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.
