He could not see the men, but he could feel them. Their presence filled the room with the crackle of expectation. The warrior kept his eyes closed. They would have been of no use to him behind the blindfold that let no beam of light through. The master truly understood his craft.
But he would not have been a warrior his entire life without his senses being sharpened. Even without using his eyes, he knew he was underground. He had left the sounds of the night behind, the screech of the owl, the wind, light as cool fingers brushing against his cheeks; the scents of the field still lingered in his nose; ghost flowers, long gone, memories from a world where it was now spring, and yet a shadow of their sweetness wafted here to this place.
He felt stone beneath his feet; the echo of his steps had been confined from the moment they left the field, it must have been a passage, the coolness of the walls palpable on the march into the womb of the earth. Then the echo widened, and finally, they came to a stop.
It was no longer cool. The warmth of fire and living bodies filled the room; it smelled of the resinous tar of the torches and the smoke they emitted; someone had burned herbs; their fine aroma mingled in the air. It also smelled of leather; of the leather vests of the invisible men, which, worn in countless battles, had long since merged with the body scent of their wearers. The warrior could feel the presence of their bodies without seeing them, and beyond that, another, distinctly stronger, powerfully pulsating scent, exuding the comforting aroma of stable warmth and animal. He heard the clinking of a chain being tugged. Another scent was in the air, making the warrior tense with every sinew, for it was unmistakable and unforgettable: the smell of blood dried on sweet grass.
"Here is one who desires initiation," said the master's voice behind him. A tug at the back of his head; almost casually, the blindfold fell away. Blinking, the warrior looked into the cavernous space, illuminated by the dancing light of the torches, golden, orange, and black. On the stone benches rested the men to his right and left before the altar. They had their eyes fixed on him, as old as life and dark with mystery. In the flickering light, he recognized the figure of Julius Caesar, twenty-three cuts, cleanly outlined in red, adorned the otherwise snow-white senator's robe. Next to him was Brutus, with whom he seemed to have no grievances, as they both knew the game they were playing and the stakes involved. On the other side of the room, facing the two, was King Arthur, the sword Excalibur lying across before him, and the light danced over its blade. He had Lancelot at his side, a dark lock falling into his even face. The two looked weary from the eternal search for the Grail and also relieved to be in a place where it would not, not even in the background, be about Guinevere.
And further in the background, was that Mozart? The warrior was not quite sure, for the man was not wearing his wig and had set aside the powder. A subtle smile played around his lips, as if to say: Not a chance Freemasons - they know nothing!
The warrior was, however, quite certain about the man who first lay down: Che had removed his ammunition belt and was letting it glide through his hands like a rosary. He regarded the warrior with a furrowed brow as if he were continually annoyed that his handsome face had turned him from a partisan into a teen idol.
In the middle between the stone benches stood the altar; a massive iron chain was attached to it, holding a powerful bull that snorted and stomped, awaiting its fate.
"Then he must pass the test," said King Arthur, the highest-ranking in the room, even though that annoyed Caesar and Che saw it differently.
Brutus rose and, having received the nod of consent from Arthur, took Excalibur.
Somehow, it does not surprise me that he takes over with the butcher's knife, thought the warrior as Brutus held the sword out to him.
He took it, weighed it in his hand, then followed the master along the trough with dried sacrificial blood towards the bull.
"Pass the test!" shouted the master, and the echo of his voice ghosted over the cavern walls. "You are a warrior. Now become a man!"
The warrior approached the bull. In his right hand the sword, he stroked with his left over the powerful neck, the smooth hide, and felt the pulse of the artery beneath his hand. It was a quick death, he knew that. A merciful death. Whatever that may mean. He closed his eyes, inhaled the scent of the animal, so comforting, so strong.
Then he looked into the bull's eyes, dark and gentle. Something about that gaze seemed familiar, but he could not remember right away until it finally dawned on him. That was his gaze. It was his eyes that looked back at him.
The warrior drew back. Then he thrust the sword into the stone before the bull.
"I am a man," he said. Then he turned and walked out of the cave, without a glance back, out of the scent of smoke, leather, spice, and animal, into the night that was growing brighter and beginning to smell of cocoa, and as he walked, he understood that he had passed the test, and it said:
"Good morning!"
When he opened his eyes, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, a steaming cup of hot chocolate between her hands, smiling down at him.
"Oh God!" he mumbled, his voice still hoarse from sleep, "I must have dreamed wildly... Mithras cult, animal sacrifice, Che Guevara..."
"That's from the stuff you sprayed on yourself last night," she said. "I smelled it all night long."
He brought his wrist to his nose and sniffed. "You can still smell it," he noted. "Intense." And masculine. And very archaic.
He smiled as he sank back into the pillows. He would probably get a bottle of that if he could still snag one. A little archaic masculinity is certainly allowed, at least on the wrist. You don't have to overdo it.
Costus
Cistus
Lavender
Birch tar
Cardamom
Castoreum
Cocoa
Suede
Vetiver
Ambergris
Civet
Cumin
Iris
Jasmine sambac
Opoponax
Red pepper
Ch03np
Mossoak
Katzevogel
Axiomatic
Schalkerin
Danny264
Floyd
NuiWhakakore
UntermWert
Gandix
