Estimated reading time — 11 minutes

There is this idea I have always clung to. Most people won’t even consider it. Are our ideas our own, or do they come from somewhere else? Maybe some are our own, but sometimes we pick up a signal from the universe, a forgotten memory locked in time. I have been creating the rituals for a clan called the Kucha. I have come to the point in my craft where all the pieces have aligned. There is only one possible outcome. This final ritual, the Karlock, the product of all that came before. But there is something different about this one. It’s driving me, like I’m not in control, just a vessel for some ancient knowledge.

Are my shoulders heavy with the weight of a legacy, the long-lost memories of some chieftain? I’ve read about tribes lost to time, their blood sacrifices scrubbed from history by modern squeamishness. Maybe that’s why this one haunts me, it’s not invented, but remembered. It is the succession ritual of the Kucha. This ritual was not for the faint of heart. It is believed that the Great Spirit dwells inside of the Chieftain and in order to share the Great Spirit among the tribe, each person much partake of the flesh of the Chieftain.

To share it, the tribe must consume his flesh. Proving the worth of the tribe to the Great Spirit is no easy task. He must complete the ritual without moving or making a sound to show the Great Spirit that the village is more important than himself. The prosperity and happiness of his people out weighs his personal experience, proving the village outweighs his own suffering.

The words on the page begin to spin. I blinked hard as I caught myself wandering away from my body as always. I must have passed out for a second. I look up at the clock: 4:06 AM. Not that late. I shake my head and kick my feet, gotta get that blood flowing. I wiggle in my chair almost dancing in my own way.

My eyes stung as I tried to keep them open, my efforts were futile. With them closed, imagining is easier. I could see it now: the festival of succession, the Karlock. Bodies of the tribe, the dances, the singing. Peacock feathers woven as cloth into clothes across their bodies—the more eyes, the more status.

The man in the pot wore enough to mark him chieftain. I could almost smell the stew, pots aligned in a circle around him. The fog of my mind thins, sensation and thought return. A yawn on the tip of my tongue. It lingers. Then executes builds and escapes. My jaw snaps as it opens, damn braces ruined it.

I get lost in the pen and paper always sleeping at my desk, which doesn’t help. A darting awareness hits my skull. I tried to roll over. My body was frozen. I tried to move my arms and legs. Futile. Here we go again. Just another Tuesday. Frozen. Arms, legs, nothing. Sleep paralysis again, at my desk. I can feel myself in an upright position. The last few memories of writing spring into my thoughts. Despite how clear my mind is my body is broken. My efforts were in vain, just a useless husk being crushed under gravities thumb.

Fear hits like a bat to the knees. I’m falling endlessly. Reaching out to grab on non-existent ledges or walls. In my head my heart is racing but all I can feel is a steady pump in my chest. Pressure. Crushing down on me. Daydream bleeding in? Usually, it’s just void. I try to move again but its no use. It feels like I’m wearing a fat suit. Still nothing. But I can’t even feel my bones or muscles straining. My mind searching for answers. How do I escape? I waited. “Wake up. Wake up. You’re dreaming. Wake up you idiot, you’re dreaming!” Fear seeps in, this dissonance is wrong. I try to fling myself. A quick roll and I could unset myself. Just a quick motion. Jolt myself back to reality. Sounds seeped in: clanking metal, shouting crowd, shuffling feet. Smells disperse with the spice locked in the lingering smoke, feast aromas. The realization of a dream overwhelms me.

Once your mind picks up on it, everything falls apart. The walls of the world crumble. Then it is just cold and wet. The soft smell of aged paper. Waking up with drool in my beard and my notebook scarred with drool marks, the badge of honor for a true writer.

Alas it still lingers. I just needed need to pinch myself. That always works. A simple tiny prick will shock me awake. I struggle to move in vain. Clear mind my ass, thats the odd thing about dreams, everything feels natural especially when it’s not. This is getting frustrating. At least its better than helplessness. Maybe scream myself out of bed? “Get your bumbling fat ass out of bed. Wake the fuck up.” I screamed.

Whisper or wind? Louder now. I could tell it was Saying something. This Voice from the abyss. Then it thunders: “Dreams?” Imposing. Not threatening, the sound shaking my skull. Panic wells. Never had there been such a clear voice in my head. Was this me? My buried darkness? Too many late nights, my brain is finally telling me to calm down. The voice responds, “Afterlife be dreams?”
“What are you, my alter ego?” Sarcasm masks my fear.

It took a second to hit me. Afterlife. Am I dead? Can’t be. Just a dream. I still feel, hear.
The voice shook my head once more, “Great Spirit be all before. All be one. Set be Karlock. Great Spirit not be end journey.”

I formed the shaky words, “wait, you can hear my thoughts?”
“Great Spirit shares all. Great Spirit be all before. All be one. Set be Karlock.” That was it. The name. The ritual. What it all came down to.
“How do you know about the Karlock and the Great Spirit?” The image of the chieftain in the pot of water covered in peacock eyes surged into my mind. “Could you be Kucha’s Chieftain?”

“Me be chieftain, Great Spirit come to Kucha. Flesh taken unto Karlock. Be worthy of Great Spirit I will.” Some things were making sense. Not dead, just my subconscious. “Be the Great Spirit, the ancestors be one soul of our people. You be judge of me.”

“I am the Great Spirit?”
“Great Spirit be in the body of me. No other be in another.” That’s why I can’t control myself and why my body feels so much bigger. I must weigh like 500 pounds. If this mind belongs to that body and I am only here to observe, should I say who I am or just be the Great Spirit? I can defiantly play it. “So If I am inside your head, there has to be a reason right? I didn’t bring myself here. So You must have.” I asked

He responded “Be Karlock. Karlock bring Great Spirit. Great Spirit judge Karlock.” The word stuck in my mind. A sudden cold, dark heart stopping dread overcame me. The Karlock was beginning. My mouth began to open, foreign words spew forth not by my command. “The Kucha be seen worthy by Great Spirit. Kucha Way of life be recognized. The Karlock be blessed. Blessed my son be. Come forward.”

My head turns to see behind the pot a young man standing on a makeshift stage with a large throne behind him. Fat rolls protruding across his body. The man walked forward. Placed his hand on my head. “Me be as worthy father, you taught me well. Our ways be forever. The Kucha live long. Be Karlock, we be one.”

With a heave the man lifted his arm and grabbed a torch from the holster of woven sticks it sat in and bent down. He lit the wood piled at the pot’s base. The flames quickly engulfing the outside of the pot. He walked around it making sure the fire was thorough. Placing the torch reverently in its holster he steps back towards the throne and sits down.

My mouth moved on its own moves, words spout from my maw once more. “Bring my flesh to you brethren. Spoken Great Spirit be.”

This breath was different. Not steadily pulled through gritted teeth, a deep nasal inhale. Spice of the feast outside flares to life. The smell potent and forceful, tickling the depths of my nose. The feeling rose rises instantly. Not even a twitch, not the slightest eyeball movement. Staring forward proving a point.

Villagers gathering close preparing for the next step. The dread that I might not wake up was building. If I can smell what is around me, taste what he tastes, feel his sneeze, and yet not act, what hell have I found myself in?

My mind would break before the ritual was even done. It felt feels like ages but it was probably a minute. The water in the pot was still not boiling, but I was not a frog. My skin was ready to peel off as the water devastated it. I release released the breath. Oh boy, You think inhaling on a sneeze is bad, try holding it and then exhaling? I probably deserve this. As the rhythm of breathing begins once more. The feeling to sneeze fades.

I know it was Foolish. To think simple words could stop it. He was committed to far worse. “You think Some simple meditation mind trick is going to save you from the pain? I told you the Whole thing whole thing is bullshit.” What was the point. Even I couldn’t deny the shaking of my voice. I had lost all substance. Not that I had any to begin with. This is where all shame falls apart.

Where your willing to do anything, say anything. Just to escape. “As the Great Spirit I declare you worthy! Listen to me you Don’t don’t need to do this. You’ve been mistaken this whole time, misinterpreting the words and the ways, turning away from the true spirits. Don’t sacrifice yourself for nothing.” I frantically search for other options. His son. Use his son. “Don’t you want to live to see your grandchildren? Don’t deprive them of Your great influence and power?” Nothing. Small words from a small being, a scared pathetic small being. Condemning an entire society. Groveling and begging to undo generations of belief. All so I don’t have to feel it. I really am a joke.

All villagers of the villagers surround surrounded the pot, pressing shoulders to get closer but never steeping within a meter, leaving room for each to step into the circle and take their piece of the Great Spirit. Smiles of joy and looks of relief spread across young and old faces. Their attention directed at me. Only silence. The simple acts of the flesh told the story or should I say the lack of.

Control At least I could appreciate that the control was immaculate. Would you believe the serpent on your shoulder? I know for sure I would for simple convenience of weak mind, the sweet siren song. At least I won’t see it coming. Nothing I say could stop Can’t derail what his life his whole life had prepared him for. This moment. I could never derail that. Even with My own creations. Shows how much I know. At least there is A lesson here, if I survive, or remember this, I may have a grand idea for the world and the people in it. But it lacks a person.

A true soul. Bound by life’s challenges, degraded by his failures, uplifted by those around him, for he has done great deeds. A leader, a provider, a symbol for the future. It all rode on his back. His way of life. The rituals of his tribe.

My thoughts halt. The deep guttural rhythm of vibrating vocal cords erupted in my ears, throat preparation. My mind screamed, “Let me out! Let me out of here! I don’t like this I don’t want to be here. Please just let me wake up!”

This was Really happening. Absolutely on cue All villagers all the villagers turn towards to me. I see what’s, knives and plates in in their hands, knives and plates. My bulging stomach is placed on a platter. Frozen I was frozen inside of my body. If this was my first lucid dream, it had better be my last.

Have I ever felt Pain in dreams pain in my dreams before? I should Wake wake up before The knife digs dug into my flesh. The knife as steady as my body. But far from as steady as, not my mind my mind. The Pain was real. But this couldn’t be. I try tried to pull away I tried to move.

Was This this my punishment, had the Lack of consequences lack of consequences led me to create this ritual. All of this extra fat is going to be cut off, cooked, and fed to me. Maybe I should have taken that advice.

The knife is coming down. First. Second. Third. Fourth cut. The silence in my mind is broken with by sharp screams. Their my own. Distant. Cruel. In this Dream dream at least, yes, I did feel pain. And it did not wake me up.

Endure I would have to sit through this and endure it. Just, like my creations even as pieces of you are removed. Villagers begin to chant as they walk away with my parts. Smoke thickens as the meat is thrown into pots. Every villager takes one piece. Their gateway to the ancestors. To consume the flesh that was inhabited by the Great Spirit was to be judged by it. If you died, it was because it you were not worthy, things such as disease were unknown to them. If you were worthy of being a member of the Kucha clan you would live a long prosperous life.

Blood pours down. Muscles flayed. Bones scratched. Every. Tiny. Prick. If I wasn’t. I was tearing my eyes out. Breaking my fingers. Biting my tongue. My mind broken, an endless scream. For in your mind no breath exists. This begging Begging, putrid creature is me.

Every word imaginable Words crossing my lips, falling on deaf ears. The Final cut. “You’re a disgrace! You have fallen from the ways. I the Great Spirit declare you unworthy!” The Words a mist in my mind. Hidden behind the pain, my inner-self reaching out.

The Words flew fly from my mind. Sent—from a hidden box, my mind’s minds haven, the one piece of me that survived the pain. Am I so Arrogant arrogant I to wish my creations to suffer with me? “You are a worthy mind, chieftain. You have Changed changed even me. The silence burned once more in my mind matching the flesh from the outside.

My back, with all the fat pressed against the pot, was devoid of water, so my flesh was melting to the pot. There were flecks of flesh floating to the top of the water over my legs. The skin had dissolved away. No more chatter, no more arguments. He had made his choice and now it was all coming back.

The Blood pouring pours from my body, thickening thickening with the water. My. Back pressing presses against the heated pot, scalding scalding. The. Liquid bubbling and stewing in my mass. My stomach just above the water line, prepared for the next step.

The villagers gathered once more their gather, cooked flesh in hand. They believed in their chieftain. You could see it on their faces, relief. The worst had passed. My nostrils fill filled with the smell of my own flesh. The spice pungent, and fresh. I wretched in my mind. I cant help but think about what its going to taste like. Its just going to get worse from here.

When Will will I wake up? I just want to wake up. I’ve learned my lesson. You must master your creations before they master you. Dreams take you to the edge. That rich smell wafting closer with the smoke. Each breath more pungent.

The only escape was to experience it. Stuffing me like a pig. My jaw was being forced open too wide. It just started one after the other after the other. Chew. Swallow. Chew. Swallow. Chew. Swallow. My spirit poured tears. Throat filled. Mouth filled. Still they pressed. Down it went. Each villagers duty to make sure their piece returned to the chieftain. The Meat must be imbued with his spirit. Ground and minced into the flesh to give the highest yield of potential. The Meat slid slides out of my stomach being squeezed through a pipe like play-dough. It folded over itself and falls into fine bunches. A flower of flesh budding out of from my exposed entrails.

Nearing the end. The pain is gone. My body fflops over into stew. I have no form. I have, no control. I simply am. I all around. A Young young man sitting on a throne. I could guess he’s just like his dad. You can think they are fed well because they are the chieftains. But for The Kucha, if you could not feed the entire village of your flesh you were not worthy. Two men standing over the pot removed scythes from their sides. Each one striking into wrist the wrist of the now dead chieftain. They dragged his hands from the stew.

The chieftain’s son waddled his way down to the pot. Pulling a hatchet from his waist he severs the arms of his father at the elbow. Without flinching from the burning flesh he peeled it from the bone, down the forearm across the palm.

Holding the arms by the bone he raised his hands high into the air and proclaimed, “Father be worthy! Great Spirit bless me, be I worthy when time comes. Kucha reign be thousand years. Ancestors be in us always.” The Son devoured the fat puffy meat from the fingers of his father. The hand of the father falls to the son.

They shall walk the same path. I felt myself disappearing into shadows. Darkness takes took me. My mind dances in silence. Then a light, small at first. Then all my vision ablaze. The cold and wet. The rough and slimy, coarse hair rubbing against my face. The drool soaking down my notebook, down my cheek, down my neck. The sunlight from the window scaring my eyes as I held them tightly shut.

I slowly lifted my head as my neck and back bones crack, the muscles stretching and cramping. I yawn wiping my face blinking down at my notebook. Staring back at me was a story I had never written. The last lines stopping my breath and holding my stomach in death grip. My Dry dry throat constricting as I try to swallow. My heart skips multiple beats. Those words stare, begging my remembrance,: “And now our story has been told.”

Credit: SJMorron

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