Marianne ran past. Carmelita could see her, when everyone else could not, but there was someone else who could see her, too. She raced into the kitchen, heart pounding. The crowd parted to let her past, but no one looked at her. It was as if she were invisible. She walked up to Yaya and placed a hand on her shoulder.
The old woman shivered and adjusted her dress. She turned her back to Marianne and walked out of the kitchen to the piano room. Marianne followed.
“Yaya, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I know you can see me. Please, help me.” Marianne slammed her hands against the piano. The keys rang loud and off tune.
Yaya shut the door.
“I’m not a ghost. Please,” Marianne pleaded, but she could not feel the tears sliding down her cheek. “Carmelita’s stolen my life. Please help me. What is this? What’s happening?”
Yaya crossed herself and kissed the cross on her rosary.
“Mangkukulam.” Yaya looked at her in the eye, but did not go any closer.
Marianne searched for the meaning. Witchcraft?
“Come, anak, do not let her see you. She will try to leave before the nine days is over. You cannot let her.”
She opened the door and light flooded back into the dark piano room. She walked straight through the kitchen, the back door, and out the gate into the streets of the town. There were people out, playing card games under florescent lights.
Marianne caught up to the old woman in the street. Yaya was careful not to touch her. She walked a few feet away and did not look at her. Her slippers clacked against the street.
The moon was bright enough to see by, as they moved away from the main road, towards the church. The face was in shadows, ornate and baroque, blackened windows. Marianne felt as if people were watching her from the shadows, but she could see nothing. They kept going until they reached the concrete wall of the cemetery.
The cemetery was not large, but it was full. There was no green, only concrete. Some graves were marked by slabs on the ground, but others were stacked in layers. In between, several larger mausoleums were scattered around. Old bones flashed white in the moonlight.
Marianne stepped back and away from the wilted flowers and graves, keeping to the middle of the narrow path. They walked towards a concrete mausoleum. The door was made of iron bars and, inside, three concrete graves. Her great-grandparents were buried there, Marianne thought. The third ... she shuddered as Yaya tried the door. It swung open noisily.
A dog growled, appearing behind them. Dark fur, yellow eyes, its shoulders hunched low. Marianne saw other dogs moving between the graves.
Yaya held out a hand, said a word and flicked her fingers. The dogs disappeared with a whimper, melting back into the shadows.
“Help me if you can,” Yaya said, as she knelt down slowly in front of the newest grave, her knees clicking with the strain. Marianne pushed against the slab. It opened a fraction.
There were growls from outside. Marianne looked back, hoping the bars would keep the dogs out. She and Yaya kept pushing until the slab was free. Yaya started digging through the coffin. Marianne stared at the girl inside. It was her face that stared back. Carmelita looked as if she were still sleeping. Her body had not yet begun to decay. Her mouth was partly open. Her eyes closed.
Yaya pulled something out from under the pillow beneath the body’s head. It was a rag doll made of black cloth, a dark ribbon tied around its waist, holding several clippings of hair close to the doll’s body.
Marianne knew whose hair it was.
“How do you ... Who was Carmelita’s mother?” Marianne stepped back, seeing, only then, the resemblance between the dead girl and the old woman. Yaya said nothing, as a snake pushed its way out from between the dead girl’s lips. Marianne thought she might be sick.
“Close it!” They both shoved at the slab, knocking it back into place, sweating and panting, both. Yaya rubbed at her back, but her other hand still gripped the doll. She walked right out of the mausoleum and Marianne walked after her.
A woman stood there, with long, dark hair, pale skin, almond eyes. Marianne did not recognize her. She scratched at the head of a black dog with long fingernails. Her dress was too large, the flesh on her arms too loose. She looked as if she had been beautiful once. Her eyes were as yellow as the dog’s.
“Traitor,” she hissed at Yaya. “You always treated the Padilla family better than your own flesh and blood, Mama. Why are you helping that spoiled, fat, coddled child? Her worthless father should never have left Carmelita here. I begged him to take her, but he refused. He gave his new family everything and left us with nothing. Don’t you want your granddaughter to have what she should have?”
Clouds hid the moon as the wind began to whip against Marianne’s cheeks. The first drop of warm rain hissed down from the sky, hot as blood.
Yaya stepped forwards, blocking Marianne’s path. “Not this way. It is not right, you devil girl.” Yaya took a small knife out of her pocket.
The madwoman yelled and jumped at her mother, grabbing at the knife. The doll went tumbling. Metal fell onto the ground.
There was a hiss. Cockroaches, lizards and moths began to come out of cracks between the tombstones, pouring over the wall like a dark wave, even as the rain began to drench them.
Marianne ran for the knife, feeling around the slick earth for the blade. It pricked her hand as she grabbed for it through a pile of legs and wings, and biting, scratching mouths.
The two women struggled in front of her, swallowed up by the insect horde.
Marianne plucked the damp doll off the wet dirt and cut the ribbon that bound it around the waist. Dark locks of hair fell into the puddles and Marianne screamed. The insects blotted out the light.
•
Marianne scratched at her leg and blinked awake. The room was full of sunlight. It lit the mosquito net like a cathedral. She jumped out of bed.
She found her parents in the kitchen with her grandparents.
“Where’s Yaya?” She asked.
“We haven’t seen her, today, Marianne. Why?”
Marianne began to run down the street, past the church, towards the cemetery, remembering the way in the daylight.
Mourners had come to visit, bringing flowers, tidying their loved ones’ graves. They looked up at the tall, Canadian-born girl who raced into the cemetery towards the Padilla mausoleum.
She pulled at the door, but it was locked, shut tight with a padlock. She searched through the cemetery and nearly tripped on the body of the old woman, slumped between two concrete graves.
Clutched to Yaya’s chest was a black rag doll, a ribbon hanging off of it. A few scattered hairs were caught in the folds of the rags. Marianne tucked the doll in her waistband, beneath the loose top of her shirt.
Her parents found her there, sobbing beside the body. Someone ran to find the doctor and the police, but she knew there was nothing anyone could do.
“I want to go home, Mom, Dad.” She cried. “I don’t care about the beaches. Can we go home, please? We don’t have to stay for all nine days, do we?”
Her father looked pale. “No, let’s go home. It’s enough.”
Back at the house, her sorrow and guilt abated. Marianne re-tied the ribbon around the doll’s waist, looped a hair between it, and smiled. All fixed again. She spat a frog out of her mouth and packed it in her suitcase, just in case.
•••
T. S. Bazelli is a writer from Vancouver, Canada. By day, she writes software manuals and by night, she writes speculative fiction.
Vodka Attack!
By Meddy Ligner
Early 1942, Somewhere on the Eastern Front
As he emerged abruptly from the enveloping fog, the building he was searching for finally appeared in front of him. It seemed to be an old factory with grey walls, half-destroyed and turned into a field hospital for the occasion. In the distance, he heard the cannon thunder. The cold and snow froze his bones, as he increased his pace to get away from them.
– Tell me, Comrade! Where can I find Dr. Yuri Iliev?
– At the end. In the operating theatre.
Simonov headed in the direction indicated and and finally arrived in front of an old office equipped as an operating room. On the heavy metal door hung a red sign, where was written, “Do not enter. Operation in progress.” It was necessary that he be patient a little longer before reuniting with his old friend Yuri.
While waiting, the officer leaned against the decrepit wall. There, an unfortunate who was missing one eye handed him a copy of the evening edition of The Red Star: the journal of the frontoviki – the soldiers on the Front who defended the Motherland against the Fascist hordes.
Simonov accepted the gift and flipped through the pages, smeared with mud and some bloodstains.
As usual, the news was generally good. In the various articles, bad news was everywhere restrained, nay, rejected. Under orders of the genius Comrade Stalin, the glorious Red Army would begin the counteroffensive, which would permit them to continue until Berlin, in order to kick dear Adolph Hitler’s ass.
Of course, all this was only propaganda. Aided by experience, Simonov knew how to read between the lines. Even if the situation was no more catastrophic than at the beginning of the hostilities, the war was far from won. Because the Germans were still occupying Soviet soil and committing atrocities there. Simonov recalled a young Muscovite student of the name of “Zoya Kosmodemianskaia”. The young partisan had been arrested, tortured and executed in the province of Tambov. Before the Fascists had hanged her in the main square of the village, she cried, “You can never hang all of us! My comrades will avenge me!” The officer remembered a photo of the young woman, of her dead body, half-naked, lying in the snow. This shot had made her an icon of the regime that had received the posthumous medal of Hero of the Soviet Union.
The slamming of the door drew Simonov out of his thoughts. Immediately, he recognized his old friend, Yuri.
– Piotr! What a surprise! What are you doing here? cried the doctor.
– My company has been sent into this sector and I knew that you worked around here. I took advantage of my day off to come see you ... And you? How are you?
– Each day, I must butcher these poor devils, said he, referring to the patients, who were lying on the floor. And as you can see, the conditions are more than precarious. We work without stop, in urgency, with few means. But follow me; we’ll go into my office. We’ll be more comfortable there.
When they finally arrived in his office, Iliev removed his shirt soiled with blood. Then he washed his hands, sat facing his friend and invited him to do the same.
– Here, at least, one can talk undisturbed.
– You have something to hide?
– Not particularly, but I prefer to keep the commissars of the NKVD[1] at a good distance. Here, one can easily fall afoul of them. Those shits track down any they call “deserters by injury”. Once they have a doubt, when they suspect self-injury, they execute the man in question under the pretext that he has betrayed the nation. They are always on our backs, digging ... No counting the number that can always swing should they be considered deviants ... So, that’s the routine! And you? How goes it with you?
– Nothing original. The war.
As the conversation prepared to turn to another subject, the door to the office opened abruptly. A man with Asiatic features entered the place.
– Hello, Ruslan! exclaimed Iliev. Let me introduce to you my old friend, Piotr Alexeievitch Simonov. We were born in the same village. Our families were very close and we went to school, together … Peter, this is Ruslan Solotin.
– Hello, and welcome to our field hospital, responded the latter. I share the office with Yuri. But I don’t want to disturb your reunion. I have two or three things to do and then I’ll leave you alone.
– No, of course not, Ruslan! You’re not disturbing us. Do what you have to do, no worries! insisted Iliev. Can I get you a little vodka? In the name of friendship!
– You musn’t refuse, said Simonov, smiling.
– Ruslan?
– Maybe later, thanks!
And the man went into the back of the room to let them go about their business. Iliev revised the conversation.
– And since the Battle of Moscow, where have you fought?
– I was assigned to a new artillery unit on the central front. We pounded Fritz relentlessly, hoping soon to be sent home. But, as you know, the situation is far from well-regulated. The Fascists are still besieging Leningrad, and it is murmured that they’re preparing a vast offensive to the South come spring, and ... and ....
– And what? asked Iliev, who was listening.
– And ... but what is your colleague doing? asked Simonov in a deep voice.
Iliev turned toward his colleague and called:
– Hey, Ruslan, can you explain to my friend what you’re in the process of fucking up?
– I’m lighting a variety of candles. And here is a small altar dedicated to our gods, Ruslan explained, showing them the object.
– Though he had received a perfectly good Soviet education, Ruslan continues his shamanistic practices, Iliev explained. Like all Buryats.[2]
– Exactly. Where we live, in far-off Siberia, there is a sort of communion between the spirits of the taiga and men.
– You are a shaman? asked Simonov.
– Yes, for seven generations. For my people, shamans are, at the same time, priest, doctor and mage … We have the power to communication with the spirits and the divinities, to whom we make offerings: food or vodka, for example … This drink is very prized by Those who live Beyond our World ….
Simonov was taken aback by what he had just heard. For him, Siberia represented the hell of the camps.[3] Many people of his acquaintance still languished there. Yet, in this vast country, lived mysterious peoples who fascinated him. He wanted to ask for more details, but suddenly, someone knocked on the door.
– Yes, enter! ordered Iliev.
A tall, strapping man, wheat-blonde, saluted his superior and presented his request without losing a second.
– Comrade, we’ve made prisoner a German soldier. He is wounded. I just had to hold back my men from killing him. He needs medical attention.
– Very good, Sergeant. Put him in the operating room. I’ll arrive at once.
– I didn’t know that you helped even the Fritzes! laughed Simonov.
– A doctor occupies himself with helping the whole world. And also, contrary to what our superiors would have us believe, they are not all brutes. Here, come with me in lieu of aggravating me … Ruslan, what are you doing?
– I’m coming with you, responded the Siberian.
When the trio approached the prisoner, they immediately noticed that the German was terrified. Iliev leaned over him and observed him with great attention. He decided that the injury had caused significant damage. His verdict was without appeal.
– He needs a blood transfusion, without which he’ll croak. Piotr, you can jabber in German, no? You can explain the situation to him?
– I can try, Simonov replied nonchalantly.
Simonov had always appreciated the language of Goethe. While he was a student, he had taught at the University of Leningrad. He was then far from imagining under what circumstances it would serve him … At that time, the war seemed so far away.
He approached the wounded man and began to explain to him what it would be necessary to do to save him. With a visage pimply and hairless, the other had the look of a kid having barely left adolescence. I
n his grey uniform of the Wehrmacht, he gave the impression of being in disguise. He listened attentively to what Simonov told him. As the Soviet officer spoke to him, he lost his composure. In response, he cried, eyes rolling:
– Nein, nein!
Simonov tried to calm him, insisting on the gravity of the situation, but nothing helped.
– He categorically refuses any blood transfusion. He doesn’t want Slavic blood. He doesn’t want the blood of an untermenschen – a ‘subhuman’, as the Nazis designate us. This man has been brainwashed by the propaganda of Goebbels.
– If he doesn’t undergo the transfusion, he’ll die within two or three hours, said Iliev.
– I’ve explained all that to him. He doesn’t want to hear any of it.
– Ah, well, then, he’s dead. We’re not going to waste any time on this kind of fool … Leave him.
– Wait! I want to try something, cried Solotin.
– What do you want to do? asked Iliev.
– A sort of experience. Wait for me. I’m going to my office to find something that I need.
With these words, the Buryat left the room like lightning. Iliev and Simonov stayed with the wounded man, who weakened with the passing minutes. His voice became less and less audible and his strength progressively abandoned him. He finally lost consciousness.
– He still lives, but he won’t for much longer, Iliev said.
– And your colleague? He wanted to try what, exactly?
– No idea. You know, with that kind of guy, we can expect any … The Buryats don’t think like us. They don’t have the same cultural references. But wait; here he comes.
In the same fashion that he had gone out, Ruslan burst into the room. In each hand, he carried a bottle of vodka. Around his neck hung an animal-skin bag.
– And what are you going to do with all this alcohol? asked Iliev, who was beginning to worry.
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