We met in those heady first days of school, when the freshmen were shuttled from icebreaker to icebreaker, and the upperclassmen were partying. This would be their only respite, for soon they would face a confidence-destroying deluge of problem sets, essays, internship applications, exams, and late-night latte runs. But in those sticky late-August days, there was still the barest possibility that maybe, this semester would be different, that it would not unravel into failure, doubt, and shame.
We met at midnight. In those times, campus was still alive at midnight. The teachers were home, eager to relax before late-night exams and grading would begin. But the students’ unsupervised blood throbbed and pulsed in frenzy.
So we donned our heavy black caps and robes and marched, single-file, towards the chemistry building. There were ten of us, no more, no less. To be admitted, a member must graduate and leave a vacancy. No one could be expelled.
We climbed the stairs, passed through imposing Grecian columns. Inside, it was dark, but silent. Our leader had the key to a laboratory that was too poorly equipped and maintained to even be desired by a desperate graduate student. So, it was always available for our use.
In the lab, our leader lit a Bunsen burner, and we gathered around it, chanting the Latin phrases. The mildew irritated us, but we did not dare let out a cough. Nobody knew anyone’s names, and we were forbidden to speak, unless it was in Latin. Yet, we all recognized the initiate.
After, we exited through the backdoor to the magnificent gorges bordering campus. There were students still around, so we had to be cautious, even though our black robes blended into the night. Soon, we heard the rushing water and felt the damp earth beneath our feet. We were near. There were no words spoken, until we reached the edge. We then motioned that he must jump into the river below. Gorge-jumping was a common, though unsanctioned, activity among undergraduates. They enjoyed the rush of adrenaline during the sharp drop to the water. But this spot was steeper than the more popular gorge-jumping locations. The initiate nodded. His jaw was set; there was no fear. If he had exuded even a hint of hesitation, we would have pushed him.
Instead, he stood on the cliff’s edge, spreading his arms, like a bird taking wing. He lifted his face up towards the waning moon, which was rising.
Then he stepped off. His splash was soundless. We turned and left.
The next day, his body was found tangled in the black robes. The cap was gone, but his face wore a look of pride.
The gorges were then closely monitored, so the next time, the initiate imbibed a thimble-full of phosphorescent liquid. And then for the next time, the initiate scaled the chapel, and succeeded.
We each had a fate. Once tapped, you could not turn from this fate. It was yours, and there for the taking.
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