The Tarzan Club Series Website...

 Chapter One

The Ritual

 by William E. Steinberg

     As the clock in the town's square struck eleven two figures dressed in dark clothing met in the woods near the lake.  Only moments before, they had slipped from bedroom windows at the back of the darkened resort and gone carefully and silently to this spot.  Now they moved quietly through the woods to the creek behind the old slave cabins.  It's rocky course led them to the quicksand bog where they paused and waited.

     Soon their patience was rewarded as two more figures darted from shadow to shadow and silently closed ranks with the first two.  Then a fifth figure came stumbling awkwardly, noisely picking his way, to where the other four waited.  The first four figures could be seen warning him to walk quietly, but no one could have been close enough to hear their admonitions.

     "Be quiet, Morgan!" one whispered.

     "I'm trying," the chubby figure returned.

     The five shadowy figures made their way through the woods, along the well worn path to where the owner of the resort took his rich clients fishing, and located the raft at the edge of the lake.

     Under a full moon the lake was as dark and still as a sheet of glistening wax on the overseer's ebony floor.  Not a breeze stirred in the surrounding trees.  The only sound was the distant hoot of an owl calling a mate.  The forest stood mute, as his call echoed through woods of hard pine and the darkened figures walked quietly and spoke in short whispered exchanges.

     The lone owl, on silent wings, flapped away into the night to pursue his mate in more isolated surroundings.  The forest and all it's creatures knew people were afoot in it and that it was a night for critters to be scarce in the prescence of magic.

     At the north edge of the lake four more figures in dark clothing lingered near the shore behind the bulrushes  Peering through the darkness they watched intently as the first group approached the water's edge.

     "What are they doing?" one asked.

     "Just standing there," another replied.

     Then, from the other end of the lake, a canoe appeared in the moonlight.  Sitting straight and tall in the canoe was an Indian in full headdress.  He paddled silently straight for the island near the South end of the lake.

     One of the figures in the bulrushes was heard to utter in a loud whisper, "Who is that?!"

     Another answered, "I don't know.  But there ain't nothin' we can do about it."

     On the Indian came toward the island, gliding silently through the water, his paddle making no discernable sound, dipping again and again into the lake, as he pulled the canoe forward with powerful strokes.

     As the canoe approached the island, the Indian placed the paddle in the canoe and stood up.  Only the foolish and the experienced stand in canoes.  The foolish lose their balance and turn the canoe over.  The Indian stood with arms raised skyward and uttered a mysterious, unintelligble chant.  "Ah yah ee yo an da kanda inya."

     In the moonlight the ceremonial breastplate of the Creek Indians, forerunners of the Seminoles, shone as it covered the Indian's chest.  The figures in the bulrushes did not know the brestplate was that of a Creek Chief, or that the chant was ancient Muskogean, the language of the Creeks.  Had they understood the language they would have heard the Indian give thanks to Creek gods, and ask for their indulgence on this night of magic.  What they did understand was that the Indian was tall and muscular and that his face shone in the moonlight with what they took to be warpaint.  On each shining cheek were three red and three blue lines.  One side of his nose was painted red and the other blue.  Across his forehead were several lines of red and blue ceremonial paint.

     As the canoe gently touched shore the Indian stepped out and silently came ashore carrying a huge bow and a quiver of arrows.  The five figures on the small pier stepped aboard the raft as those hidden in the bulrushes watched.

     By light of moon the two taller figures poled silently across the lake to the jut of land called "Witch Island."  There they disembarked and faded into the wooded area near it's shore.  Ten minutes passed before a fire could be seen at the knoll amongst the trees.  Around the fire five shadowy figures danced naked as ancient Indians had surely done for untold centuries.

     They were too far from shore for their words to carry on the still night air.  Even so, they spoke little and softly.

     "Morgan doesn't want to take all his clothes off" one of the smaller figures told a taller figure.

     "He's got to," the taller figure replied.  "That's in the rules."

     "It's cold," the chubby figure said.

     "Doesn't matter," the taller figure said.  "It's part of the ceremony."

     A bare flicker of flame soon became visible from the place at the top of the island.  Had good eyes stood quietly and looked intently, they would have witnessed the strange spectacle of five young figures dancing around the fire like savages, appearing to call on some pagan god for supplication.

     Had the four hidden figures in the bulrushes been present on the island, they would have seen the tall Indian dressed in full headdress standing among the trees as the smaller figures danced.  They would have seen him raise his arms skyward, and heard the low chant he uttered as the others danced.  And they would have seen his dark face shining in the moonlight and the red and blue paint on his forehead, nose and cheeks.

     "Ah ya ya ma ka da ya," the tall Indian in the headdress chanted in a low voice.

     Witch Island was less than fifty yards across and only a hundred or so yards long.  From the waters edge it rose to a tree covered knoll eight or ten feet above the lake.  The fire was in an open area at the center of the island where there were vague signs a cabin once stood.  Beyond earshot of shore and hidden by trees a magic ritual was being performed.

     The ceremony was a mysterious one, appearing at one moment to be an Indian ritual, then elements of the occult emerged, and finally simple, ritualistic pedantry.  Their dance intensified and their naked bodies shook with ferocity as the clock in the town square struck midnight, the time when magic is strongest.

     The dance of the young warriors was not long, and an observer would have to be quick to see the dancers slip from the glowing coals and appear to melt into the forest.  In truth, they had settled into a circle around the fire sitting cross-legged on the ground.

     They covered themselves with warpaint, giving them the appearance of miniature Indian braves in a strange midnight ceremony.  Then they sprinkled blood in the fire and returned cross-legged to their circle.

     The tallest stood first facing the Indian with the headdress across the glowing coals of their bonfire.

     "What have you to say to the Great Spirit for yourself?" asked the tall Indian in the headdress.

     "I have come to pledge an oath," was the answer from across the glowing embers.

     "Let the Great Spirit hear your oath," the tall Indian repliedl

     "With this oath I hereby pledge my life to God and Cluntry.  I will be brave in the face of danger."

     "When have you been brave?" the tall Indian asked.

     "I have helped save another from certain death," was the reply.

     "Is this true?" the tall Indian asked of those gathered in the circle.

     "He speaks true," answered one from the circle.

     "Continue your oath," the tall Indian said.

     "I will be honest with all good men," the speaker continued.

     "Can anyone say the speaker is dishonest?" the tall Indian asked the circle.

     "No one speaks against him," came the answer from the circle.

     "I will neither lie, cheat, nor steal from my brethren."

     "Can anyone say the speaker lies, cheats, or steals?" came the question from the tall Indian.

     "Non can say," came the chant.

     "Should I ever become unworthy of this oath may the devil take my soul."

     "You shall be held to your oath," came the refrain from the circle.

     Finally, from a hidden flask, each member of the tiny group took a sip.  A fiery brew slid down their throats and warmed them inside against the chill in the midnight air.  The ceremony was complete.

     The last to take the oath almost choked on the devil taking his soul, but he said it and the others smiled, and crossed hands as he finished his oath.

     "You're one of us now," they said.  "We are all of us one now, forever."

     As they spoke, the tall Indian in the headdress nocked an arrow to his bow and touched the point to a small flame coming from the embers in the fire.  There was a flare at the tip of the arrow as it rapidly caught fire.  Then he raised the bow and drew it to a full draw as he pointed it high in the air.

     As he released the arrow the figures hidden in the bulrushes wondered what the flaming arrow could mean as it shot up from Witch Island and sailed far out over the lake.

     All five were now members of the secret club.  From that day forward they would live their lives by their solemn oath.  Each would hold the others to be true.  As they poured water on the glowing coals and left the clearing for the raft, all were quiet, somber.  Each knew something had happened inside them.  This was magic.  By this act they had changed their lives forever.  Each now saw the world through the eyes of the secret club.  Every act and thought had to be deliberate and right in every way.

     As they boarded the raft, taking their places for the return trip each was deep in his own thoughts.  Again the two taller figures poled the raft with a somber and quiet confidence.

     The tall Indian slipped into the canoe and paddled silently away in the direction from which he had come.  Far out on the lake he retrieved his arrow as it floated on the water.  Then, as silently as he had come, he slipped across the lake and out of view as darkness closed around him near the distant shore.

     Suddenly, far across the lake in the direction of the town there was a commotion.  Beyond the bulrushes at the edge of the lake a party of local revelers out for a midnight buggy ride could be seen.  A runaway horse burst into the clearing pulling it's buggy wildly, but they were too far away and too busy to notice the members of the secret club.

     The revelers were yelling loudly and one of the other buggys took up a pursuit of the first one.  With the buggies bouncing wildly and people screaming at the tops of their voices it was difficult for an observer to say whether it was a race or an attempted rescue.

     Nevertheless the secret club poled harder for the shore.  People were yelling at the runaway, and paid no attention to the secret club.  Then there was another commotion in the bulrushes at the edge of the lake.  Dark figures ran around near the lake's edge and someone was yelling, then plunging into the lake.  The secret club had been spied on.  They hurried with the poling of the raft hoping the distance was too great and the night too dark to make them out.

     When the club members landed the raft no one spoke.  Everyone seemed to know that with the sound of the first words the spell would be broken, the magic gone.  Each knew what he should do.  The three smaller figures stepped off the raft and waited for the others to secure it to the pier.  Then, without a word, they hurried on their way.

     The trail was only a narrow path from the pier to the top of the bank.  Where it topped the bank it intersected with the main trail.  There, it widened, broad enough for a horse drawn wagon to pass.  The members of the secret club disappeared into the bulrushes at the edge of the lake and slipped into the woods and the undergrowth.  The spies at the edge of the lake could not see them as they disappeared into the woods behind the resort.  There were many trails into the woods, and not even the best of spies could discern where they had gone as they melted into the forest.

     Upon reaching the main trail, the small chubby figure left the others and headed for Cobbler's Mountain.  The others headed in the direction of the resort.  Still, no one had spoken.  The spell was not yet broken.  The magic was still with them.

     Even as they reached the edge of the woods behind the resort no one broke the spell.  Two figures turned and nodded, and faded down a trail in the direction of a house deep in the woods.  The remaining two figures nodded in return as they parted.  Then, the last two figures silently crept towards the resort, each to his own darkened and waiting bedroom window.

If you are enjoying this story, remember this is only one in a series.  Many more books in this series will be forthcoming from the author's pen.

Authors blog: wmesteinberg.vox.com

Email the author, Wm. E. Steinberg at:

westeinberg@tarzanclub.com

Tell me what you think.  About the website, about the book. Then go to my blog and speak your piece.  And if you paid for your book and haven't gotten it yet and wanna know where it is let me know that too. 

Read the rest of the exciting adventures of The Tarzan Club members. *

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