Witchfinders: A Novella, Part II
The Arbo Files
Slowly and painfully, Benoit’s eyes opened. Each blink brought a fresh wave of torment, as a feeling of sharp needles moved from his brain to his fingertips. Benoit had never been in a fight before. His previous life had been a sheltered one full of typically mundane activities. Violence was for the city, not the small town he had grown up in. The nausea of head trauma was therefore totally new to him.
“Sorry about being roughed up,” The Recruiter said. “It served two purposes: to distract you from the entrance and toughen you up. You are going to have to learn to be friends with pain, I’m afraid.”
Benoit shook his head a little. He re-focused his eyes on The Recruiter. The other man’s whole appearance had changed. Gone were the filthy rags and unkempt beard. They had been replaced by a well-dressed and handsome man who looked in his early fifties. A well-tailored dark suit was slung snugly across his shoulders. The Recruiter looked like clubland dandy rather than a decrepit hobo.
“I see you have noticed my new look. This is how I prefer to present myself to society when I am not at work.”
“Recruiting?”
“Indeed. Such a thankless job, and you have no idea how hard it can be hunting after such a small pool of offspring. So many of us scattered to the winds after the fall of Fort Caroline.”
The Recruiter’s words meant little to Benoit, although “Fort Caroline” did illicit memories from a middle school history course. He seemed to recall something about a French colony that had fallen to the far superior Spanish during the 16th century. The Recruiter smiled, for he knew that his charge was starting to put the pieces together.
“Benjamin, how are you feeling?”
“Terrible.”
“Unavoidable, I’m afraid. Are you limber?”
“What?”
The pair’s conversation was interrupted by a booming, subterranean voice that came from the gloom. “Enough chatting,” the disembodied voice said.
“Ok, Benjamin,” The Recruiter whispered, “I cannot help you again until you pass the initiation. And you will pass it. You just have to be as brave as your ancestors.” The Recruiter placed his hand on Benoit’s shoulder, gave it a light pat, and then disappeared into the darkness.
“Benjamin Benoit,” the baritone voice said, “I am the Master of the Good Men. I am seated at the head of the Council. You cannot see me, nor can you see my lieutenants, of which there are six. You have been recruited to join our society based upon an application by blood, and by blood you shall prove yourself worthy.”
“I’m sorry. There has to be some mistake.”
“Silence!” the voice barked. “From now until the completion of your initiation, you are not permitted to speak. Failure to heed this warning will lead to your ultimate expulsion. You already tried to kill yourself once tonight but were thwarted by our agent. Should you fail here now, we will not intervene a second time. You will be left to fate.”
The words had an immediate effect on Benoit. His lips shut and squeezed themselves tight.
The Master continued, “Although you are our kin, there is no guarantee that you will pass the initiation. Other men have failed, and you may too. You must have fortitude, strength, and above all, faith. May God be with you, Benjamin Benoit.”
A sudden flash of light illuminated Benoit and the space immediately in front of his feet. He could vaguely discern the outlines of footprints before him.
“The initiation will now commence, the Master said, “walk forward and meet your first test.”
Benoit walked towards the footprints. Daintily, he placed his feet in the footprints one at a time. A powerful glow emanated from the prints. Said glow was connected to some kind of sensor, which Benoit heard as a low hum in the blackness beyond. But before he could devote any time to pondering the mechanics of the unseen sensor, Benoit was thrust into a battle to save his life.
A man about Benoit’s size leaped at him from somewhere in the darkness. The man grabbed for Benoit throat. Benoit’s clammy, sweat-riddled skin felt his hands—they were big and rough and well-accustomed to violence, even lethal violence. The man’s wrists were bound with rusty handcuffs. This was the only impediment stopping him from easily snuffing out Benoit’s life in a flash, as the unknown prisoner was forced to exert as much pressure as possible just to disrupt Benoit’s breathing.
In sheer desperation, Benoit brought his knee up to the man’s groin. The first blow did nothing. The prisoner continued to strangle Benoit until the latter’s face turned a bluish shade of pale. A second knee strike to the groin loosened the man’s grip enough to allow Benoit to wiggle out from under his grasp. The prisoner let out an angry yelp, which revealed to Benoit the shocking truth that the man’s tongue had at some point been cut in half. The small pink stump that remained did shallow wiggles back and forth to imitate speech.
Benoit scrambled to his feet and went into a fighting stance, or rather a poor imitation of a fighting stance. The vulnerable and untrained Benoit stood rigid and straight, which allowed the prisoner to get close enough to land kicks to his shin. At this range, the prisoner grabbed Benoit’s shirt. He landed several headbutts and kicks, as well as a series of shoulder strikes, including one which landed on the bridge of Benoit’s nose. The taste of copper flooded into Benoit’s mouth. A quick swipe of his nose showed that he was indeed bleeding. At the same time, Benoit’s eyes began to swell with tears. This temporarily blinded him, thus opening him to even more blows from the imprisoned and tongue-less man.
Benoit fought back as well as he could. He threw out wild and semi-limp punches. A few landed but did not deter the other man from his thrashing offensive. It was only when Benoit felt his life in peril that he resorted to extremes. As the prisoner moved in for yet another headbutt to Benoit’s chest, Benoit dipped his head slightly and bit the man as hard as he could on the ear. A cry of pain reverberated across the walls, as Benoit sunk his teeth in the man’s flesh, this time removing a section of his cheek. Benoit tried to bite a third time, but the wounded prisoner wiggled free. Panicked, the prisoner began to race around the room, but Benoit used his legs to trip him. The prisoner fell with a heavy thud. Benoit pounced on him, slammed his elbow into the man’s groin again and again until the prisoner left his face unguarded. Benoit started punching him in the face. Again, they were inept punches that did more damage to Benoit hands than anything else. Yet, Benoit’s show of tenacity and courage was enough for the Master, who bellowed, “Enough. You have passed.”
Benoit slid off of the prisoner’s chest and laid back on the cold tiles. Unseen hands removed the bruised prisoner from the arena and returned him to the inky blackness. He closed his eyes for a second and allowed himself a brief celebration. He had done it—he had won his first fight. More than that, Benoit celebrated having passed this bizarre initiation ceremony. Or so he thought.
“Congratulations, Benjamin Benoit. You have passed your first test. Prepare for your second.”
To be continued…