Muladona

by Eric Stener Carlson

  He bounded up the stairs. When he reached the top he saw a row of rooms opening off the landing, some with closed doors, some with doors half off their hinges. In the flickering light of his lantern Vincent could see deep gouges in the velvet wallpaper, as if someone had run a pitchfork along the landing. He dashed about, the kerosene sloshing and the wick flickering as he peered into every room. There was no one to be seen.

  As Vincent stood panting, one of the gorillas fell through the ceiling above him like a body dropped from a gallows. He smashed through the floorboards and plummeted down to the ground floor, taking with him a Persian carpet that whizzed and whirred in its wake and then fell into nothingness.

  Vincent held his breath as the body landed on the floor below, sending unseen things spinning and tottering. A cloud of dust and splinters rose up to him. He heard the girl’s scream again, all the more pathetic and insistent now, and realised the men must be on the floor above him. Vincent took to the stairs, straining his eyes to see beyond the light of his lamp. Halfway up, tripping over ‘Padre’ Anselmo slumped against a stair post, he flew headlong across the steps. The lamp smashed against an old tapestry, flickering then dying in a cloud of dust.

  Sprawled over the stairs, Vincent felt Anselmo’s hand clutch at his ankle, then heard his feeble voice.

  ‘Go . . . find her. You must . . .’

  Vincent didn’t wait to hear more. He kicked off Anselmo’s hand and sped up the steps. Without his lamp Vincent found it hard to make out where he was. He stumbled along the hallway, aware of sounds of a struggle in one of the rooms. He turned into what must have once been a library—there were large stacks of mouldy books everywhere. In the light of a kerosene lamp that had been dropped on the floor he could just make out the figure of the bald man, blood streaming from his face, lacerations up and down his arms. In front of him was a young girl about Vincent’s age. He was not able to see her features clearly, but the way she held herself, with such fragility and grace, convinced him she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Perhaps the most beautiful girl in the world.

  The bald man raised the axe handle above his head and paused, wheezing out a mix of white froth and bloody spittle.

  ‘And now . . . aah, aah, you’ll see the price . . . of crossing . . . the Union.’

  Grabbing the first thing he could reach—a small footstool —Vincent approached the bald man. The man slurred, ‘Good. You finally showed up. Now we can take turns with her, and . . .’

  Vincent smashed the footstool into the bald man’s jaw. There was the sound of wood breaking teeth, then the man fell down. Dropping the footstool, Vincent grabbed the young girl’s hand and pulled her to her feet. He couldn’t see her clearly, but she was surrounded by a perfume so light and sweet that he almost wept.

  ‘Come with me,’ he gasped, pulling her behind him. ‘I’ll save you,’ he said, and was about to ask her name when he heard a groan. Lifting himself up with the axe handle the bald man snarled, ‘Now you’re both dead.’

  Vincent ran. Many doors were locked, others opened onto closets.

  ‘Who are these men? What do they want with me?’ cried the girl.

  ‘I don’t know,’ panted Vincent. ‘I don’t know anything.’

  He threw open a door and a pile of rusty pots and pans spilled out, clanging onto the floor. He could hear the bald man’s following footsteps. Despairingly he asked, ‘Oh, God, isn’t there any door that leads out?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said. Then she said, ‘Wait . . . there’s one place. Come with me,’ She moved so quickly that Vincent could barely keep up as she pulled him along a passageway. They came to a spiral staircase. Not far behind, they heard the bald man’s heavy steps, his wheezing breath and the axe-handle dragging behind him along the floor. His heart in his throat, Vincent followed the girl, feeling as if they were flying up the stairs.

  They pushed open a heavy oak door, putting their backs against it and then pushing it closed behind them and locking it with a heavy iron bar. Vincent’s sense of relief quickly dissipated. Looking around him in the dark grey of the pre-dawn, he realised there was no way out. Edging to a window he saw, three storeys down, an orchard on one side and a garden on the other.

  ‘This isn’t a way out,’ Vincent stammered.

  His heart almost jumped out of his chest as a fist thudded dully against the oak.

  ‘You have no idea who you’re messing with, mocoso de mierda,’ said the voice of the bald man. ‘Now, open the door and you may get out of this alive.’

  The girl cried out and Vincent felt valiant again. ‘No, you’re not touching her,’ he screamed. ‘I’ll kill you first.’

  The thudding continued. Vincent heard the huge man ramming his shoulder again and again against the door. Vincent ran desperately about the room, looking for anything he could defend her with. He threw open an old trunk and pulled out a discoloured parasol, some fans and an antique wedding dress stitched with pearls. There was nothing of any use—no knife or crowbar. Breathing heavily, his hands on his knees, Vincent tried to think of a way out. From far away, he could hear the first cock crow of the dawn.

  In the changing shades of light, he saw how truly beautiful the girl was, with fresh full lips, long black hair and the whitest teeth imaginable. Resigned to the fact his life was over, the only thing he wanted to do was console her. Without thinking he pressed her close to him. He could feel their two hearts beating together with such force he thought they would burst.

  The pounding on the door seemed to move to his ears, and then to his lips, and became everything he was, everything he had been. His very soul was concentrated there. All he wanted was to kiss her before the bald man broke down the door and killed them both.

  With an agony he’d never felt before he drew her close, then their lips touched and it was like the first day of spring after the thaw. It was beautiful and pure. He knew in his heart he’d never taste it again, and he felt a double ache—knowing that this moment with her would happen only once.

  He saw her eyes, half-closed, satisfied, and heard her drawing in her breath like cherry soda through a straw. Then he heard the second cock crow and he saw a startled look in her eyes. Vincent thought it was fear of the man on the other side of the door. She grabbed him and kissed him, harder now. It wasn’t as good as the first time, like a peach left out too long in the sun.

  She drew back and there was no pleasure in her eyes, only fright. ‘It didn’t work,’ she half-said, half-pleaded.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  She grabbed him again, this time by the hair at the back of his head. ‘You want to kill me.’ The sky that backlit her was a lighter shade of grey, and in the shadows around her, her teeth and nails seemed elongated. ‘You want to murder me, like all the rest.’

  ‘No, I want to save you!’ Vincent exclaimed. ‘I . . . I love you.’

  ‘Murderer!’ she screamed and launched herself at Vincent, digging her nails into his face.

  A moment before, Vincent’s only thought had been to protect her. Now he punched and scratched and kicked, while she fought back, trying to gouge out his eyes.

  He grabbed her wrists and her arms twisted about like snakes. She opened her mouth wide and bit a flap of skin from his cheek. The wound burned like a cattle brand. He held on and fought with everything he had, thinking of his mother waiting at home for his return. His mind flashed back to the preparations for his father’s funeral: how they laid his body on the sofa in a borrowed suit. Days later, he saw his mother in the kitchen, her face washed with grief, gripping the rusty coffee can stuffed with unpaid bills. Vincent thought of his secret dreams of travelling to undiscovered mountains, deserts and swamps. These images fuelled his mind as he struggled with the girl.

  He kicked her in the stomach and pinned her against the windowsill. The grey light faded into pink as the sun rose towards the horizon. As their young bodies struggled with each other, Vincent heard, loud and clear, the third cock crow. The g
irl screamed shrilly, ‘You’ve murdered me!’ Bloody spittle sprayed from her lips,

  Vincent sensed her strength diminishing. He pushed her and she fell through the window, then toppled over the sill. There was a high-pitched scream like a wounded animal.

  Breathing heavily, vomit rising into his mouth, Vincent held onto the ledge and looked down. The ground was lost in shadows and there was nothing to be seen.

  Vincent was afraid no longer. He felt only an overwhelming exhaustion, a need to leave this place and sleep forever. He unbolted the door, expecting the man on the other side to kill him and be done with it. But as he opened the door, the body of the bald man slumped into the room, mouth and eyes open, his head bloody, his hands hard and stiff around the axe-handle.

  Vincent stepped over him, feeling neither relief nor remorse. He held onto the rail and like a sleepwalker slowly made his way downstairs. As he reached the third floor, Vincent saw the jagged hole where the gorilla had fallen through the rotten boards to his death. The body of the other gorilla lay in the adjoining room, a messy pile of arms and legs, a look of ecstasy on his face.

  On the main staircase he came across ‘El Padre’ Anselmo, his chest heaving, emitting a noise like a leaky gasket. Vincent knelt and unbuttoned the man’s leather jacket so he could breathe more easily. As he did so, he saw the white priest’s collar set in his black shirt.

  ‘Father?’ he said. ‘What happened here?’

  The priest wheezed as a ribbon of blood ran from his mouth. ‘We’ve protected the Republic of Texas since its foundation. We . . .’ and then he coughed up dark-red blood.

  Vincent said, ‘I’ve got to get you out of here; to a doctor.’

  ‘No, no,’ the priest said. ‘My arms and legs are snapped. She . . . punctured my liver. It’s over.’

  ‘What happened?’ the boy repeated.

  ‘We started as a guild . . . in Spain, long ago. We’ve fought this evil for centuries. It’s always the same. Swords, muskets or pitchforks . . .’ he slumped forward.

  ‘Father! Father!’ Vincent pleaded, gently shaking him. The priest’s eyes flickered. ‘It’s no use. She . . . they always find a weakness . . . turn it against you. That’s why we have to search out the innocent. The pure are the only ones immune to her charms. In Bavaria, they used to sit a virgin on a white horse to draw them in . . .’ He lost consciousness again.

  Vincent tried to stop the bleeding, but the priest was hurt in too many places. Much more softly now, the priest’s voice came, ‘Your father would be . . .’

  ‘Is she dead?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘Yes . . . but there will be others.’

  ‘What should I do? Hunt them? Go back to the saloon and get the others?’

  The priest shook his head feebly. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It only works once, like a firecracker. She drained you of your innocence, and you poisoned her with it. You can only do that once. . . . You’d die if you met one of her kind again. You’d see her coming. You’d smell her.’

  The priest coughed up a lump of blood that had already coagulated in his lungs. He grabbed Vincent’s shirt with both hands. ‘Look inside my pocket . . . here.’

  Vincent pulled out the pack of tarot cards. ‘How should I . . . use them? Do I cast a spell or something?’

  ‘No,’ Padre Anselmo laughed. ‘Magic’s not going to do any good now. The other pocket.’

  Vincent searched again and pulled out a wad of cash tied with packing string. ‘That . . .’ he gasped, ‘should be enough to get your mother back on her feet. Take the horses and wagon . . . they’re yours. You can . . . farm . . . or get a good price for them. Now go, before the lawmen come. You need to be . . . far away . . . when the sun comes up.’

  ‘But, Father, I have so many questions. Why would God make . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve tried . . .’

  Father Anselmo’s beautiful, prism-like eyes went dark, and his body slumped forward. Vincent held him. He felt the priest’s body growing cold, and he knew there was nothing left.

  Vincent thought about collecting the bodies and burying them in the backyard. But the sun was coming up—he didn’t have time.

  He unbolted the locks on the front door and walked out, checking to right and left. The girl’s remains were nowhere to be seen. He looked around nervously, wondering if she was still alive, waiting in the bushes for him.

  Crossing the square, he touched the still-burning wound on his cheek. The early morning breeze got up, rousing the rope on the flagpole. At the wagon, he fumbled with the reigns. The horses kicked and reared. He finally got them under control and slowly drove out through the deserted streets of the town. As the wagon crossed the small bridge that led to the open grasslands, the sun began to rise.

  The further he travelled from town, the more relieved Vincent felt. But he also felt empty, as if all goodness had fled from him, and he was cold. He picked up the leather jacket the bald man had left on the front seat and slipped it on. It was uncomfortable and too big for him, but he felt warmer just the same.

  It seemed to him now that his dreams of escaping life on the farm would never come true. He would never go into the wide open world and become the cartographer of far-distant places.

  The succubus had drained away all of his dreams.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As the last of the Muladona’s words faded, I realised that the creature had transported me to a dark and desolate territory. I had become the boy whose story I was listening to. As Vincent entered the saloon in the story, it was my fear that welled up inside him. My stomach tied itself in knots as I heard how the men chased that enchanting girl through the house. My heart had beat quickly as her lips drew close to mine. . . .

  I’d never kissed a girl before. Just that summer, I’d practiced once or twice on my hand at night, between my thumb and forefinger. Now all that was ruined.

  The story had sucked my dreams from me; not just the dream of my first kiss but also that of abandoning Incarnation for the wide-open world. After the horror of the story, what was the use of anything?

  I felt empty inside, jaded and wasted, and I didn’t even have a kiss, a real kiss, to show for it. I shouted at the creature, ‘How dare you tell me that story!’

  ‘You’re blaming me-ee, you little brat?’ it brayed. ‘Me-ee? I was clear about the rules. I told you the stories would rot insi-ide of you, until there was no ho-ope or reason left.’

  ‘You have no right to do that,’ I continued.

  ‘At last,’ it roared, its breath filling the room with the stink of swamp gas, ‘you understand what it’s like to have a-all your hopes da-ashed. To be told what to do and where to go. There, take it, take your empty life, for what it’s wo-orth. I don’t think I wa-ant it anymore. Just die in bed, you si-impering li-ttle cur.’

  At that moment it seemed to me that the Muladona wasn’t just this hellish creature sent to torment me; it was all the contradictions in my life. . . . I dreamed of adventure, but I never left the house. I longed to kiss a girl, but would never have the guts to do it.

  As crazy as it sounds, I readied myself to attack the creature with my bare hands. But then I heard the wind rattle the windows. It sounded like a voice calling my name, just like the day before. It lasted only for a moment, but it was enough to break the Muladona’s spell. The words that Sebas had written in his telegram sounded in my head: ‘Don’t believe what it says.’

  The night before, the Muladona had tried to trick me out of my bed by using my own fear against me. Now it was using my rage. I steadied myself. I yelled, ‘I’m not going to fall for your tricks. I’ve got a life waiting for me outside these walls, and one day I’m going to live it.’

  The Muladona brayed hideously, rising up on its hind legs and crashing down on my nightstand, splintering it to pieces.

  ‘Fine, you li-iittle ba-aastard,’ it spat. ‘You’ve survived another night. I was easy on you this time. Just you wait until tomorrow night. If you think being trapped in t
he tower with that li-ittle gi-irl was a nightma-are, prepa-are yourself for what’s ahead. Sweet dre-eeams!’ And like the night before, the Muladona spread its wings and burst out of the room, extinguishing the candle and leaving me huddled alone in the darkness.

  I awoke to a grey light outside my bedroom window. There was an early-morning chill in the air, but I didn’t feel as if I’d truly awakened. The first night the Muladona had visited me, I’d witnessed a mother’s terrible revenge. The second night, I’d been swept up in the savage hunt for a supernatural creature. All of it had seemed real—as real as my bed, as real as my books scattered about the bedroom.

  Was I really a sickly boy in Texas, plagued by the Muladona? Or was I a character in one of the creature’s stories, dreaming I was a boy?

  I crawled out of bed, trying to shake off my dreamlike state. As I stumbled down the hallway, everything around me undermined my sense of reality. I stared at a black horseshoe print charred into the floorboards. The house smelled musty and dank, like an ancient stable. I glanced at the slimy kitchen floor. It looked like the house had aged a century since I’d gone to bed. I lit the stove, but as I rubbed my frozen hands in front of it, it failed to rouse me from my slumber.

  I stumbled from room to room; I ran my fingers along the carvings on the heavy wooden chairs in the hope they would become familiar to me again. I was a sleepwalker in my own life.

  Then I heard an eerie, whistling noise. In my daze, I imagined it was the Pied Piper of Hamelin, come to take me away with the other children of Incarnation, dead from the war, dead from the flu. The whistling came closer. I found myself stumbling towards the front door. I was ready to fling it open and follow the Piper to my doom. I’d forgotten I didn’t have a key. As I approached the door I realised the sound wasn’t coming from a pipe. It was a harmonica playing the same eerie tune, again and again. In amongst the music I heard the faint call of ‘Odd jobs for food! Knives sharpened, holes dug, fences fixed!’