The Ceremony

Please note: This story is a continuous, multi-chapter narrative. You can find the correct order in the right sidebar. All texts were originally written in German and translated into English using AI. I asked the AI to preserve the original stylistic flair wherever possible.   One of Ebram’s assistants approached him. He looked neither shocked nor afraid—his stride was firm and assured. When he reached Ebram, he offered him a hand to help him up.
“Doctor Rolfo, please stand. We need a master of ceremonies, and he said you’d be suitable.” The young man smiled at Ebram, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. They were vacant, staring straight through him. Ebram took the hand reflexively, then quickly withdrew it, overcome by the urge to wipe it off somewhere.
“Dr. Rolfo, this way please!” the assistant said with a deep bow and a sweeping gesture toward the idol and the grotesquely arranged corpses surrounding it.
Ebram took a step back. “Who said that?” he asked.
“He did!”
“Who is HE?”   Straightening again, the assistant looked at him—without truly seeing him. “He didn’t give me a name. But he has the power to get us out of here.” Ebram glanced skeptically at the construct in the center of the camp. “Did he order the killing and desecration of all these people?”
Visibly delighted, the young man replied, “Oh yes! He calls it body language! Isn’t it wonderful?”
Ebram stepped back again. With clear disgust, he answered, “No, it’s not. It’s hideous, cruel, and devoid of meaning or purpose.”
The smile on the assistant’s face faltered slightly. “It’s cruel, but not hideous—and not without meaning or purpose.” He extended his hand again. “He will guide you, Dr. Rolfo. He will instruct you. You’ll understand soon.”
“And how would you know that?” Ebram’s gaze remained skeptical and cautious.
“I know it from him. He’s telling me—right now. He’s guiding me, just as he will guide you. As master of ceremonies, you can serve him eternally. He offers you immortality.”
“No interest!” Ebram burst out. He searched for anything—a weapon, a tool, a miracle—anything would do.
“That was a mistake, Dr. Rolfo!” The assistant tilted his head back. “Seize him!” he bellowed with a force Ebram would never have expected from him.
Workers surged toward Ebram from all directions. Only now did it dawn on him that he should have played along—but he hadn’t grasped the scale of this madness. Panic seized him, and he looked around frantically. The assistant stood calmly beside him. “Just stay where you are, Dr. Rolfo. You can’t escape.”
Men charged at him from several directions—only five or six—but enough to confirm the assistant’s claim. Still, Ebram ran. No plan, no destination—just away. Fear gave him wings. He shoved past several people, one even fell to the ground, but Ebram didn’t care. He kept glancing back, zigzagging between tents, trucks, and trees. He grabbed at people as he passed, begged for help—but most were still in shock or paralyzed by fear. He didn’t dare run into the forest, so he circled the camp, then cut straight through it.
There was no escape. His stamina was no match for the lumbermen. More and more often, he had to stop, catch his breath, or lean against something as his knees gave way—while his pursuers showed no signs of tiring.     It happened when he turned to check how close they were. He ran into someone who didn’t budge—solid as a rock—and this time, Ebram stumbled himself. He was grabbed instantly and held fast. He tried to fight back, kicked, struck the arm, but all the wrestling moves he’d learned during his university years deserted him. The man held him mercilessly.
Ebram looked up, wanting to see who had caught him—and recognized Bernard. The foreman smiled at the doctor, who now gasped with relief. “Bernard!” Ebram blurted out. “We have to get out of here—your car!”
But Bernard’s smile looked forced, not real. And when he called out, “I’ve got the doctor!” Ebram let out a shriek of horror, dug his feet into the ground, and began striking Bernard’s strong arm again—but the foreman’s grip didn’t falter. Sobbing, Ebram gave up. “Bernard…” he whispered, only now realizing what he had lost. “Bernaaard!”
  The foreman dragged him to the center of the square, where about ten people with vacant eyes had gathered. The other workers and assistants stood scattered around, not daring to intervene. The young assistant approached Hollwart, who hauled the doctor behind him without effort.
“You’re not one of us,” the young man said, his voice low and watchful. “True,” Hollwart confirmed, “but I want his immortality. Make me the high priest!” A wave of outrage surged through Ebram. Unconsciously, wounded in his pride, he straightened up.
“This man isn’t even close to my intellectual level!” His index finger pointed at the foreman—accusing.
The assistant turned to Ebram with renewed interest. “Have you reconsidered, Dr. Rolfo?” Ebram needed a moment to place the question in context. “Uh…” But his body betrayed him—he shook his head violently. He couldn’t help it—and he was a terrible liar, especially under stress.
The assistant nodded to Hollwart, who had already clenched a fist. Ebram saw it coming, tried to turn his head—but Bernard still held him fast with the other hand.
A burst of hot pain exploded in the doctor’s skull. His vision narrowed rapidly—and he lost consciousness.     When Ebram came to, his head was pounding, and there was a strange taste in his mouth. He tried to move and painfully realized his hands were tied behind a post, his body awkwardly seated on the ground. Standing up was impossible; any movement sent sharp pain through his arms and shoulders. Groaning, he lifted his head and tried to gauge how much time had passed, where he was, and what would happen next.
He was sitting in front of the foreman’s tent and guessed that not much time had passed—the forest was slowly growing brighter. It was likely around ten in the morning. His head felt heavy, swaying slowly from side to side. Preparations were clearly underway—someone was building a platform next to the idol. Ebram’s head dropped again; lifting it was a struggle.
  The next time he managed to raise it, hours must have passed. The platform was complete. A stake had been placed in the center, with wood piled around it. A shudder ran through him. Was the pyre meant for him?
Fear tightened his throat, and he began tugging violently at his arms. But pain shot through his body instantly, and he whimpered, stopped pulling, and tried to ease the pain by relaxing slowly. Tears ran down his face.
  After a while, two shoes entered his field of vision. He cautiously lifted his head and saw Abby crouching in front of him. “Doctor, doctor, tsk tsk. How foolish can one be? Who turns down immortality?”
Ebram’s lower lip trembled as he ignored her question and asked one of his own: “Is… the pyre… for… for… me?” His voice nearly failed on the last word.
Abby glanced over her shoulder at the stake and nodded. “Yes, looks like it. Bernard doesn’t need competition.” She turned her head back to Ebram. Her words came softly, almost tender. “My dear doctor, you’re not quite as clever as you thought. You should’ve played along and waited for the right moment. Instead, you wear your heart on your sleeve—and now you’ll be sacrificed. What a shame.”
Then she leaned in slightly and hissed, barely audible: “At dusk, we’ll come for you. That will be the beginning of the end, Doctor.” With that, she stood and sauntered toward the platform, hips swaying. Ebram let his head fall—he didn’t want to see any of it.     Ebram drifted in and out of short phases of sleep and wakefulness. Time had lost all meaning—pain, however, had not. His fingers were numb, his head throbbed, shoulders and back were a single burning mass of agony. One leg had fallen asleep from the awkward position, and the other was pressed against a sharp stone digging into his flesh—yet he couldn’t shift it.
In his waking moments, his eyes searched for Bernard, but he was nowhere to be seen. Absurdly, Ebram found himself worrying about him—and scolded himself for it. Eventually, he began to hope it would all end soon. Death by pyre was horrific, and the thought of standing on one himself nearly drove him mad. His mind kept dredging up passages from history books describing how death by fire unfolded—and he kept pushing those thoughts away with force.   At some point, he noticed increased activity around the pyre. Short logs were being arranged as seats, a simple throne was erected. Fires were lit all around. They didn’t yet illuminate the scene fully, but a glance at the sky confirmed dusk was near.
  He let his head hang. Quietly, he began to pray. He’d never been religious, but at this moment—on the brink of his end—it didn’t matter. If there was a merciful god, it was worth trying. He prayed for rescue, for a swift death, for waking from this nightmare. He acknowledged his arrogance, his pride. He promised to visit his family if he survived this, to settle all disputes. He wanted to change, truly—but for that, he needed a second chance. He begged.
  Dusk descended, and the fires and torches around the square bathed the scene in a blood-red, flickering madness. The interwoven corpses around the idol seemed to move, their shadows twitching in the firelight. Then Ebram heard words in a foreign tongue, shouted by his former assistant, now leading a procession of torchbearers. Bernard was encircled by them—naked and painted in red. Ebram couldn’t help but admire the foreman’s physique—at this point, it hardly mattered.
The procession approached the idol, and the assistant chanted fervently in that strange language, worshipping the stone effigy. Ebram let his head fall again and tried to think of something beautiful. But the image that came was Bernard—the Bernard who had first called him by his first name, sitting on the logs. He smiled wistfully.     Suddenly, he felt movement behind him—then cool hands loosening his bindings. He let out a sob, thick with self-pity. Then a familiar female voice whispered at his ear: “Not a sound, Doctor. Start massaging your arms and legs so you’ll be able to run. When the chaos breaks out, head right—behind the stacked logs. Bernard’s truck is parked there. Climb onto the flatbed and pull the blanket over your head. Do you understand?”
Ebram listened, holding his breath, needing a moment to grasp what he’d just heard. Could it be real? He nodded slowly and repeated, haltingly: “Chaos… right… logs… truck… flatbed… blanket.” He felt her hand briefly press his shoulder—gentle, firm. “Good.”
He looked up at her. “Why are you helping me?”
She smiled. “Not because I like you. But because you might be the only one who can get us out of here—without worshipping that thing.” He sobbed again. “Thank you,” he managed—tearful, but utterly sincere and full of relief.
“Save your thanks for later—we’re not out yet.” She stood and gave his leg a sharp kick. He cried out in pain—too surprised to suppress it. Thankfully, she’d only loosened the ropes, so he didn’t instinctively reach forward and give himself away. To his left, he heard laughter after the kick and turned, confused. Two men stood nearby, watching him. Had they been there the whole time?
  The next half hour, Ebram spent coaxing life back into his limbs—carefully, subtly. The two guards, thankfully, were focused on the ceremony and only glanced his way occasionally. Just as Ebram was wondering what kind of chaos was supposed to erupt, a deafening explosion shook the camp.
Dynamite!
The railway magnate had provided dynamite, though it hadn’t been used until now. It was meant to blast through rock—or, if the city wall had no entrance, to make one. Now, however, he saw fountains of earth erupting, the ground trembling, and people screaming. The idol tilted and crashed down onto the corpses on one side. A twitch ran through the ring of bodies on the other.     Ebram stared, transfixed—until he suddenly remembered he was supposed to run. Clumsily, weakened, he pulled himself up by the post as his wrists slipped free. He turned left, then right—unsure where to go. Then it came back to him… “Right!... logs… truck!” he muttered and began to limp forward.
The path felt endless, and more than once he had to stop, overcome by nausea. He fought the rising bile, forced it down, and staggered from tent to tent. Then he saw the stacked logs ahead. A small cry of joy escaped his soul, and for a moment, he forgot all pain.
  He hurried behind the pile and spotted Bernard’s truck. Awkwardly, he climbed onto the flatbed, grabbed the blanket waiting there, and pulled it over his head. He lay down, waited, and listened.
The truck shifted less than five minutes later. Someone patted the blanket, checking that someone was underneath. Then the driver’s and passenger doors opened—and closed again. The engine roared to life. A sharp jolt—and the truck drove off.
Ebram began to cry. He pressed his fist to his mouth to keep control—but couldn’t stay completely silent.