I buried my face in my hands and wept. I cried out, ‘Oh, Carolina, I’m no closer to finding out who the Muladona is than I was three days ago, and I only have four tales left.’
I felt her arm around my shoulder. ‘If you’re gonna stay, Verge, then I’m gonna help you.’
‘I . . . I don’t know what to do next.’
‘Just sit here a minute, quiet-like, and think. You’ll come up with somethin’.’
I laid my head on her shoulder and breathed in her sweet vanilla scent. My thoughts were so confused! Night was coming and death surrounded me on all sides.
An idea formed in my mind. Maybe I could prevent the creature getting into the house. ‘Why didn’t I think of this before?’ I asked Carolina.
She laughed, ‘What?’
‘If the creature comes in through the mirror, let’s take the mirror outside. Let’s break it. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?’
‘Now you’re thinkin’!’
We went to the ancient mirror: even though it was daytime, I couldn’t bear to look into it, afraid the Muladona would be there. Between the two of us, we removed the heavy mirror from the wall and shuffled it through the kitchen and out the back door. Standing in front of the pile of metal junk, I said, ‘Okay, on three.’ We rocked the mirror back and forth. ‘One, two, three . . . let go!’
The mirror crashed onto a heap of iron bedsteads and cracked from top to bottom, like the veil in the temple of Jerusalem. But it did not break. I kicked it, but my foot just made an indentation in the glass and my distorted, carnival image looked out, mocking me. I picked up a length of iron tubing from the pile and, closing my eyes, I struck the mirror again and again until I heard it shatter.
When I had finished, I thought I heard again the strange voice. I cocked my head and strained my ears.
‘What are you doin’, Verge?’ Carolina asked.
‘I think there’s something in the garden.’
‘Is it the Muladona?’ she gasped.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s not time yet. It sounds like a voice I heard in a dream a long time ago,’ I found myself stepping into the undergrowth of matted grasses and gnarled tree branches.
Carolina said, ‘What are you’re doin’, Verge? You don’t know what’s back there,’ but I paid her no heed. I walked a few more steps, before she grabbed me by the shoulder. ‘Verge, you ain’t in shape for no more adventures today. Let’s go back inside and get you something to eat. You need to keep your strength up.’
She sat me down at the kitchen table and stoked up the fire. Then she made us some sandwiches out of cold ham and cheese from the icebox. We munched them for several minutes without saying a word. After a while, I noticed her toying with the string about her neck.
‘You still wear that thing?’ I asked.
She pulled out the tooth. ‘I never take it off. It reminds me of mamá, ’cause I fought for her. I don’t know why, but I feel it keeps me safe at night.’ She looked down and said, ‘I know that must sound awful silly, Verge.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘My mother once said love is never wasted, not one word, not one gesture.’ As soon as I said it, I felt my cheeks burning. We fell silent again.
Carolina cleared her throat and said, ‘Okay, let’s get practical. The only way we know how to kill the creature is with a knife. So, we’ll get you one. . . .’
‘No way,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to physically confront that thing! You have no idea how horrifying it is. You saw what it did to Corporal Riquelme and he’s a trained soldier. It’ll eat me alive!’
‘Okay, Verge,’ she said. ‘We’ll think of another way.’
I considered. ‘Look, um, does your father still have that old shotgun he takes with him for hunting pigeons? Maybe iron buckshot will stop the beast. . . .’
‘Papá used to have it. Not anymore. He got into an exchange of words with Mr Eckertson, el viejo tacaño, who owed him payment a long time since for buildin’ a pigpen. Things kind’a got out of control and Sheriff Wilkinson impounded his gun. It’s locked up in his office. Papá’s lucky he didn’t get locked up himself.’
‘That doesn’t sound like your father.’
‘He’s . . . he’s changed, Verge. Things have been tough on him since the war. Less work, less money to pay for stuff, and now this damned influenza.’ Her voice faded out and we sat uncomfortably in silence once more.
‘Maybe someone else has a gun?’ I asked. ‘Why don’t we break into one of the houses where the people have died and arm ourselves?’
‘It wouldn’t do no good,’ said Carolina. ‘After what happened with Pa, the Sheriff went house to house and impounded all the guns. He said he didn’t want another smallpox riot on his hands, like back in Laredo in 1899. Remember the stories? The whole town darn near killed each other before the Cavalry was brought in.’
‘Where are the guns now?’
‘They’re all locked up in the Sheriff’s strong box and that’s locked up in his office, and it’s all boarded up and chained. Since he’s gone now, and the Deputy too, God only knows where the keys are. It’s no use, Verge. There ain’t a gun left in Incarnation.’
‘Well, if we can’t beat the creature with guns, then maybe we can beat it by some—magical means. Can you tell me anything more about the Muladona, something your father might have mentioned to you?’
‘Well, there’s all kinds a versions of the story, Verge,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes it’s the concubine of a priest. Sometimes, it’s—how do you say it? Un chico sacrílego. A sacrilegious child.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘It’s the son or daughter of, you know . . . when a priest and a woman . . .’
I felt my cheeks begin to burn again. ‘Yeah, I get it,’ I mumbled.
‘And there’s a version of the story in which the creature is the manifestación of a priest’s soul that’s been corrupted; but most of the stories I recall are about women.’
‘How does the curse work?’ I asked. ‘What happens to this woman?’
‘She’s cursed to travel throughout the parish, from midnight until daybreak, in mule form. She has to seek out other human souls and corrupt them, feeding on their flesh. And sometimes . . .’
‘What?’
‘One story says that the Muladona searches out her own child and gives him to the Devil as a hostage, while she roams the earth, free.’
Shivering, I asked, ‘What happens to the Muladona in the morning? Does she still keep the shape of a mule, or does she change back, like a werewolf?’
‘Usually she falls over, exhausted, in front of the town church. At dawn she transforms back and wakes up naked. Sometimes she don’t even remember what happened.’
‘She doesn’t know what she’s done when she’s back in human form?’
‘The only sign there’s somethin’ wrong is that her feet are caked with mud, and she’s got cuts and bruises, like a sleepwalker maybe?’ Carolina was silent for a moment. ‘It just don’t seem fair, do it?’
‘Now don’t you go feelin’ sorry for the creature. That thing is pure evil.’
‘I know, I know, Verge. But if all she’s done to deserve bein’ transformed into a mule is bein’ seduced by a priest, or bein’ the seventh daughter in a family, then it ain’t her fault, now, is it? And the priest gets off scot-free? That doesn’t seem fair either. Like in your papá’s sermons, when he blames Eve for everyone’s sins.’
I looked down at my shoes.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring el Señor Pastor into this.’
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘You’re right. In those old Bible stories, it’s always the woman who gets blamed, isn’t it? Eve, Jezebel. . . . But what about the most important part.? How do we stop it?’
‘Well, unfortunately, every story has a different ending. Most versions I know say you have to lop off its left ear with a knife; then it dies, transforming back into human form. Another says you have to stab it in the heart. Another says
the only way to kill it is by ripping the golden bridle from its mouth, but the person who does that will die a mysterious death.’
‘And then the woman’s soul is free?’
Carolina rubbed her eyes, ‘I seem to remember one version where that’s the case; somethin’ like, if a man who truly loves her stabs her with a knife, he sets her tortured soul free. But I don’t know what version applies here, Verge. Up until last night, I didn’t think any of it was real.’
‘It also poses a lot more questions.’
‘Yeah,’ said Carolina, ‘like if the woman being transformed into the Muladona really doesn’t know what’s happenin’ to her, then our list of suspects is pretty long. It could be anyone in the county. It could be a complete stranger.’
‘It’s no stranger. That creature knows me. It hates me. It’s something personal, but I still haven’t a clue why it’s singled me out.’
I began to shudder uncontrollably. Carolina rested her hand on mine. ‘Shhh, shhh, Verge, it’s okay. It’s been a long, hard day. You got four more stories to settle it, right? And maybe Corporal Riquelme mortally wounded it. Or, even if it’s still alive, maybe it won’t be able to get inside the house, now we got rid of the mirror.’
‘I wish it were that easy,’ I said. I got up and looked at the clock on the mantel. ‘You’d better get going. It’s pretty late now, almost 10:30.’
As we did the washing up, Carolina said, ‘You know, I could stay the night . . . keep you company? Maybe it would be easier if I were . . .’ she looked into my eyes, ‘. . . under the sheets with you?’
‘Carolina, I . . . I can’t let you stay, not after what happened to the hobo. He’s probably dead, and it’s my fault.’ I began to choke up, ‘If anything ever happened to you, I would never forgive myself.’
‘Okay, Verge. I understand. Creo. In the morning, I’ll come over and you can tell me everything that happened.’
‘Carolina, if anything should happen to me tonight, I just want you . . .’ but she cut me off with a wave of her hand.
‘Vergil Erasmus Strömberg,’ she said, ‘when I see you in the mornin’, you tell me what you learned. You just stay tucked under the sheets tonight, and don’t do nothin’ foolish. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I agreed, and walked her to the door. ‘Thanks for everything. I mean it. If it weren’t for you I’d be alone in the world.’
It was an awkward goodbye. I stuck out my hand to shake hers, and she kind of hugged me. It was all elbows and lumpy. As I closed the front door behind her and turned the key, I immediately regretted not letting her stay the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I went to my bedroom to make sure my bed sheets were tucked in tight. I picked up the old rusty bayonet I’d tried to open the front door with and put it under the covers, although I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have the courage to use it.
Remembering my father’s admonition, I kneeled down next to my bed and said my prayers. I prayed for brave Corporal Riquelme at death’s door. I prayed for the Sheriff, whose corpse had given his life’s blood, even after death. I prayed for Sebas and Lupita. ‘And Dear God, thank you for sending me Carolina, and I hope her father recovers from his affliction. I also pray for my own father’s safe return.’ I finished by asking, ‘Please protect my mother and Pastor Olafssen, wherever they are. I pray they are in Your good graces, and that they are safe and dry and warm tonight.’
I got up and went to the fireplace. The mantel clock said 11:00. I was exhausted, my thoughts were all blurry. Had the hobo killed the awful creature? Was its only way in through the old mirror? Could I dare to hope my torment was over?
I had to stay alert in case it came again tonight. Maybe a quick, cold bath would wake me up. I took the clock with me into the bathroom and set it down on the sink. I wrenched open the valve and started filling up the tub. The water was freezing. Maybe I’d catch my death of cold. My right inner ear started to ache. I’d probably caught a chill from taking the hobo to the doctor down the wet streets.
I watched the tub fill up. The surface of the water began to cloud. There was a groaning of pipes, and the flow stopped altogether. An ice sickle formed from the faucet. I shivered, enchanted by the layer of ice that was creeping over the surface of the water. I glanced at the clock: it still said 11:00, although time must have passed since the last time I’d checked. To my horror, I saw that the clock’s mechanism was no longer spinning. I had forgotten to wind the clock.
There was a loud pounding and the tub jumped from the floor on its clenched lion’s claws. The pounding seemed to come from beneath the ice. It must be midnight; the creature had caught me unawares! A dark mass rushed against the ice like a whale coming up for air. The whole house shook and I barely kept my footing. A wide crack opened up and a cloud of sulphurous gas came whistling through it. Flashes of images burst through my brain, exploding and fading like fireworks; the hobo bleeding out under my hands; the rows of dying flu victims outside the schoolhouse; the vast, empty streets of Incarnation in the rain.
My thoughts flew to Carolina. I had to survive one more night, just so I could see her again. Painfully, slowly, I pulled myself away. I stumbled down the hallway towards my bedroom. My ear ached all the more. The house shook again and the air was filled with the sounds of an explosion. The creature had broken through the ice. I felt the tremors of the explosion more than heard them, and my ear ached all the more. A high-pitched pinging sound overwhelmed all others.
Images of my feet moving along the hallway and my hands grabbing at the walls for balance flickered before my eyes. They were sepia-coloured, dog-eared pictures, like the rapidly-moving cards of a kinetoscope at a penny arcade. I looked at my own figure through the little pinhole of the projector as I felt the hallway tipping right and then left. I turned the crank faster and faster, speeding up the succession of images, desperate to get under my sheets before the creature devoured me. The sound of the fluttering cards mixed with the pinging noise in my head. Then came splashing, sloshing, sizzling sounds as the Muladona galloped after me down the hallway.
By some miracle the image of myself made it to my bedroom before the ghastly mule. As my projection burrowed itself under the sheets, I realised once again that I was immersed in the creature’s strange magic. I observed the following events which flickered before my eyes. . . .
THE FOURTH TALE
Stone Deaf
Erland staggered down the pavement, trying to keep his balance. The whole world swirled around him and the ping-ping in his ear changed to one solid, high-pitched drone. He couldn’t get the noise out of his head, no matter how much he shook it from side to side. It seemed as if it was composed of many sounds, one laid over another, like someone leaving the wireless tuned between stations.
‘For the love of God, you old drunkard,’ screeched the woman he’d almost stumbled into. ‘It’s not even noon, and you’re already three sheets to the wind.’
Erland’s legs went wobbly. He lunged at the nearest tying post and clawed at it for support. He looked after the blurry figure of the old woman, the widow Agata, habitual lector at church and self-appointed guardian of public morality. ‘Old witch!’ Erland spat after her. ‘I ain’t had a goddam drop today. . . .’
Agata’d continued on down the sidewalk, oblivious to his response. She mumbled a stream of incoherent words that crackled in Erland’s ear. It was like wading through a pool of static: ‘. . . useless man . . . wife should . . . poison . . . just like Frans . . .’ It wasn’t that he heard it exactly; it just came to him, trembling in the air, starting from the bones in his inner ear and reverberating down his jaw. Erland yearned to take out his whip and lay it broad and hard against her back, but the handle, tucked into the back of his wide leather belt, seemed inaccessible, remote. Distance and depth were as much a blur as the objects around him. The whip could have been a few inches or a thousand miles away from his trembling hand. It all seemed the same to him.
Erland tried to find some point
on the horizon to focus on: the tower of the old gambling hall on the corner, the church on the other side, the schoolhouse. These buildings, once faithful, solid and friendly (even that time when he’d been on a three-day bender), all betrayed him. They spun around like a wheel of fortune at the county fair.
Summoning all his powers of concentration, Erland focused on a nearby post box and, further ahead, an iron ring set into the kerb for tying horses. He used them like the bead and blade of a rifle sight. In this way the old rancher focused on the brick-faced bar that had once been a gambling hall and whose looming tower had long ago been abandoned. He let go of the lamp-post, pushed his battered hat over his mop of grey hair and launched himself in the general direction of the bar.
All Erland’s senses went out of sync. One leg seemed longer than the other. The world was a giant fishbowl and the static in his right ear became more pronounced. It sounded like a bunch of squawking, migratory birds. Erland burst through the creaking, wooden bar door and crashed down at the nearest table, sending a spittoon flying and an ashtray smashing to the floor.
‘Goddam it,’ the barman said, standing up. He kicked the larger shards of glass towards the corners of the room. ‘Why the hell do you have to come in here already drunk? Would it kill you to buy a drink in here now and then? And I’m gonna add the ashtray to what you already owe me for the chair.’
Erland growled, ‘Goddam it, why does everybody think I’m drunk? It’s my ear, my goddam ear. Ever since I fell off the goddam ladder. I haven’t had time to drink today, what with Doc Evans poking and prodding me all morning long. That young snot-nose. Him and his newfangled inventions are gonna be the death of me.’
Looking up from the sports section of a newspaper several weeks old, Nicanor said, ‘Oh, yeah? So, what did the Doc say?’
‘That my ear’s dead,’ Erland said, shaking his head, ‘that it’s goddam dead, and I’m never gettin’ my hearing back. From what he can tell, he thinks it’s all smashed up inside, the tympa something and the cocka-lea. ’Course he says he wants to do more tests to confirm it. Typical quack, wants to bleed me dry, like all the rest of them. If it’s not the union dues, then it’s the taxes and the doctor’s bills.’
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