Black Mass At Zaatari

I wrote 'Black Mass At Zaatari' maybe three months ago. There was a news item about the conditions for Syrian refugees in the Jordanian camp at Zaatari. The imagery, although not graphic, was horrifying. I felt moved to write, and although I don't consider myself a politically motivated writer I felt I had to reflect the gross injustice of the situation. I can't ask you to 'enjoy' this story, but I hope you feel something after reading it.

Nick 09/06/2014

Black Mass At Zaatari

They gather.

They gather, and in silence, they carry out their ablutions. Greasy paws smear grey cheeks and rub at red eyes. Fingers explore black mouths and run eagerly over hairy arms.

When they are done the hymns begin. A gentle unified hum of confirmation that they are ready. And they are ready.

They need an offering. Something - someone - to offer up to him. A sacrifice of real value. So they seek her out. They rush out into the heat of the midday to find her. It is the crying, the beautiful crying, that draws them to her. Her tears, sweet like nectar, draw the mass to her eyes.

Her eyes. Beautiful eyes. Lost so quickly. If you could find them, look into them, you would see the tenderness that drew the congregation down on her. The sweetness. The innocence. She is young and she is innocent and she is perfect. Perfect for him. She will do nicely. They settle on her.

Her eyes. Beautiful eyes. You will find them behind the sprawling mass of black. You’ll see them, blue discs of desperation and pain. There, behind the black mass. The Black Mass. Disciples of Job.  Shining priests of the Cult of Death. Followers of the grim faced laughing god. The grey smile that grows as they worship his name. The frantic procession that will make her an offering begins - the securing of their covenant with him.

The hymn that began as a gentle hum grows into a chaotic ecstatic chorus. A swelling frenzied shrill of spiritual excitement.

They crawl and dance and shudder in excitement. Fetid feet stamp shit and disease into her already crusting eyes. Eyes that are being slowly glued shut by the putrid orchestration of the devoted brethren. Monks dressed in carapace habits of an oily sheen swarming and shimmering beneath an unforgiving sun.

It is not only the eyes that disappear beneath their ritual. They gather at another favourite altar. Her mouth. They gather, tumbling over one another to prove their devotion to their patron. They cluster and chant in the cloister of her broken and shallow gasps. She is hungry. Agonisingly so. She wants nothing more than to eat, but the hollow of her mouth is filled with their devotionals. Rancid chorals sent up to their lord in the most sacred of cathedrals.

As they gather, she cries.

Death hears her sweet song too. Breathless mewling that dies before it can reach the ears of men. He hears it though. Savours the flavour. Sweet, like honey. He wants more. And they will make sure that he gets it. He is pleased with their offering - the sublime reek of their success. The stench fills the air and the terror spreads from child to child. Sister to sister. Twin to twin.

They gather. In chapels and churches. Ears and mouths and eyes and noses and worse. They gather. In their glistening robes that flicker over vestments of black and blue and green. Holy marble that ripples obscenely as the congregation swarms.

The number of faithful grows with each Black Mass. Their message, the contagious Gospel of Decay, spreads with ease. The Word spreads in splashes of brown and yellow. The Word spews forth in bilious waves and the message passes from child to parent and back again. With each little suffering one that falls; with each parent that crumbles in grief, their religious fervour grows. Their celebrations become frenzied orgies of praise and worship.

With each passing day the Black Mass grows and his grey smile broadens.