The Last Ritual: Dawn of Darkness

By Sadath Ali

A routine clinic visit turns detrimental to a pregnant girl, as she gets kidnapped by mysterious men.

A Category-A criminal escapes from the Woodhill top security prison.

Coincidental connections to these two events lands a brilliant psychiatrist, Dr Samee Salazar, under the radar of suspicion of the Interpol director, Alexander Berekhyah. With the beautiful agent, Maria Sylviera’s help, Samee turns into a refugee in search of the truth. Meanwhile, the prisoner-at-large, Rasputin, with a gruesomely tattooed face and an overpowering gait, turns out to be deadlier than the deadliest of antagonists.

As Samee and Maria get pulled into the world of sigils, rituals, curses and pagans, they realise that they are fighting more than just the Interpol – but an ancient satanic brotherhood that could very well cause an Armageddon.

Will Rasputin, with the power of cursed entities and ancient rituals at his disposal, be able to unfold the Satanic Age?

Will Samee, with his profound knowledge of theology and semiotics, be able to stop the Disciples of Satan from performing ‘The Last Ritual’?

In this ultimate battle of good versus evil, with cruelty and treachery abound, which side will have a taste of triumph?

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: May 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9789355590275

Sadath Ali

Born in Kadmath island, Union territory of Lakshadweep, Sadath Ali is a medical graduate of Gandhi Medical College, Bhopal. A holder of UPSC-CMS, he spends most of his time providing palliative care to the bedridden. He holds excellency in various streams of medicine including Forensic Medicine and Toxicology, Otorhinolaryngology, etc. Apart from his clinical practice, he is a water sports enthusiast and an avid scuba diver. He enjoy exploring shipwrecks and historical forts other than writing fiction.

Book preview

Prologue

Tuesday, 10:00 am

She stared outside the windowpane. The raindrops gently splashed on her car window. The atmosphere was cold and humid with low hanging thick clouds. The sudden shower created havoc on the street. Horns blared from every direction, while pedestrians scuffled to navigate through the chaos with their huge black umbrellas, in a rush to reach their offices on time.

Hennah struggled inside her loose gown with her big baby bump. Even though the company assured it to be a lightweight and soothing maternity wear, she felt it heavier and annoying than ever. In fact, anything and everything seems irritating in this third trimester. This is a tricky time. You will be a different human being from head to toe. Your movements restricted, your freedom curtailed and your mind going mad with a blend of annoyance, excitement, and depression, all at the same stage.

Pregnancy turns into a lot more hell when you are all by yourself, when your companion is not with you, nor any of your family. Above anything, you need love at this point. A shoulder to lean upon, a hand to hold and a heart to care for you.

‘Roshalle clinic, Oxford Street…’ said the old taxi driver, much for her relief from the claustrophobic space. She carefully stepped outside onto the pavement. She covered her head from the rain with the pregnancy document and struggled herself to Dr Roshalle’s Fertility Clinic.

This is Hennah’s first pregnancy, a much awaited one. This pregnancy is not a normal one. She suffered from a long list of gruesome diagnostic evaluations to find the cause of her mysterious infertility. It went on for years. Only to end in another horrid sequence of treatments to get pregnant.

All those years drained her of physical and emotional strength. Hennah felt herself a pointless burden for her companion, to her relationship and even to this planet. She even planned to commit suicide in her apartment one evening, only to be stopped by her much sensible and loving father. By next early morning flight, she and her spouse started their journey around the world in search of fertility clinics. Unfortunately, every single treatment attempt was a smacking failure. They were left with nothing, but all the finished ones pointing towards the renowned Dr Roshalle of Oxford Street, as the last name in the field.

As a busy and experienced specialist, Dr Roshalle had her clinics around the globe in five cities, which she frequented on rotation. They waited patiently for her next visit to London, for consultation.

Dr Roshalle is a warm person, a tall lady doctor around her forties, with a square face and occasionally bleached dark long hair. Her graceful, willowy and lissom build, visible through the dignified lab coat, along with a stethoscope around her neck, earned their respect at the first meeting itself. When Hennah heard the kind, reassuring and confident words of the doctor, she was happy, more than ever. Dr Roshalle was like no other experts they met; she impressed them with the professionalism, knowledge and loyalty. Hennah’s heart kept saying one thing throughout that day; this is the person I am searching for.

‘Doctor Roshalle is busy with a delivery case; you have any appointment ma’am?’ The blonde receptionist beamed at her.

‘For eleven o’clock...’ Hennah nodded. The receptionist confirmed her name on the computer. Then picked up the intercom and talked in a hush.

‘Doctor instructed you to wait in her chamber... ma’am...’ she placed the receiver back ‘...and she will see you in a moment. Please come with me.’

‘Thank you,’ Hennah said, collecting her folder. She followed the receptionist to the Roshalle’s chamber, ambling with her right hand on waist.

‘Please sit... Dr Roshalle will be here in a sec,’ the receptionist said, charmingly gesturing to the chair in front of the physician’s wooden desk.

Hennah stared at her legs under the desk. They had swollen as she approached the last phase of pregnancy. Her fingers were also no better, each finger looked like a sausage and her wrist was also grotesquely swollen. Apart from her deformed external body parts, her stomach pushed her diaphragm internally, making it way difficult for her to breathe.

A lot of images rushed into her mind, how her partner is not with her and how she is managing all this, alone. ‘You being thirty-seven years old... already puts you in the high-risk category of pregnancy, Hennah,’ all those bald male gynaecologists before Dr Roshalle had asserted to her. Those memories still haunted her like a nightmare. With a sigh, she pushed aside all the fuddled thoughts and looked away to the wall.

The doctor’s framed awards, photos, and a few paintings decorated the plastered surface. A bachelor in historical art, Hennah believed that every canvas is a journey all its own. She sifted through the paintings. The middle one was a replica of Alexandre Cabanel’s Fallen Angel. He depicted a masculine angel with both of his arms raised, with fingers interlocking and covering most of his face. Despite shielding his facial expression, the painting showed the angel’s eyes filled with tears. A medico with such a wonderful taste in arts.

‘What a surprise...’ Dr Roshalle walked into the chamber, interrupting her thoughts. ‘So lovely to see you,’ she said, with a bewitching smile. She placed herself in the chair professionally, while cleaning her palms with an alcohol sanitizer. She wore the white lab coat over a dark blue t-shirt crafted with simple and luxurious symmetric lines. A customised stethoscope elegantly hung around her collar.

Hennah smiled at her weakly and handed her the file.

‘Doctor...’ Hennah quietly called, ‘...my legs are swelling up,’ she stared down at her feet.

Roshalle raised her eyes above the spectacles and glanced at her, then engaged back to the documents.

‘That’s because of the weight of gravid uterus on your common iliac veins dear, it’s perfectly normal,’ she reassured. ‘I will get your routine investigations done first... USG and all.’

Hennah nodded in reply; she did this routine sequel a hundred times before in the journey of her pregnancy. USG, blood pressure, urine, complete blood picture, and a set more, ‘to rule out grave diseases like eclampsia and all,’ the Doctor soothed her every single time. She never understood all those scientific words doctor explained to her, ever.

I just trust her, that’s all I know.

On Doctor’s order, the ward boy took Hennah to USG room first, then to the LAB to get the remaining tests done. After a tiring, boring and plodding tests and a long wait for its results, Dr Roshalle summoned her again.

‘Your baby is well Hennah, nothing to worry about,’ Dr Roshalle said smilingly. ‘The only thing I want you to take care of is your amniotic fluid volume, as you can see...’ she pointed out to some numbers in the USG report, ‘...the normal amniotic fluid index is anywhere between 5 to 24, but here you have a score of 27, which is slightly high.’

‘Huh?’ Hennah looked at her, wide eyed. Anything even slimly scaled abnormal scared her, like a nightmare.

‘No, no... You need not worry, it’s absolutely normal... you just need to control the amount of your water intake. Just reduce it a little... that’s all,’ she said in a comforting tone. ‘Rest all the tests are normal too, your blood pressure, your counts, everything is fantastic...’

Hennah gasped, with a faint smile on her lips.

‘So, if everything goes well as it used to be, we can expect the delivery on the date we calculated,’ Roshalle continued. ‘Remember, the baby is happy, healthy, fine and super... so no need to worry even a little,’ she added, beaming at Hennah. ‘You got that right?’

Hennah nodded, a ripple of joy and brood rose inside her. She contained the emotions inside. She cared for her baby like any other mother, but for her, this delivery was like the end of a lengthy tunnel, a protracted wait at the finish of tedious and depressing years. At any cost or to any extent, she doesn’t want to lose this baby. If it goes wrong, perhaps I won’t be able to become pregnant again. Or perhaps that will be my end.

‘Thank you, doctor,’ she stood up cautiously.

‘You are welcome... dear.’

Hennah walked out of the chamber, in akimbo. Dr Roshalle commissioned the same young ward boy to accompany her to the taxi. The over-friendly boy helped her climb down the stairs and then to the street.

‘Please stay here, Ma’am… I will get a cab for ya...’ he told Hennah and sprinted out in the still blaring rain, this time much heavier.

These people are gentler than I ever imagined. Everyone in this clinic is kind and tender.

The ward boy came back with a taxi. He supported her into the car with utmost care. He closed the door behind and wished her luck, grinning.

‘Thank you,’ Hennah smiled and waved back, while the pickup moved forward.

Something unexpected happened the next moment. Everything went upside down for her in the later instant. Her world turned obscure. Someone slipped a wet heavy bag on her head and throttled from behind. Masculine sturdy arms grabbed her tight from all sides. She let out miserable groans, losing herself into the immediate chaos. Hennah was too feeble for a fight. She tried to yelp and struggle, but all that came out was a muffled scream. In the very next second, someone hit her very hard, behind her head, right in the medulla.

Hennah plummeted into a deep void. Heavy cruel voices rumbled in her ears like a sarcastic mocking laugh. All her brain saw at the last moment was the face of that ludicrous ward boy, laughing balefully and sadistically at her.

Chapter 1

Two hours earlier, 8:00 am

‘I f you look closely at Michelangelo’s Separation of Light from Darkness...’ Samee cleared his throat, ‘...you can see a sophisticated image of the brainstem concealed in God’s neck! You can outline a brainstem, cerebellum and temporal lobes...’ he said to the class, ‘...and if you keep tracking down the diagram, you will see optic chiasm too.’

He gestured to the projector image on the wall. It showed the fresco by Michelangelo on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. The personified figure wore a red robe and was standing in a contrapposto rising to the sky, with his arms outstretched, separating light from the darkness.

‘The optic chiasm tactically hidden in his torso... along with the long optic nerve might point towards the fact that light is all about the eyes, isn’t it?’ he beamed at them. ‘Similarly...’ he continued in his calm voice, ‘...in his another fresco The Creation of Adam...’ another slide appeared on the wall, ‘...you can see the figure of God and the background figures portrayed on one side. This is, in fact, anatomically accurate picture of the human brain,’ he pointed to the elderly white-bearded man wrapped in a swirling cloak with a shroud of men around him.

‘And when you close examine the borders of these figures, it breathtakingly correlates with the major sulci of the cerebrum, the brain stem, the frontal lobe, the basilar artery, the pituitary gland... and again the optic chiasm...’ Samee animatedly counted with his fingers, as he walked across the podium.

‘In both portraits, the brain or the cerebrum is indirectly allegorized to the God...’ he shifted the slide between frescos ‘...or the central power, you may say...’ Samee breathed, as he concluded the lecture.

The crowd of undergraduate medical students before him gasped, struggling to come out of the interesting class. This young professor never failed to impress them, ever. Samee’s method of teaching was always admired by the Oxford Medical students. His way of decrypting and conjuring of striking facts, clues and solutions from the places that no one expects to have anything hidden, and its subsequent integration with the question in hand, is a quality they saw in no other professor. The only worry they have is, his temporary tenure period as a professor in Oxford is about to get over.

‘Questions..?’ Samee asked, sipping a glass of water kept in his lectern. Teaching is something he loved to the core. He felt like any opportunity to impart your knowledge to others is internally rewarding. In his words, ‘When humans receive any space to communicate the pearls of wisdom to anyone, their rewarding centre gets stimulated and a burst of happiness appears... It’s a splendid trick of your brain so that your wisdom, experience and ideas do not get buried with the person who first had them, and the humankind will be benefited. Blame the evolution.’

Dr Samee Salazar Barack is a young academician who just celebrated his 33rd birthday. The Indian-born doctor traces his patrilineal heritage to Samarkand, Uzbekistan, while he enjoys the summer vacation in his matrilineal home in the Lakshadweep Islands. The story of a navigator from Samarkand and a village girl of Lakshadweep, was nothing less of a legendary love adventure he heard from his parents. After his graduation from medical school, the knowledge hungry Samee set out on an exploration for enlightenment and search for wisdom, which ended up in Oxford rather than in the Himalayas. He enrolled in Oxford as a resident of Psychiatry and Behavioural Sciences. While busy with the Psychiatric OPDs and wards, something else happened in his life. This is the time the young Samee’s life had a major twist.

On one fine day, he attended a lecture on comparative mythology and religion by a famous semiotician cum philosopher. All of a sudden, Samee was interested in Mythology and Theology. As soon as he completed the residency in psychiatry, he enrolled for the Theology program, although both the subjects stood at opposite poles.

This weird combination opened up his perspective to a broader angle and gave him the edge to extract views which would be foreign to someone qualified in one subspecialty. He started uniting and studying the semiotics from the history and correlated it to his teachings. It was an instant hit. In no time, a sobriquet ‘The Buddha’ was popularly assigned to him by his students.

The wave of questions almost settled. Samee let out a sigh of relief. He folded up his laptop and his books on lectern. ‘Tomorrow, we will continue the neuro-anatomical aspect of spinal cord, before getting into the functional neuro-anatomy and the organizational network,’ he said, folding a few charts on the board.

He fetched his black western jacket and walked through the aisle, towards the door. Always seen in his western suit, radiating an appealing personality, he is the youngest professor of Oxford Medical School. The perfect formality he keeps in his appearance and the flawless behaviour fit the look of a bright scholar rather than a crazy psychiatrist. His charming, carefree smile, black hitching eyes, a deep and calm, manly voice will catch anyone at the first meeting itself. His long black hair matted sprucely to the back with neatly trimmed short-boxed-beard and the athletic build is the reason his female colleagues and girl students call him ‘the handsome Buddha’ in secret.

Away from friends and interactions, he spends most of his time in the Bodleian Library rather than his Oxford home. Apart from attending the psychiatry visits and counselling sessions of Woodhill Prison once a week, he divided almost all his time between teaching and studying, something unusual for youths of his age. On the weekends, he could be seen in the college badminton court, competing with the university champions or having a ramble through the countryside, alone with his pet.

He strode through the ancient colonnade of Oxford, gazing at the vast green courtyard in the middle. It was still raining outside. Sound of heavy drops pounding the ancient roof before finding their way to the seething grass rumbled everywhere. The diffused grey hue of the darkened sky resembled an arrested dawn. Apart from few black-robed figures strolling across the yard with their umbrellas on, everything else remain deserted.

Samee opened his tall black umbrella and stepped out to the courtyard.

‘Excuse me, doctor...’ someone called him from the veranda behind.

Samee looked back. A girl was running towards him through the rain, with her overcoat raised above the head. He stopped walking and waited for her to join him. She stepped into his wide umbrella cover from the drizzle.

‘Yes?’

‘Dr Samee...’ she grinned while lowering the jacket. It showed her tall slender figure off to perfection in that black formal suit. Her shining chestnut hair was beautifully pony-tailed to rear, almost wet in the rain. The prodding deep eyes and light skin with sharp jaws signalled a probable lineage of Persia. Her clothes were wet and tightly clung, revealing her torso to a professional elegance.

‘Yes?’ he said again, pulling himself out of the captivation.

‘Sorry, to bother you sir...’ she breathed, as the water drops rolled down her hair and clothes.

‘It’s all right... please...’ he reassured, extending his umbrella to let her in. It’s a normal process that students run behind him to clear the doubts after every class.

‘Sir, I was wondering why Michelangelo would hide something of a neuro-anatomy in his frescos. Don’t you think we are conjuring facts out of nothing?’ she enquired, as they started walking across the wet turf.

Samee chuckled at her query. Immature question.

‘Sir, I am sorry that my doubt is off medical science... sorry...’ she apologized at his expression.

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ he said fervently. ‘He would happily do it. Because... first... he is an artist of high renaissance...’

‘High renaissance?’

‘Yes, high renaissance is a brief duration in which most exceptional and grandest arts were produced in the Italian states. The arts of this period emphasised upon classical tradition and gradually expanded to a style called mannerism, through a network of patronage,’ he said a little loudly, over the rumble of rain drops. ‘This mannerism emphasised proportion, balance and ideal beauty in the arts, which resulted in elegant works no one imagined till the time.’

‘Does that mean?’

‘That means... it represented an intellectual sophistication... in simple words... great messages were hidden cleverly in the renaissance arts...’ he said, ‘and that’s why we call both Michelangelo and Da Vinci the Renaissance men!’

‘Hmmm...’ she nodded.

‘Oh, yeah… and Michelangelo dissected cadavers in his teenage years as well. The history says he continued to be an anatomist throughout his life, which could be another reason’

‘An anatomist?’ she peeked at him wide eyed.

‘Yeah, an anatomist. If you look at Creation of Adam from a fresh perspective, you can have the birth process adroitly hidden in it.’

‘Really?’ she asked astonished, raising her eyebrows.

‘Yeah, the red cloth around the God has the shape of a human uterus... you know... you can call it uterine mantle...’ he glanced at the sky, ‘...and that scarf hanging out could be a newly cut umbilical cord,’ he answered.

She looked at him impressed and in awe, her deep eyes reflected admiration and respect.

‘...and this Michelangelo Buonarroti was into so much perfection… if you study this fresco in more detail, you can learn about an extra concealed rib on left side of Adam’s torso. And this is the exact rib from which Eve was created later.’

‘I am impressed sir...’ she stared at him in shock as they reached the other side of the courtyard.

‘He has hidden a lot of clues in virtually all his work; you can catch a kidney placed in his painting Separation of Land and Water.’ Samee climbed the steps, taking two at a time. She accompanied him to the veranda, still unsettled with the doubts.

‘No wonder they call him il divino,’ Samee said, folding the umbrella. ‘The divine one.’ ‘Now if you excuse me, I have a meeting to attend.’

‘I am afraid you can’t sir!’ she blurted, staring at him.

‘Beg your pardon?’ Samee raised his eyebrow in surprise.

‘You can’t attend any meeting now!’ she repeated in the same tone.

‘Why would you say that?’

‘Because you are coming with me now!’ she responded, glaring at him.

‘Who are you... may I ask?’ Samee demanded. The sudden turn of the conversation confused him like never.

‘I am not a student here at Oxford... doctor...’ her lips made a wicked smile, ‘neither am I here to ask you any doubt!’

‘Excuse me...’ he frowned at her, motionless.

‘You have to come with me doctor, I am sorry you don’t have any other choice,’ her tone swiftly changed to a warning.

Samee said nothing; he sceptically glanced back at her, in wonder and confusion. All these years, it wasn’t the first time he is getting warnings and threats from brotherhoods to stop writing about the cult’s secret rituals and its psychiatric aspects, sacred conclaves and secret sites. Now to which one do you belong?

‘You are our new Messiah... professor!’ This time, she sounded more like she was pleading.

Chapter 2

‘H uh?’ Samee stared at her, clueless.

‘My name is Maria Sylviera, Interpol Special Agent... and...’ She paused for a moment to take out a small silver card from her breast pocket. ‘I have special orders to take you!’ She extended the card to him.

‘Interpol what?’ Samee looked at her blankly.

‘International Police, London division!’ She pushed the card closer to his face.

Samee took the card staring at her, lost. The card was moulded of smoothened metal with the Interpol’s symbol on it. It felt abnormally heavy in his hands. He read somewhere that this type of cards turns into tools of a soldier, similar to a blade or a driver, to gain a hand over the enemy.

‘Organisation international de police criminelle’ the caption on the card said; The French translation for the International criminal police organization. Above the caption, he saw a blue-coloured emblem of Interpol. Two olive branches curved above a globe represented peace. A sword placed behind the globe represented the quick involvement of police action. Apart from that, two balancing scales etched below the olive branches symbolised an eternal justice in their work. A special code number was written under the name ‘Maria’ and her designation.

‘Where do you want to take me?’ Samee raised his eyebrows in question.

‘We want your help over a very important matter of national security sir,’ she took out a paper and flashed at him. ‘Here is the order.’

Samee skimmed through the order from distance. It had an Interpol letterhead with the symbol of Organization as in the card. The Director of Interpol himself, named Alexander Berekhyah, had undersigned the order.

‘Dr Samee, if you are not willing to read the order let me brief it for you,’ she said in disdain.

‘That would be better.’ Apparently I am not liking any of these.

‘Let me ask you a few things first...’ she sternly stated, lowering the