The Prince of Mist

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  ‘Naturally, Cain was aware of the situation, so he decided that he and his friends must vanish from the country as quickly as possible, but in a discreet way, preferably avoiding the police and their irritating procedures. That is how, taking advantage of a gambling debt that had been handed to him at a convenient moment – thanks to the stupidity of the Dutch captain – Dr Cain was able to board the Orpheus that night. And I alongside him.

  ‘What happened on the night of the storm is something that even I cannot explain. Fierce winds dragged the Orpheus towards the coast and flung her against the rocks, opening a gash in the hull that caused her to sink in a matter of minutes. I was hiding in one of the lifeboats, which broke loose when the ship ran aground and was then hurled by the breakers onto the beach. That is the only reason I survived. Cain and his henchmen were travelling in the bilge, hidden under crates in case of an inspection halfway through the journey. I suppose that when the icy water flooded the bowels of the ship, they didn’t even realise what was happening …’

  *

  ‘And the bodies were never found.’ Max was stunned.

  Victor Kray shook his head.

  ‘Often, when storms are violent, the sea carries the bodies away,’ said the lighthouse keeper.

  ‘But it usually returns them, even if it’s many days later,’ Max replied. ‘I’ve read that.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you read,’ said the old man, ‘although in this case it could be true.’

  ‘Then what happened?’ asked Alicia.

  ‘For years I’ve had a theory even I didn’t quite believe it. But now everything seems to confirm it.’

  *

  ‘I was the sole survivor of the shipwreck. Yet when I recovered consciousness in hospital I realised that something strange had occurred. I decided to build this lighthouse and stay here, but you already know that part of the story. I was sure that the night of the storm didn’t spell the end of Dr Cain; it was only a pause in time. That’s why I’ve remained here all these years. When Roland’s parents died some time later, I took him in, and he, in exchange, has been my only company during my exile.

  ‘But that isn’t all. A few years later I made another fatal mistake. I tried to get in touch with Eva Gray. I suppose I wanted to know if everything I’d gone through had been worth it. Fleischmann got in first – he discovered my whereabouts and paid me a visit. I told him what had happened, and my words seemed to free him of all the ghosts that had tormented him for years. He decided to build the house by the beach and, soon after, little Jacob was born. Those were the best years of Eva’s life. Until the death of the boy.

  ‘The day Jacob Fleischmann drowned I knew that the Prince of Mist had never left. He had remained in the shadows, waiting patiently for something powerful to return him to the world of the living. And nothing is as powerful as a promise …’

  11

  WHEN THE OLD LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER FINISHED his story, Max looked at his watch: it was a few minutes to five. Outside, light rain had started to fall across the bay and the wind from the sea banged insistently against the shutters.

  ‘There’s a storm brewing,’ said Roland, scanning the leaden horizon.

  ‘Max, we should get back home. Dad is going to call us soon,’ Alicia added.

  Max agreed, reluctantly. He needed to consider everything the old man had told them, to try to fit the pieces of the jigsaw together. The effort of remembering his tale seemed to have plunged Victor Kray into a listless silence, and he stared blankly ahead from his armchair.

  ‘Max …’ Alicia hissed.

  Max stood up and waved a silent goodbye to the old man, who responded with a tiny nod of his head. Roland observed the old lighthouse keeper for a few seconds more, then followed his friends outside.

  ‘What now?’ asked Max.

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ Alicia declared.

  ‘Don’t you believe the story?’ asked Max.

  ‘It’s not an easy story to believe,’ Alicia replied. ‘There must be some other explanation.’

  Max looked at Roland.

  ‘You don’t believe your grandfather either, Roland?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know what to believe … Anyway, let’s go before the storm reaches us. I’ll come with you.’

  Alicia jumped onto Roland’s bicycle and they sped off on the return journey. Max turned for a moment to look at the cottage and wondererd whether years of solitude on the cliff top could have led Victor Kray to make up his grim story, which he clearly believed to be true. He let the cool drizzle refresh his face then set off downhill.

  The tale of Cain and Victor Kray was still running through his mind when he reached the road that bordered the bay. Pedalling on through the rain, Max began to sort the facts into the only order that seemed plausible to him. Even supposing that everything the old man had told them was true – which was hard to accept – the situation was still unclear. A powerful magician who had been hibernating for many years appeared to be slowly coming back to life. If he followed this train of thought, the death of Jacob Fleischmann had been the first sign of Cain’s return. And yet there was something about the whole story, which the lighthouse keeper had concealed for so long, that just didn’t add up.

  The first flashes of lightning stained the sky scarlet and the strong wind began to spit large drops of rain in Max’s face. He hurried on even though his legs had not yet recovered from that morning’s exercise. There were still a couple of kilometres to go before he reached the beach house.

  Max knew he couldn’t simply accept the old man’s tale and assume that it explained everything. The ghostly presence of the statues in the walled garden and the events of those first few days in the town suggested that some sinister mechanism had been set in motion and nobody could predict what might happen next. With or without the help of Roland and Alicia, Max was determined to carry on his investigation until he got to the bottom of the mystery. He would begin with something that might hold the key to the whole conundrum: Jacob Fleischmann’s films. The more he went over the story in his mind, the more Max was convinced that Victor Kray hadn’t told them everything. Not by a long shot.

  *

  Alicia and Roland were waiting on the porch when Max, soaking wet, left his bicycle in the shed and ran over to take shelter from the downpour.

  ‘That’s the second time this week.’ Max laughed. ‘At this rate I’ll shrink. You’re not thinking of going back now, are you, Roland?’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ he replied, gazing at the thick curtain of water. ‘I don’t want to leave my grandfather alone.’

  ‘At least take a coat. You’ll catch your death out there,’ Alicia pointed out.

  ‘I don’t need one; I’m used to it. Besides, it’s only a summer storm. It’ll soon be over.’

  ‘The voice of experience,’ joked Max.

  ‘Well, yes …’

  ‘I think we shouldn’t talk about it any more until tomorrow,’ Alicia suggested after a pause. ‘A good night’s sleep will help us see things more clearly. That’s what my father always says.’

  ‘And who’s going to sleep tonight after a story like that?’ Max blurted out.

  ‘Your sister’s right,’ said Roland.

  ‘Creep,’ Max shot back.

  ‘Changing the subject, I was planning to go diving again tomorrow. I might get back the sextant someone dropped the other day …’ Roland stated.

  Max was trying to think of a crushing reply – he thought it was a terrible idea to go diving around the Orpheus once more – but Alicia answered first.

  ‘We’ll be there,’ she said softly.

  A sixth sense told Max that the plural she had used was just her way of being polite.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ Roland replied, his eyes never leaving Alicia’s face.

  ‘Hello, I’m here,’ said Max in a singsong voice.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Max.’ Roland walked off towards his bicycle.

  They watched as Roland
rode off into the storm, remaining on the porch until his figure had disappeared.

  ‘You should put on some dry clothes, Max. While you change I’ll make something for dinner,’ Alicia said.

  ‘You?’ Max retorted. ‘You can’t even cook.’

  ‘Who said anything about cooking? This isn’t a hotel. In you go,’ ordered Alicia, a wicked smile on her lips.

  Max decided to follow her advice and went indoors. The absence of Irina and his parents increased the feeling the house gave him of being an intruder in someone else’s home. It was unusually quiet inside, as if something was missing. As he climbed the stairs towards his bedroom, he realised what it was. The cat. He hadn’t seen Irina’s odious pet for a couple of days now. All things considered, he decided it wasn’t a great loss and put the thought from his mind.

  *

  True to her word, Alicia didn’t waste a second longer in the kitchen than was strictly necessary. She prepared a few slices of bread with butter and jam, and poured two glasses of milk.

  When Max glimpsed the tray with what was supposed to be his dinner, the expression on his face said it all.

  ‘Not one word,’ Alicia threatened. ‘I didn’t come into this world to spend my life cooking.’

  ‘You don’t say …’ replied Max, who wasn’t very hungry anyway.

  They ate their meal quietly, waiting for the phone to ring with news from the hospital, but the call didn’t come.

  ‘Perhaps they rang earlier, while we were at the lighthouse,’ Max suggested.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Alicia.

  Max noticed the worried expression on his sister’s face.

  ‘If anything had happened, they would have called,’ he argued. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  Alicia smiled meekly, confirming to Max his ability to comfort others with arguments that even he didn’t believe.

  ‘I suppose so,’ she agreed. ‘I’m going to bed. What about you?’

  Max downed his milk and pointed towards the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll be up in a minute, but I think I’ll get something else to eat. I’m starving,’ he lied.

  ‘On you go. I’m done.’

  Max watched his sister disappear upstairs. As soon as he heard Alicia close her bedroom door, Max put down his glass and went off to the shed in search of more films from Jacob Fleischmann’s private collection.

  *

  Max turned on the projector and the beam of light flooded the wall with the blurred image of what looked like a collection of symbols. Slowly, the picture came into focus and Max realised that what he’d thought were symbols were numbers placed in a circle and that he was looking at the face of a clock. The hands of the clock were still and the shadows they projected onto the face were clear and defined, from which Max inferred that the shot was filmed in full sunlight or at least under an intense source of light. The film continued to show the clock face until, slowly at first and then progressively gathering speed, the hands began to turn anticlockwise. The person operating the camera took a step back and it became clear that the clock was hanging from a chain. A further backward movement of a metre or so revealed that this chain was suspended from a white hand. The hand of a statue.

  Max immediately recognised the walled garden that had appeared in the first of Jacob Fleischmann’s films they’d viewed a couple of days ago. As before, the position of the statues was different to how Max remembered it. Now the camera began to move through the figures again, with no cuts or pauses, just as it had in the first film. Every two metres or so the lens closed in on the face of one of the statues. One by one, Max examined the frozen expressions of the circus troupe. He pictured them fighting in vain to escape their horrific deaths in the pitch dark and icy waters of the Orpheus’s hold.

  Finally, almost in slow motion, the camera approached the figure marking the centre of the six-pointed star. The clown. Dr Cain. The Prince of Mist. At his feet Max noticed the motionless shape of a cat stretching a sharp claw in the air. Max, who didn’t recall having seen it when he visited the walled garden, would have bet his life that the uncanny likeness between this stone cat and the creature Irina had adopted at the station was no coincidence. As he stared at the images, with the rain pounding against the windowpanes as the storm moved inland, it was easy to believe the story the lighthouse keeper had told them that afternoon. The malevolent presence of the stone figures was enough to remove any doubt, however reasonable that doubt might have seemed in the light of day.

  The camera now closed in on the clown’s face, pausing only half a metre away and remaining there for a few seconds. Max checked the reel: the film was coming to an end. Suddenly, a movement on the screen caught his attention. The stone face was moving, almost imperceptibly. Max stood up and walked over to the wall on which the film was being projected. The pupils of those stone eyes dilated and the lips arched slowly into a cruel smile, laying bare a row of long, sharp teeth, like the fangs of a wolf. Max felt his throat constrict.

  An instant later the image disappeared, and Max heard the reel spinning as the film ended.

  Max turned off the projector and took a deep breath. Now he believed everything Victor Kray had said, but this didn’t make him feel any better – quite the opposite. He went up to his room and closed the door behind him. Through the window, in the distance, he could just about make out the walled garden. Once again, the stone enclosure was submerged in a dense, impenetrable mist.

  That night, however, the darkness didn’t seem to come from the forest, but from within himself. It was as if the mist were nothing other than the frozen breath of Dr Cain, waiting with a smile for the moment of his return.

  12

  WHEN MAX WOKE THE FOLLOWING MORNING his head felt like a bowl of jelly. From what he could see out of the window the storm was gone and it promised to be a bright, sunny day. He sat up lazily and took his watch from the bedside table. The first thing he thought was that it wasn’t working properly. But when he put it next to his ear he realised that the mechanism was working fine; he was the one who’d lost his bearings. It was twelve noon.

  He jumped out of bed and rushed downstairs. There was a note on the dining-room table. He picked it up and read his sister’s spidery writing:

  Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,

  By the time you read this I’ll be on the beach with Roland. I’ve borrowed your bicycle, hope you don’t mind. I see you went to the movies last night, so I didn’t want to wake you. Dad called first thing and says they still don’t know when they’ll be able to come home. There’s been no change in Irina, but the doctors say she’ll probably be out of the coma in a few days. I convinced Dad not to worry about us (it wasn’t easy).

  By the way, there’s nothing for breakfast.

  We’ll be on the beach. Sweet dreams …

  Alicia

  Max reread the note three times before leaving it on the table. He ran upstairs and hurriedly washed his face. Then he slipped on a pair of swimming shorts and a blue shirt and went out to the garden shed to find the other bicycle. By the time he got to the road that skirted the beach his stomach was already screaming for its morning rations, so when he reached the town he changed direction and headed for the bakery in the main square. The delicious aroma called to him from several metres away and the approving rumbles of his stomach confirmed that he’d made the right decision. Two sweet buns and two chocolate bars later he set off for the beach with a saintly smile stamped on his face.

  *

  Alicia’s bicycle was leaning on its stand by the path that led to the beach and Roland’s cabin. Max left his bicycle next to his sister’s. Still the city boy, it occurred to him that even if the town didn’t seem like a haven for thieves, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to buy a couple of padlocks. He stopped for a moment to look at the lighthouse on the cliff top and then began walking towards the beach. Shortly before he came to the end of the path that led between tall grasses to the bay, he stopped.

  On the shore, about twenty metres from
where Max was standing, Alicia was lying on the sand. Leaning over her was Roland, his fingertips slowly caressing the pale skin of her belly. He drew closer to Alicia and kissed her on the lips. Alicia rolled onto her side then climbed on top of Roland, her hands pinning his against the sand. On her lips was a smile Max had never seen before.

  Max took a step or two back and hid among the grass, praying they hadn’t seen him. He remained there, not moving, wondering what he should do next. Turn up, smiling like an idiot, and wish them a good morning? Or go off for a walk?

  Max didn’t consider himself a spy, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to peek once more through the tall grass at his sister and Roland. He could hear their laughter and see that Roland’s hands were moving shyly over Alicia’s body. Exploring. From the way his hands were shaking, Max deduced that this was, if not the first time, then at most the second time Roland had found himself in such a momentous situation. Max wondered whether it was also the first time for Alicia. He had to admit that he didn’t know the answer. Although they’d spent their whole life living under the same roof, Alicia had always been a mystery to him.

  To see her lying there on the beach kissing Roland made him feel uneasy, and it wasn’t something he’d expected. From the beginning he’d realised that there was something between her and Roland, but it was one thing to imagine it and another, very different thing to see it with his own eyes. He peered out again but suddenly felt that he had no right to be there: the moment belonged only to his sister and Roland. Silently he retraced his steps as far as the bicycles and left the beach.

  As he did so he wondered whether perhaps he was jealous. Maybe it was just that he’d spent years thinking of his sister as a child, older than he was but with no secrets, certainly someone who didn’t go around kissing people. For a moment he laughed at his own naivety and gradually he started to feel better about what he’d seen. He couldn’t predict what would happen the following week, or what the end of the summer would bring, but that day Max was sure that his sister was happy. And that was more than he’d been able to say about her for many years.