the folds of the midnight-colored robe, Black pulled out the largest knife she’d ever seen.
B side
11th December, 20—
“AAAIIIIIHHHHHH!!”
The largest, hairiest rat I’d ever seen crawled over my foot. That’s what I get for standing on a sewer grate. Even though the rat was long gone, I still felt its warm body on my dress shoe. It’s like when a bug flies up your nose. Even after blowing it out, you still feel the phantom fly in there.
For a moment, I considered that the rat was some sort of test. I waited for a few moments to confirm my theory. Nothing happened. I was still stuck in the cold, alone. I shivered, warily scanning the street for more rats.
Then, I saw it: a raven, spray-painted above the sewer grate I was standing on.
I didn’t give myself too much time to think about what came next. There was no way around it: either I climb into this sewer and the Order sacrifices me, or I don’t climb into the sewer and the Order hunts and kills me out of spite.
The grate was easy enough to open. I carefully set it aside and made my way down the ladder into the darkness. The smell was unbearable. The stench after descending the first few rungs almost made me lose my grip on the ladder. I climbed back up a few steps and took a big gulp of fresh air. Would it have killed the Order to tell us to bring a change of clothes? Or a nose plug? Or at least warn us that we’d be dodging human waste in our black-tie attire?
Whoever was assigned White really had their work cut out for them.
My second time around, about halfway down the ladder, my hand hit something cool and metallic. A flashlight taped to the railing. I grabbed it, stuck it between my teeth, and continued downward.
When I got to the bottom, I saw a relatively dry dirt path on the left end of the tunnel. I wondered if the Order put it there. It would really be in their best interest if I remained as odorless and dry as possible. As I walked along the path, I held my flashlight in one hand and pinched my nose with the other. Breathing through my mouth was marginally better—though I could still taste that raw sewer smell.
I followed the dirt path until I came to a crossroads. Shining the flashlight around me, I saw another spray-painted raven on the path leading to the left. I followed it and came to another intersection. The correct (I’m presuming) way was marked by another spray-painted raven. As I kept following the birds, the smell abated, and I could finally breathe through my nose again. Pretty soon, saw a faint light at the end of the tunnel. Who knows—maybe I’m already dead.
I rounded the corner and saw three closed doors. Bright light shone from behind each of them. Engraved on each door was a name:
Θάλεια, Εὐτέρπη, Τερψιχόρη
Of course, my classics degree saves my ass the one moment I can’t tell my parents about it. If I make it out of here alive, though, I’ll take it as a sign that studying myths and dead languages over math and computer programming was the right call.
I couldn’t be certain what was behind these doors, but my studies gave me some sort of clue. On each door was the name of a muse from Greek mythology: Thalia (comedy), Euterpe (music), and Terpsichore (dance). There was probably some sort of initiation challenge or trial behind each of these doors. We were meant to pick one and succeed—or spend the rest of our days in the sewer.
As a musician, I should pick Euterpe’s door. Yes, of course, picking the most obvious choice seems like a trick. But this entire journey feels like one big trap. It’s likely to end with an unsavory finish. Maybe if I impress them musically, the Order will let me go. I might as well give myself the benefit of the doubt. I took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped inside.
As soon as the door shut behind me, I heard an invisible flute play three notes. I looked around crazily, trying to find the source of the music. There were no speakers in sight. The room was a cellar-like space, with three torches on every wall. It bathed the room in a golden-hour glow. There were three instruments in the middle of the room: a guitar, a saxophone, and a grand piano. The only other visible exit was another door on the other side of the room. It was identical in every way to the door I just came through, but no doorknob. I strode over to it, ignoring the instruments for now. I thought (foolishly) that maybe it would happen to be open. No luck.
I turned back around and heard the flute notes again. Once more, I tried to find its source, examining the walls and floor for a hidden sound system. When the notes played a third time, in the exact same fashion as the previous two iterations, I looked at the instruments. Something just clicked: I knew what I had to do.
I ran over to the guitar and slung the strap over my shoulder. I plucked the three notes on the guitar strings to match the notes played by the invisible flute. The flute almost immediately answered with six more notes. I repeated them on the guitar. We continued on like this for a few exchanges, the melodies becoming increasingly complicated.
Eventually, I stopped thinking and let my hands take over. Instead of waiting for the flute to finish, I started jamming with it. I throw in riffs, melodies, and treat the flute like the singer to my lead guitar. I don’t know how long I’d been playing, but something snapped me out of my zone: a slow, eerie creaking noise.
I stopped playing and looked up. The door at the other end of the room was open. Putting down the guitar and wiping some sweat off my forehead, I exited Euterpe’s room, confident that I passed my first test.
Does that make me greater or lesser at risk for human sacrifice?
~ ~ ~
The hallway after Euterpe’s room is a straight corridor, flanked by bright torches every twenty feet or so. I come to a series of three more doors. There are nine muses in traditional Greek mythology, so I’m expecting to take at least two more tests. And then maybe dognap Cerberus or slay the Nemean Lion, with the way things were going. Honestly, my mind went through stranger Order of the Raven conspiracy theories. It being a cult to the Ancient Greek Pantheon was not that ridiculous. I mean, it’s been done countless times in books and movies. Maybe it had some basis in reality.
The symbol of the raven would make sense too: Ravens were often associated with Apollo. The Sun God was also in charge of prophecies. Ravens were said to bring bad luck—which everyone knows, classics degree or not. Ever the overachiever, Apollo was also the God of music, so the association with muses and ravens is not too far off. Plus, ravens are generally foreboding and more threatening than most animals without being too brutish of a mascot, like a bear or lion.
The only flaw in this theory was that the Order is responsible for international voluntary sacrifice, not just in Western countries. Do they have initiates run the gauntlet of different deities depending on geographic location? On cultural background? If I majored in Near Eastern studies, would they have given me challenges based on the Egyptian Gods? Or the Abrahamic one?
As I get closer to the next set of doors, I see the three names inscribed are:
Καλλιόπη, Μελπομένη, Ἐρατώ*
*(Calliope, Melopene, Erato)
Epic poetry, tragedy, and lyric/erotic poetry, respectively. If this test is anything like the last one, it’s hinged on some sort of performative association with the muse. I had experience reading all three genres, but epic poetry is such a huge cornerstone of the classics: I’d hedge my bets with whatever was behind Calliope’s door.
This room was pretty similar to the last, except instead of instruments, there was an antique-looking writing table and an out-of-place ergonomic chair. I guess they didn’t want their sacrificial lambs to suffer from lower back pain in their final hours. Before sitting down, I searched the room again, and tried the doors. I had to make sure that there was no secret passageway out of this dungeon before taking the second test. After exhausting all my options for an easy escape, I took a seat.
On the desk was parchment, a quill, and some ink. Picking up the writing instrument, I was kinda worried about writing legibly with the quill. The closest thing I’d used to it was a Japanese fountain pen from Grandma. Trying to use that leaked ink all over some Yoseka stationery (also from Grandma). She wasn’t too happy, and I never used that pen again.
Out of all the things the Order had me do, this was the most ridiculous. If I passed, maybe I’d be accepted into a school for witchcraft and wizardry. It’s a step-up above a sacrificial Apollonian death cult, for sure. I picked up the packet of parchment, and said a silent prayer to all the Gods I didn’t believe in (including Apollo). The first page was blank, but the second page had some Latin writing on it.
Once I read the first sentence, I almost laughed out loud. I’m glad I didn’t, because such a loud noise would have probably scared me after so much time in silence. I got to inking the quill, giving some props to the Order: they were having some fun making this test ultra-meta. The passage on this parchment was taken from Vergil’s Aeneid. But it wasn’t just any part—it was the first part where he enlists the help of Calliope to help him write his epic poem.
This verse would look like gibberish, a Catholic prayer, or filler text to most people. To a classics major like me, however, recognizing it was elementary. Again, I wasn’t certain on what the task was, but I assumed that it was to translate the Latin into English. If it wasn’t for the stupid quill, I could’ve done it in ten minutes.
I’m not sure how long it did take me, but I translated the script without an issue and found two errors in the original Latin text. Probably part of the test, too. As soon as I put the quill down, the door across from me opened, and I entered the corridor.
I racked my brains to remember the remaining three muses. As I walked, I saw the hallway turn from dirt to stone to cement: I was now inside a building. Probably in the local Scientology temple: they’re only a few blocks from the sewer I entered from. I walked for what seemed like a mile or two. Maybe I somehow got lost. Maybe picking Calliope’s door was the wrong choice.
Then, a sharp turn to the right led me to face three more doors:
Οὐρανία, Πολυύμνια, Κλειώ*
*(Urania, Polyhymnia, Clio)
The muses of astronomy, hymns, and history. Science and Bible Study were not my strongest subjects, so it was Clio, the muse of History, whose door I opened. This room, unlike its predecessors, was radically different. I was immediately transported back to some of the most harrowing, traumatic days of my entire life.
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