pH Balance

Part I | Part II | Part III

A side

Scarlet winced, hoping that the fear didn’t show too plainly on her face. Nobody was looking at her—and she was wearing a mask; but she’d never felt more exposed, more vulnerable, in her entire life. Black took the knife and raised it in the air, reciting something indiscernible in an ominous whisper. Probably Ancient Greek, maybe Latin, Scarlet thought. Then, in one graceful motion, Black slit the skin of Peacock’s palm. Peacock dripped some blood from her hand into each chalice while Black reached into the folds of the dark cloak. 

Poison. It has to be poison. I’ll see Peacock poisoned, then we’re all going to have to drink from the poisoned wine blood cups. I’ll die having accomplished nothing—being a nobody. 

Scarlet started to feel faint. Her vision blurred, and her knees started to feel like gelatin. She felt herself about to collapse. But then, a strange, out-of-place scent crept into her nostrils. It can’t be, she thought, But it was: once Scarlet realized she wasn’t imagining the smell, her eyes snapped open.

The next thing Scarlet saw was fire.

B side

11th December, 20— 

Four rows and four columns of plastic desks filled the room. They were the kinds with the chairs attached, and indentations to hold pencils at the top. A whiteboard hung opposite the desk, with the words “HISTORY FINAL TODAY!” written in perfect block letters. A large teacher’s desk stood underneath the whiteboard. Nobody sat there, of course, but an apple, a standard-issue clock, and a cup filled with sharp Ticonderoga #2 pencils rested on its surface. 

While there were sixteen desks here, only one had materials on top: a thick packet of papers, a sheet to record my answers, and five number-two Ticonderoga pencils. The answer sheet was the kind that could be graded by a machine in seconds. 

The last time I took one of these tests, I was running on three hours of sleep and an equal number of Rockstar energy drinks. I’d like to say that was atypical, but unfortunately I destroyed my body in high school. Getting good grades, first-chairing my orchestra, teaching guitar, and working on my own music was a difficult balance. 

Did it pay off? Before I thought I was going to die in a sewer, I’d say it was. Now, it seems like I should’ve spent a little more time playing Nintendo. Knowing you’re going to die before your 21st birthday really changes your perspective.

Then again, my only chance at survival right now seems to be passing a test. 

I took a deep breath and began reading the instructions, searching the instructions for any hidden clues or tricks. So far, the test seemed pretty standard:

WORLD HISTORY

Time — 120 Minutes

150 Questions

Directions: Each of the questions or incomplete statements below is followed by four suggested answers or completions. Select the one that is best in each case and then place the letter of your choice in the corresponding box on the student answer sheet. 

Two hours and 200 questions. I’ve succeeded under worse odds. I flipped the page and read the first question:

1. Which of these women was not a wife of Henry VIII?

a. Catherine Parr

b. Catherine Howard

c. Catherine of Taranto

d. Catherine of Aragon

I knew the dude had lots of wives. And that he murdered them. I didn’t realize that there were that many Catherines, though. How was I even supposed to distinguish between them? I have a feeling he didn’t, either. I filled in “C” and moved onto the next question.

2. Which one of these Hindu deities is not one of the Dasavatara?

a. Narasimha

b. Matsya

c. Karthikeya

d. Varaha

That’s it. I’m going to die here. The LA County Public School system did not have the budget for comparative religions. And isn’t a question about religion technically not a history question? Are all the questions in this exam this ridiculously difficult?

As I flipped through the packet, I saw that all the questions were similarly detailed. Even questions that contained subjects I kind of knew about, like the Apollo 11 Launch, were too specific for me to even make an educated guess. 

“Okay! I give up!” I yelled to whoever might be watching. “At least take me somewhere else to die so I don’t spend my last moments in a classroom.” Of course, nobody responded. I looked at the clock: 30 minutes had passed since I sat down and opened the test packet. Only 90 more minutes between this world and the next.

There was just no way they expected anyone to know this level of detail about history. Even a history PhD wouldn’t be able to pass this test without studying. There had to be a trick somewhere. There had to be. Otherwise, I wasn’t getting out of here alive.

I did a little stretch and got to work. Ignoring the questions, I scoured the pages for anything weird; marks, odd spacing, incongruous fonts, incorrect page and question numbers. Fifteen minutes later, I finished my search empty handed and out of ideas. 

I could feel myself on the brink of a mental spiral. Given the setting and task, it was only natural that I reverted back to my go-to strategy for keeping cool during real exams. During a high school test, you can’t let your eyes wander two centimeters from your own paper without being accused of cheating. So when I needed a break, I’d fixate on staring past the test in front of me and let my mind go blank for a few minutes. The #150 of the last question melted away into a blur on the page. And then I heard it: 

Tick, tick, tick. 

I tried pushing the noise out of my head. It persistently found a way to break back into my brain. And with each tick, it seemed to be getting louder.

Tick, tick, tick.

Maybe the ticking wasn’t just in my head. Maybe this was the Order’s way of telling me to hurry the hell up. I looked at the clock: I had a little over an hour left to finish this test.

Okay, breaktime is over. New strategy: first, fill in “C” for every answer so I have something down on the page (another high school strategy). Then, search the room one more time. Maybe the teacher’s desk had an answer key, or a solvent for invisible ink.

Tick, tick, tick.

Heart racing, mind afrenzy, I flipped back to the first page and bubbled in the first two answers. 

When I got to the third question, I felt my skin prickle with goosebumps. I felt like I should know the answer to this question, but not how or why.

3. The Meiji restoration, which ushered in westernization in Japan, was concurrent with which US presidency?

a. Benjamin Harrison

b. James K. Polk

c. Andrew Johnson

d. Herbert Hoover

Meiji restoration? Where have I seen that before?

Palms sweating, I quickly flipped to the back of the exam and read:

150. In 1868, Japanese imperial rule was restored by Emperor Meiji, who ratified a constitution bearing his name. Which American helped write its only amendment, the Constitution of Japan?

a. Dwight D. Eisenhower

b. Chester Nimitz

c. Douglas MacArthur

d. Matthew Perry

I turned back to the first page. If the Meiji restoration happened in the 1860s, it was pretty close to Lincoln’s presidency. History wasn’t my best subject, but 15 years of US public school made damn sure I knew enough about Abraham Lincoln’s life and death—and who succeeded him after. The answer was C, Andrew Johnson. 

The test was its own answer key.

Maybe if I hadn’t been so anxious in taking it I would’ve noticed sooner. Not wanting to waste time I didn’t have—one hour left— I scoured the exam for any mention of Eisenhower, Nimitz, MacArthur, and Perry—any clues to help me answer this last question. And sure enough, I found enough information in question 33 to make an educated guess on question 150. 

Tick, tick, tick.

Over the next sixty minutes, I rushed through the test, flipping through the pages like a madman, circling and scribbling. Somewhere along the way, the ticking stopped.I finished with five minutes to spare. I set my pencil down, wiped my forehead, and waited for the door to swing open.

But it didn’t. 

I got up to inspect the door. Instead of a doorknob, there was a slot. I went back to the desk and grabbed my answer sheet. With the carefulness and determination of a kid at a vending machine with a wrinkled dollar bill, I fed the sheet into the slot. It went through smoothly, followed by a deep, long beep. The door slid open. I was faced with a long corridor. 

~~~

I walked through a tunnel for what seemed like about half an hour. It led me directly into what looked like a really nice dressing room. There was even a fluffy purple robe in the corner. I have my complaints with the Order, but at least they’re consistent. 

Behind me was a shower, toilet, and cart filled with various toiletries. After checking myself out in the mirror, I saw that I didn’t look as disgusting as I felt. My odor, however, was another story.

I carefully removed my clothes, hung them up on an otherwise empty clothes rack, and took what was probably the best shower of my entire life. For a few moments, I forgot about the Order, my impending doom, and the trials I just faced. It was just me and the designer shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. And the shower had jets? 

As I got dressed in front of the huge mirror, I saw a vanity tray with what looked like expensive cologne, along with a toothbrush, paste, and floss. After I brushed my teeth, I put on some extra cologne for good measure: the smell choked me a little, but it was better than the stink of sweat and the sewer.

The thought that they’d want me nice and clean before they grilled and ate me only crossed my mind two or three times. 

I exited the dressing room into another tunnel: but this one had a warm light at the end of it. As I got closer to the other end, I heard music, the steady rumble of voices, and the faint aroma of food. Was this it? The event that’s been driving me insane for the past semester? What I kept secrets and crawled through a sewer for?

The tunnel opened up into what looked like a University library.  There were quite a few campuses around where I went to school, but I’d never been here before. A few hundred masked people milled about, each in their own monochrome outfit. The only light came from wax candles and old chandeliers, so everything had a somewhat of a sinister glow.

Or maybe I was just projecting.

There was a stage in the middle of the room—probably where they would cut my heart out and eat it later. I observed the other partygoers and tried to figure out if I knew anyone underneath the masks. How are you supposed to talk to someone if you don’t know who they are and you can’t see their faces? I figured it was best to be as invisible as possible until the killing portion of the evening began.

I must’ve been standing there awkwardly for a bit too long. About five minutes after I arrived, a lady in peacock blue approached me. 

“Welcome to the Order of the Raven,” she said. Underneath her blue and silver mask, her eyes sparkled like sapphires. They were flanked on either side by faint crows’ feet. She was probably in her fifties, but insanely fit.

“How can you tell I’m new?” I asked. She, like everything else in this room, gave me an uneasy feeling. Did recognize me? Was she the one who invited me here?

“Only initiates have to pass through the trials. The rest of us enter from a different, less roundabout entrance.” I nodded. That wasn’t surprising. One time in that labyrinth from hell was understandable for a death cult. Any more than that would be overkill—pun intended.

“Why are we here?” I asked. She already answered one of my questions. Maybe she’d help me figure out how to best prepare for what was going to happen tonight.

She turned towards me and answered my question with an appraising look. I was overcome with a feeling of deja vu, like I had when taking the third trial. Her auburn hair, thin lips, and blue eyes—where had I seen this woman before?

After a few more moments of silence, I tried again: “I know you aren’t supposed to tell me who you are, but can you tell me how long you’ve been a part of the Order?” 

“I can’t answer any questions about myself, but perhaps your queries about why we’re here will be answered…” she glanced at a delicate silver and blue watch on her wrist, “within the hour.”

“Can you at least tell me how many people are contacted by the Order every year?” I asked. It was low-hanging fruit. And maybe it would give me a clue to what was supposed to happen “within the hour.”

“I can’t reveal how many are invited, but no more than three have ever walked through the initiates’ tunnel in a given evening.” I nodded slowly. “You’ve been the first tonight, Mr…. Purple?” She asked, the judgy look setting further into her face. I cleared my throat.

“Plum, actually.”

“Well, that’s a bit more dignified, isn’t it?” I nodded again, and then my stomach let out an embarrassingly loud rumble. If Peacock heard it, she didn’t act like she did. I looked at the spread of food, which looked untouched.

“Does nobody eat the food here?” 

“Eat—not really. Drink, yes” Peacock replied, swirling her near-empty wineglass. “Most people don’t have an appetite on these nights, and drinking steadies the nerves. But the food, like everything else, is customary.” I was about to ask another question relating to why people might need to steady nerves or lose their appetite when another person walked through the initiates’ tunnel. They were dressed in a mask and suit (no tie) of mustard yellow. “It looks like you have company,” Peacock said. “And I have an empty glass.” Peacock strode away elegantly.

Where have I seen her before? Was she an Olympian? An actress? A professor whose class I slept through as a freshman?

I shook my head and decided to approach my fellow initiate. I looked at him and gave a little wave. We made eye contact and as he was walking over, a huge bell sounded. 

I froze in place. It’s happening. 

The doors facing opposite to where I entered were thrown open, and someone dressed in all black strode in determinedly. They wore a mask that looked kind of like a bird—like if a dementor had the head of a crow. The figure headed straight for the stage in the middle of the room. After taking his place at the podium, he looked out at the rest of the party. 

As he began the ritual, I felt the blood in my veins turn cold.

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