We followed a winding drive up a slope covered in strange ivy-covered stone sculptures of all shapes and sizes. Many of the sculptures were humanoid in form, but of an abstract design. Some cradled sundials or globes, others stretched out their arms in expressions of lamentation, while still others appeared to cowering, or attempting to shield themselves from harm. More often than not the people would lack definite features, and might have a stone sphere for a head, or else a triangular fin for a limb. Judging by their cracked and dilapidated appearance, along with the festering coils of ivy thrown over them, they had been around for a long time. I would have liked to have studied them at greater length, but we drove on and were soon pulling up into a small car park where we stopped and got out.
We entered a covered terrace where I was made to sit whilst the instructor and Crab apple went off to brew some herbal tea. A bearded groundsman threw me a shifty glance as he pottered about his duties. I saw a disordered array of nurseries, lobelias, and tall, musty shrubs covered in white, cobweb-like filaments. Although evidently well-tended, the plants did not look as healthy as they might have done, and the whole place had the reek of the sepulcher about it. Nearest to me was a metal table covered in potted Venus flytraps (Dionaea muscipula) the size of saucers. Their dark green jaws hung agape, large enough to take in a hand if one should brush unwarily by. When the ladies returned, I remarked to them on the great size of the plants and we conversed on the folly of triggering their jaws to close when trying to cultivate a healthy specimen. Having once owned one myself, I possess such knowledge of their care requirements.
I was made to fill out a privacy protection form, before receiving some instruction on mental balance. A group of Japanese teenage boys engaged in wellness pursuits caused a stone to fly in our direction, which startled the instructor. She reprimanded them, then Crab apple mysteriously withdrew. We indulged in mindful meditation and the flicking of stones in accordance with bodily chakras. Crab apple returned after over an hour's absence, and upon polite inquiry of where she had been, curtly declared that she had been on the toilet. There was then a bizarre gambling exercise on one of the nursery beds, where stashes of real money were used to display 'richness of spirit.' What all of this had to do with driving was beyond me. The instructor then seized my arm and told me we had been compromised and had to leave immediately.
Still confused, I followed her at a brisk jog back to the car. Crab apple followed behind, but fell away as we picked up the pace. When the instructor noticed that Crab apple had stopped, she told me that she must be the betrayer, and that our lives were in grave danger. At the car, a large branch had been shoved through the glass of the driver's window to impede our escape. I pulled it away and we sped off, passing the jungle of macabre statues whose arms seemed to be reaching out for us. "The sanctum is a cult who took in people from all over the city," the instructor explained, "delinquents and social outcasts, all those who need spiritual healing. But this place is old, and has a strict code of conduct." She jumped out at the gate, hastily re-entered the access code, and we were back into the anonymity of the busy city. I was never to learn the dark secret of the sanctum, but something tells me I am fated to return again.
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