cult

Taking my final exam at a picnic table alone in a field under a weeping willow, I notice at the edge of my vision a mysterious building I don't recognize. Its walls are brightly painted wood. Its roof is edged with curving eaves. A shining white dome crowns the top. Wide steps lead up to golden doors that shimmer in the afternoon heat. I must make an effort to look away so I can finish my test. Once finished, I walk inside the massive school for the last time to hand in my test. Did I pass? Who knows. No one stops me from leaving. I am drawn outside again, around the corner, past the willow to the golden doors. They're dragging me in. And before I can think, I ascend the ancient steps and grasp the gnarled oak handle and pull. Dense cool air rushes past me as I cross over the threshold into a hallway that stretches out before me. I feel lighter in here. There is a current in the air that guides my movements, bending gravity to its will. A tribal mask floats before me, and I grab it, pulling it over my face as I glide down the sacred hall, applause echoing from all sides. Thick red carpet shifts and presses against my feet, and the intricate frescoes covering the walls pulse and dance, driving me forward. A second set of heavy black doors waits at the end of the hall, and as they fill my vision, I ascertain that once I pass through, there will be no turning back. Two golden mirrors flank the doors, showing not my reflection but dim woods where piles of leaves stir restless: my alternate fate. I drop my mask and extend one trembling hand toward the handle black as empty space. I grasp and pull and step forward then stop as I hear the doors behind me seal shut, knowing this means no turning back, no escape until death. The hair on my neck stands at attention as a powerful force fills the air around me. Hovering over: some holy ghost watching, ready to strike if I dare to look back. What have I done? The brightness of the room beyond the black doors originates from everywhere and nowhere. With an emptied mind, I change into a waiting robe, shave my head over a bronze basin, open red doors and enter a final room that bustles with other young adults who've also passed. They seem excited, chatting quietly to each other as if their being there is some achievement. But I keep my eyes on the ground as I walk past tables where the others assemble machine parts: inconspicuous cogs and wheels and cylinders that travel down a conveyor belt that disappears into a dark hole in the wall. It takes an immense effort not to react when I recognize the low grinding sound emanating from within that hole, but I cannot show fear. This is what I've been prepared for. This is the way of things.