Club Cocytus

For as long as he could remember Young Dewey had aspired to become a Sire of the Club Cocytus.
His father was a Sire, as were his grandfathers, and so had been their forefathers before them. His great-uncle Reginald had been a member of the legendary Cocytusian Brigade which had helped defeat the Acheronese.
Now Young Dewey stood upon the threshold. He and his classmates assembled in the lecture hall for their final lesson.
The Educator took the stage at the base of the amphitheatre. He was an obese figure in a smart white suit, with a powdery face and spectacles. On the wall behind him was a framed portrait of The Magnate. Beneath this, the video screen.
"All hail The Magnate!" his voice boomed around the hall.
The students responded en masse: "All hail The Magnate!"
"Fine young men," The Educator began. "Today you complete your schooling. Tomorrow you ascend to the ranks of The Sires. Now let me ask you: What have you learnt here? What does it mean to be a Cocytusian?"
"It means we are better than the rest, Professor Wiggs," the students called out. "That we are good and the rest are evil. That we are strong and they are weak. That our culture is superior and theirs is barbaric"
Dewey rose to his feet. "And that the others are indebted to us, Professor Wiggs, because we defeated the Acheronese at the Battle of Lethe."
"A fact never to be forgotten." The Educator beamed through his powdery face. "The Acheronese are an aggressive tribe; the Lethese weak. We, the Cocytusians, defended the latter against the former in that pivotal moment of Grand Tribe history."
The obese man opened his arms to address them all. "You were born into this. It is your history, your clan, your pedigree. Cocytus is the most esteemed of all the Grand Tribes. The Styxians may be more powerful, by weight of numbers, but they don't have our breeding. The others know this and respect us for it. They would attempt to imitate us. Cocytusian blood will never flow in their veins, however. For that is a privilege of birthright."
He turned then to the video screen and brought it to life with the hand-held control. A squadron of fighter jets rifled across the sky, releasing their bombs into the clouds, before veering away toward the horizon. The next scenes were of buildings ablaze in the streets far below.
"By necessity we find ourselves cooperating with the Styxian military once again. Last night our forces carried out raids all across eastern Phlegethon."
Dewey experienced a surge of pride, watching the superior technology of the combined forces reducing the enemy to rubble. Let them know the might of the Cocytusians!
The Educator removed his spectacles and dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, leaving a powdery smear across his right cheek. "Hundreds of suspected Rebels were killed, while ground troops swept in afterwards to make a live catch of dozens."
The video showed the ragged locals being dragged away by soldiers; many of them wounded. They were men, women and children, Dewey observed. Even the elderly. Where were they being taken? His eye returned to the smear on The Educator's cheek. Somehow it distracted him.
All this was forgotten when the next image flashed up on the screen. A bronze face snarled out at them from beneath a blue, cone-shaped hat. His black military jacket was heavily adorned with medals and ribbons. He was speaking into a cluster of microphones and punching the air with his left arm.
"The Arch Foe," said the Educator, "The Imperator of the Phlegethonese himself, is threatening vengeance."
At this the class erupted in laughter. "The Imperator is a lunatic!" the cry rose up. "Let him try!"
Professor Wiggs turned back to the students with a smile of approval. "Fine young men of Cocytus, tomorrow you ascend to the ranks of the Sires. This is the world you inherit; the New Enemy our tribe now faces. The future is in your hands."
* * * * *
They had dyed their hair and skin yellow and were attired in the team's strip of the same colour. Tall Simon was draped in the Cocytus flag. Their seats were high up in the Richard I Stadium above the quarter line.
Across the pitch the Team Acheron supporters were a sea of chanting, waving purple. Their stand was fenced off and patrolled by armed guards, though this did not prevent the continuous exchanges of hurled objects with the Cocytus fans on the other side.
The stadium exploded into cheers and whistles as the two teams came out onto the pitch. Both tribal anthems were accompanied by boos, though the voices of the more numerous Cocytusians prevented theirs being drowned out entirely. The giant screens either end of the stadium showed The Magnate and his entourage taking their seats above the halfway line.
The hosts won the toss and elected to start. From the outset they were on top and by halftime the result was beyond doubt. The Acheron centre had posed some problems early on, but the defence got to him in the thick of a melee and he was stretchered off in a neck-brace, to the taunting cheers of the home crowd.
The jubilant fans took up the anthem again as they poured out of the stadium. It was a warm, starless night, with a light breeze rippling down Richard I Boulevard. Young Dewey sang as loudly as the rest of them. How good it felt to be a Cocytusian!
Richard I Boulevard was full of racy, convertible sports cars. The statue at the head of the street, a twenty metre representation of The Founder himself, was bedecked with yellow flags and other team paraphernalia. They paused to read the inscription aloud together, though they all knew the 'Cocytusian and Superior' march word for word. It had been taught to them all their lives, was read aloud on state television three times daily, and figured prominently on framed placards all around the city.
A dozen blocks on they found a bar with empty tables. It was during their third round of drinks that it began to fill up with purple-attired Acheron supporters. They were a swarthy, flaxen-haired people, made short in stature by the decades of hardship endured after their defeat at the Battle of Lethe.
As they gathered around at the other end of the bar, Dewey and his companions broke into the anthem once more. Tall Simon, still draped in his flag, altered the lyrics to include a couple of verses about the result of the game. The rest of the group followed with gusto.
One of the Acheronese yelled back: "Team 'Acheron?' It's full of Styxian mercenaries!"
Simon's response was to change yet another verse, adding reference to the Cocytusian victory at the Battle of Lethe.
"And the Styxians saved you there as well!" the same fellow jeered.
The singing grew progressively louder, an empty glass was tossed from the other end of the bar, and an all-out brawl erupted. The Acheronese were more numerous and gained the upper hand. But the locals came in on the side of Dewey's group and soon turned things around.
As the last of the Acheronese fled out the door, Tall Simon managed to drag down the fellow with the mouth. They swarmed about to put the boot in and Young Dewey was invited to have his turn. But when he saw the victim lying prostrate on the floor, his face smeared in blood, he could not bring himself to do it.
"Let him go," he told the others. "He'll know better than to pick a fight with the Cocytusians again."
"Right!" said Simon. "That's twice we've kicked Acheron backside; once in the game and once in the bar!"
"Three if you count The Battle of Lethe!" Fat George laughed raucously.
* * * * *
For as long as he could remember Young Dewey had aspired to become a Sire of the Club Cocytus.
Now he stood upon the deck of the ferry, watching the island approach. The others were asleep in the seats below, recovering from the previous night's revelry.
"You, more than any other, belong among The Sires," the man beside him said. "For you are the grand-nephew of the great Brigadier Reginald."
The Guide was a skeletal figure in a long coat. He had been sent to escort them to the induction ceremony. Young Dewey listened attentively. He wanted to be as prepared as possible for that which awaited him.
"But have you heard how the Styxians claim the glory?" he said to the elder. "They've managed to convince even the Acheronese themselves."
"It was the Cocytusian Brigade which freed the Lethese capital from occupation. The Styxian invasion of Acheron served merely to finish the enemy off. The Club of the Styxians abounds with the ignorant and the overfed. Our education is vastly superior and therefore conducive to a vastly superior calibre of member."
The Guide lit a cigarette and smiled at the youth. But it was an ugly smile, ginger with tobacco, made slightly foolish by a rotting incisor. When the mouth closed again, the image of eminence restored, Young Dewey was relieved.
Light rain fell upon the marble-coloured waves. A gull swooped down androcked there momentarily. Dewey felt an impulse to throw something at it; to slay it like a hunter. But there was nothing to throw, and the bird soon rose up and flapped away again, into the desolate sky.
Beneath the cliffs at the southern tip of the island they went ashore. A convoy of limousines awaited them. A fifteen minute drive into thecountryside brought them to the gates of Cocytus Mansion, a veritable palace with its towers, balconies and myriad arched windows.
The rain was falling harder now. The guards permitted them through the gates and they hastened from the cars to the entrance, where the servants welcomed them in and took their coats. A group of silver-haired gentlemen were already gathered in the large dining hall, all of them attired in white suits and gold bowties, as were the new graduates themselves.
The room was given a medieval air by the dim lighting, the chandeliers and the long mahogany table. Down one wall hung portraits of the Magnates, in chronological order, from Richard the Founder to William, contemporary leader of the Cocytusians.
Young Dewey was well-acquainted with these images, particularly that of the latter, for William's image was standard in every Cocytusian office, classroom and home. And yet, despite this, he failed to recognise The Magnate when he first entered the room. For William came flanked by a pair of hulking guards, and was considerably shorter and plumper than he would have believed. Dewey had expected that regal countenance to gaze down upon him from some lofty height, as it did in the portraits and the photographs. Instead it was he who found himself looking down upon the bald pate of The Magnate as they were introduced. He took care to provide an especially low bow, and then not to stretch himself back up to his full height again.
William smiled approvingly. "The Educator informs me you have been a fine student. We trust you recognise the great honour and responsibility that comes with membership in the Cocytus, most prestigious of the Grand Clubs."
"Yes, Sire. I have looked forward to this day all my life."
The Magnate nodded, albeit with a shadow of doubt in his eye that did not escape the younger man's notice. Dewey's excitement gave way to a disturbing premonition.
"Well," said William, clapping his hands loudly, "Let everyone beseated. The servants have prepared the feast."
The Magnate sat at the head of the table, the Styxian Ambassador on his right, the Prince of Lethe on his left. Between them and the students were the silver-haired gentlemen, the powdery-faced Educator among them, beside whom sat Dewey.
The servants filled their glasses with red champagne and a toast was proposed, by William himself, to the new inductees and their future as Sires of the Club Cocytus.
Great platters of food began to arrive. First came the bread, then the vegetables, then the meat. There were legs, there were arms, and there were torsos, male and female, young and old. The last of the silver dishes contained human heads, roasted amber, the crowns sliced off at the hairline.
Young Dewey reeled back in his chair. The room swirled around him. One moment he thought he would faint; the next he feared he might vomit. He stared at the faces around the table, disbelieving everything his eyes now saw. They all blinked back at him impassively, dignitaries and new graduates alike, not one of them showing the slightest displeasure with that which had been laid before them.
"Be calm," said The Educator, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You have been eating this all your life. You simply did not know it."
"It is the truth," William assured him. "This is what makes us stronger. Only human flesh can give us superior strength to our rivals."
"Without it we would not survive," added The Prince. "The other tribes would rise up and crush us, because they are evil."
"We are not like the Acheronese who fatten themselves with cows!" laughed The Ambassador, a portly figure himself. "Nor the savages of Phlegethon who eat creatures from the sea!"
Dewey continued to gaze about him, but now he steadied himself in his seat. These were highly respectable men who spoke to him thus; The Magnate, The Prince, The Ambassador, The Educator. It was bizarre, it was hideous. And yet they were telling him it was okay.
The latter, observing that the youth was beginning to recover from his initial shock, pressed on. "Those we eat are our mortal enemies, all of them killed or captured in battle. Phlegethonese rebels, mostly, and those who would aid them. We are doing the free tribes a service by ridding them of this burden."
The images Professor Wiggs had shown in class the previous day flashed up in the young man's mind: bombs, burning buildings, captives being dragged away. He stared at the corpulent visage beside him and fancied he saw the smear on the cheek again. But, no. He checked himself. It was not there!
William sharpened his tone. "There are the eaters and the eaten, my young friend, and we are stronger than them. So be a man. The time has come for you to make a decision. Either you are with us or you are not. There is no other choice."
Dewey understood this. His life's desire was within reach. All he had to do was go along with the game. The alternative was seclusion, disappointment, the humiliation of being the first in his line not to obtain membership since Richard I had founded the club.
A platter was now handed to William containing the roasted head of an infant. The Magnate dipped his utensils in and retrieved a chunk of yellowish brain. The juices dripped down his jowls as he chewed and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.
"A special delicacy. Baby Phlegethon girl. The cooks have prepared it well." With this he instructed the servants to take the platter to Dewey.
The young man broke out in a nauseous sweat. His stomach heaved inside him. In desperation he sought out the eyes of his closest friend, hoping to find some semblance of sanity there. But Simon's face remained as unflappable as the rest; composed, wooden and vacant.
"It's only Phlegethon flesh, Dewey," he said, his voice slightly mechanical. "They deserve to die. They're evil."
The Educator's hand was on his shoulder again. "You're father ate it, as did your grandfather, and so, of course, did your great-uncle Reginald, a hero of the Battle of Lethe."
"It is the initiation ritual," said William, coming to his feet at the head of the table. "Eat and you are one of us. Decline and you will never be."
Dewey stared wildly up at him. The Magnate seemed indescribably frail to him then, as if on the point of shattering into fragments. His silver beard was smeared yellow with juice. The young man winced with determination. Then his eyes came back into focus and he knocked the platter down.
"Monsters!" he cried, stumbling out of his seat and backing away from them. "You are all insane!"
With that he fled out of the hall and away from the premises entirely. No one prevented him leaving. But he was left to make his own way back, a challenge that might prove impossible, for his home lay far across the sea.
Beside the bushes he retched and retched, until everything he had consumed was out of him. He was empty inside, and he felt relieved.
The rain had eased and the stars were coming out. A fresh breeze carried the smell of wet earth and flora. Dewey marched along the empty road with a renewed sense of vigour.



End