Scarleton Series I : Before the Cult by Sandy Masia

putting
your faith in something else and have it belied again. I understand
that pain, we all feel it. But now, by doing this we are taking
another step, exposing ourselves to a different doctrine that may
very well dispel all this pain and suffering. I know, you wanna
leave this place as soon as possible, you can’t stand not doing
something pragmatic.” Then to us all, “I know we are hooked on
blood. This can help us with that urge and maybe distil a bit of
focus and clarity. Buy us some time before we fuck things up.”
    Macfearson
spoke through his hardened mouth, “Where are these therapists ?”
    I leaned
forward. “The university provides free counselling for students.
Obviously you can’t use that service so I will go on our behalf and
share whatever knowledge I can get.”
    His nose
flaring, Macfearson grimaced. “You will?”
    “I will.”
    “I don’t need
to tell you what I’m capable of.” Macfearson rose and marched out
of the room banging the door behind him.
    Macxermillio
turned my way. “He has a hard time letting go and moving on. It’s
one of the reasons I took him with me. Keeps us from wandering”
     

Chapter
4

1
     
    We had to learn
about the crop, our home. Although we got the sense the place was
forbidden and we, although we hadn’t learnt our nature, would not
succeed in unravelling the mystery. Something was growing on those
fields and it was a call of destiny to uncover what it was. It felt
as if the whole meaning of our existence, if not existence itself
depended on it. There was completeness there. It has been a year
since we began taking on this ordeal as a trio. Before then things
were murky and bleak. We coming together was also in the foggiest
and hopeless of circumstances. I should make it clear that they
found me, on the mystical day amongst the woods of an unknown land.
Mystical because it is hard to pinpoint where and when in my
memory, nonetheless the detail is fair, even to one with a blurry
mind-eye it is simple to see.
    I heard hoofs
at a gallop approaching. Apprehensive, I turned my head to its
direction. There was shouting and a faint cry of a man. Through the
fog, further amongst the trees and in sight, something silver shone
from the distance. Then the faint cry swayed back and forth from
panting to crying. A wretched man in muddy jeans and a white jersey
bolted into view. As he passed a trail of fear hung behind. He was
a man pushed to his limits, running from immediate peril. He was
clumsy, the mud slowed his heels and strained the bit of strength
that was left within him.
    Then emerged ta
black horse and the rider. His velvet cloak , red in the inside and
black on the outside, fluttering behind him. Its collar spiked to
his ears, mingling with his long white hair. There was dirt and
stains on it like he had been fighting in a medieval battle. Focus
distorting his face like anguish, his eyes determined and sharp.
His right leather gloved hand at the reins as the left grasped a
long sword. As he manoeuvred his way amongst the trees and branches
the sword moved effortlessly and expertly like a part of his
hand.
    At the verge of
my sight the man tripped. Slammed to the ground head first. His
face submerged in mud and grass. He turned to his side and then to
his back, spitting, wheezing and coughing. In a few seconds the
rider had caught on. With a tug he reeled his black monster to a
halt. Climbed off the saddle and strolled towards the man in his
heavy black boots. He hovered over him for a few moments disgust,
wrinkling his face with each second.
    As the cold tip
lightly pressed against the man’s throat he whimpered. “Take a dope
it’s just a dip,” the rider said, clearly exasperated. His was
voice guttural.
    The man
continued wheezing, his chest convulsing. “Please…please,” he
implored. Affright, he tried to speak but he was tongue-tied.
    “Why was your
name on the inscription?” the rider demanded.
    “I don’t know
what-“
    “One more of
those