Later that night, Konrad was startled from his sleep, shivering and wet. A noise had awakened him, or was it a dream? At first, he didn’t know where he was. Then he realised he was still lying in the bathtub, the smell of the puddle of candle wax close to his nose. Slowly rousing himself, he fumbled for a box of matches and lit the remains of the candle. He wrapped a musty towel around his paunch and started back inside the shack.
‘Guadalupe? Guadalupe?’ he called. Why hadn’t she come outside to wake him? Straining his eyes in the darkened hallway, he stumbled cautiously towards the bedroom. In the feeble light of the dying candle, he noticed a twisted spoon lying on the floor. Next to it was a pool of melted vanilla ice cream and an empty cardboard container. Then he saw a rivulet of dark liquid coming from the bedroom; it was warm and sticky against the soles of his feet, mixing with the melted ice cream. Although his veins were filling with ice water, he kept going forward with the surreality of a nightmare.
Before he entered the bedroom, he smelled it, coppery and earthy. Then he stepped over the threshold. By the flickering, fading light, he saw the bronze body reclined on the large feather bed, sinking from its great weight into the centre of it. All over the bed and splattered on the walls was the sticky substance, bits of French lingerie and lumps of flesh. The statue craned its neck, creaking as it turned towards Konrad, its eye sockets staring blindly at him. Its cold, metal hands, talon-like and wet with Guadalupe’s blood and with bits of her scalp under the nails, preened its unmoving hair in a coquettish way. Its empty metal chest heaved, creaking like a tin can crushed underfoot. Then its rusty hips swivelled slowly and spread apart, making a shuddering noise and smelling of long-trapped moisture.
Konrad thought of trying to outrun the statue, but, with his bum leg, he’d never escape. Besides, she’d follow his scent wherever he went. He was horribly aware of the smell of carnations smothering his body, flowing out from his pores, in spite of the bath he’d taken. He saw how the creature’s nostrils flared, creaking, sucking in his smell through the nail holes in its nose.
As the candle sputtered out and the house was left in darkness, Konrad realised that his wife was wrong after all: carnations were not the smell of death. They were the smell of desire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Somewhere a cockcrow sounded, so loud that it felt like my eardrums split. I opened my eyes in shock. Each ray of light that filtered through my bedroom window was a long, wicked needle stabbing into my eyes. Smells of the cold rain and the wet earth outside invaded my nostrils. The taste of blood filled my mouth, and the throbbing pain confirmed that I had, indeed, bit a chunk of skin out of my tongue during the long, horrible night.
After having lost myself completely in the latest of the Muladona’s tales, I was now overwhelmed with my physical presence in the world. Struggling against this battery of sensations, I jammed my hands over my ears. I clamped my eyes shut and wrapped myself in my covers. In the midst of this frantic action, I lost my balance and rolled out of bed. As I hit the floor, I felt like a shattered, porcelain doll. I lay trembling on the floor, all my nerves frayed like some howling animal during vivisection. I heard too much. I saw too much.
With my fingertips I felt the uneven pattern of the wood grain of the long, cold planks of the floor. Through the walls, I could even hear the worms burrowing in the garden and that voice—strange and familiar at the same time—floating in the wind, whispered close to my ear, ‘Come to me, where you’ll be safe.’
I knew I would go mad, if it didn’t stop.
Slowly, however, the magnified sensations lessened. Still trembling on the cold floor, my senses returned to normality, and the voice died away. I began to fill with relief at the realisation that I had survived another night, and that only two tales remained. I thought of the awful statue in the story, and the year carved in its tomb: 1878. It was the same year my mother had been born, the same year as the page of the Gazette Carolina and I had found at the gambling hall. Whether wittingly or not, the Muladona had left me this clue. The story of how my mother came into this world was somehow connected with Beatrice. I felt with terrible surety that it was a real grave in the cemetery on the outskirts of town.
Carnations . . . Incarnation. Everything reeked of death. It was as if the creature was speaking with me through dreamlike images. Whether it was meant for me to or not, I began to interpret its thoughts through the glass darkly. There was no doubt in my mind what I had to do before nightfall. I must go to the cemetery and find the gravesite of the woman called Beatrice.
***
Before I left the house, I put my bedroom in order, preparing everything for the sixth visitation of the Muladona. I tucked the sheets into my broken bed. I removed all of the books from the shelves, so they wouldn’t fall on me in the night. I wound the mantel clock and hid it under my pillow. To make sure I didn’t get caught outside unawares, I hunted through all the closets in the house until I found Grandfather Strömberg’s battered pocket watch, heavy like a bloated turnip. I was going to make sure I was in bed at midnight when the Muladona came for me this time.
I put on my mother’s grey woollen poncho and rammed Sebas’ old leather cowboy hat onto my head. Then I stuffed some crusts of bread into my pockets, even though I wasn’t hungry, and stuck the old bayonet in my belt. When I set out at eight thirty that night, it was dark, but the rain had stopped. Fast-moving clouds hardly disturbed the bright, almost full, moon. I had a hurricane lamp and a pack of matches in a satchel at my side just in case.
I thought of tossing a handful of pebbles against Carolina’s window, to get her to come outside with me. Then I thought better of it. I didn’t want to get her into any more trouble with her father. Besides, the Muladona may have seen her when we were together at the gambling hall. I couldn’t risk the creature taking out its rage on her.
The path that led out of town was a sloppy mess, so it took me longer to slosh through the mud than I’d expected. As usual, I found no one in the street, although there were some faint lights flickering in two or three houses. At one house I passed, I heard the muffled sound of weeping. What private tragedy were the tears being spilled over—a flu victim at home or a soldier overseas? Maybe this was the War to End all Wars, like they said, not because there’d be peace afterwards, but, rather, because there’d be no survivors left to make any more wars. Maybe tonight, as I tramped out of town, the cries from that house were the last gasp of humanity.
As I left town I heard the lonesome call of coyotes. I clutched at my bayonet, ready to fight off any animal that crossed my path. Then, just as suddenly, I burst out laughing. Here I was, off to the cemetery in the dead of night. It was the middle of the influenza epidemic, and I was ready to fight coyotes to the death. This was nothing like the usual me, the sick, invalided Verge, the boy lost in a world of books.
I was almost half-way to the cemetery. Just a little way over that small hill, and I’d be able to see the gates. The wind picked up as I struggled up the deep, slippery wheel ruts. As it whistled through the pine trees on either side of the path, it almost sounded like the voice I’d thought I’d heard coming from my garden. But every time the wind dropped, the whispering faded, so I convinced myself it was all in my head.
As I tramped up the hill, the gravel that slid behind me made a noise as if something were following me. I repeated to myself, ‘It’s just my imagination, it’s just my imagination.’ I flipped open my grandfather’s watch and held it up to the moon’s glare, confirming that it wasn’t yet ten o’clock. In the pale light, I saw something etched faintly into the watch case. I stopped for a moment and felt the grooves of the inscription with my fingertips. It read, ‘To Pastor Strömberg, from his legitimate wife.’ That was a strange thing to write, I thought, as if. . . .
It was then I heard the crunching of gravel behind me. I knew for sure this time it wasn’t my imagination. The thing approaching called my name, just like the owl in Indian legends. And I knew the owl meant death.
/> I wheeled around and saw a shadowy figure a few yards behind me. It raised its arm, trying to make a grab at me.
‘Devil’s minion!’ I cried, as I thrust the bayonet towards it. The figure lurched to one side, just missing the tip of my blade. Then it fell onto its back with a great thud and went sliding down the bottom of the hill like a toboggan. It was the Muladona in human form, thinking it could sneak up on me before midnight! I launched myself towards the immobile figure, half-running, half-sliding down the hill, bayonet forward. Tonight, I wouldn’t hesitate like I’d done at the gambling hall. Tonight, I would slay it and be free!
I slid towards the body as it struggled to right itself, like a turtle on its back. I raised my arm to deal the death blow, just as the shadowy figure cried out, ‘Verge, for God’s sake, stop!’ I just had time to divert the bayonet and drive the blade deep into the mud instead. Unable to stop my forward movement, we knocked heads, and both of us slid down to the bottom of the hill. For a moment I lay stunned, on top of the figure. Then I rolled off and lay on the soggy ground, seeing only the moon above me. As soon as I had caught my breath, I said, ‘Oh, Carolina, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you!’
She rubbed her forehead and moaned, ‘Dios mío! Who do you think’s been callin’ you for the past quarter mile or so?’
‘I thought it was the wind,’ I answered apologetically. ‘Anyway, your father had forbidden you from seeing me.’
‘He did. But he’s been drinkin’, Verge, and doesn’t know I left. I’ll be surprised if he remembers havin’ seen you today. As I was gettin’ him into bed, I seen you through the window. As soon as he was asleep, I slipped out. But you were too far ahead of me, so I had to cut through the woods. Now, help me up.’
‘Sure,’ I said, struggling to my feet, and I pulled her up. ‘Sorry, for smacking into you,’ I said.
‘Well,’ she said, rubbing her jaw, ‘at least you’re finally all fired up. That’s the spirit we’re gonna need to kill this thing.’ She bent down and pulled the bayonet out of the mud. Wiping it on her pants, she handed it to me handle first. ‘You’re headin’ for the cemetery, I suppose?’
I nodded.
‘Is there somethin’ there that’s gonna help you find the identity of the beast?’
‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘You sure you want to come along?’
‘Think you could stop me?’
‘Nope,’ I said.
‘Okay, then let’s get goin’ ’cause it’s gettin’ late.’
We started up the slippery hill in silence. It was wet, sloppy work, and we had to lean on each other all the way. When we got to the top, we could just make out the outline of the thick, high walls of the cemetery and the closely-set group of mausolea. Carolina said, ‘Kind’a reminds me of the village from that fairy tale. You know, the one where the guy with the flute takes all the kids away?’
‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin?’
‘Yep, that’s the one.’ She was silent for a moment and then said, ‘So, you gonna tell me about it?’
‘About the Pied Piper?’
‘No, no seas ridículo. I mean about the Muladona’s last tale. That’s why you’re here, right?’
‘Right. But it’s . . . it’s pretty tough. I’d rather not tell you.’
Carolina eyed me doubtfully. ‘We’re partners in this, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So, let’s go,’ she said, taking my hand. She pulled me downhill towards the cemetery. ‘Tell me on the way.’
Haltingly, uncomfortably, I began to tell Carolina the latest tale. It sounded strange, telling it in words, instead of through smells. But soon I was awash in the story again, forgetting the night, the moon and the girl walking next to me. As soon as I’d finished the words, ‘They were the smell of desire. . . .’ Carolina said softly, ‘We’re almost there, Verge.’
‘Huh?’ I asked, rousing myself. I looked at the massive stone walls of the cemetery just about a hundred yards in front of us and then back to the peak of the small hill where I’d run into Carolina. I couldn’t remember anything between those two points, not one footfall, not one comment from her, although it had been several miles.
I shuddered at the hypnotic power the story had over me.
The path had turned into a muddy rivulet. In unspoken agreement, we left it and took to the flat pasture beside it. We were quiet for a long while as our boots made ‘shloop-shloop’ noises through the field. She said, ‘I hate the Muladona. I hate how it dirties everything. For that creature, love, true love, don’t exist. And now I can smell it . . . in the air, in my hands,’ she said, sniffing at them. ‘I used to like the smell.’
‘Vanilla?’
She nodded.
‘Yeah, me, too,’ I said. ‘The tales linger, like grudges. You know, maybe I’m just naïve, but I still believe in all that stuff.’
‘What stuff?’
‘You know . . . stuff. What you just said, about. . . .’
Before I could finish my sentence, Carolina grabbed my arm and said, ‘Shush!’ She pointed straight ahead of us. At first, I couldn’t distinguish anything but the lighter grey of the cemetery wall against the pitch black sky. Slowly, however, I began to make out the outline of something between us and the wall: a large, four-legged animal! It turned its head in our direction, its eyes glinting in the flickering moonlight. As the clouds rushed by, it pointed its ears at us in anger.
We kept still, and my heart beat so quickly, I thought it was going to explode. ‘Oh, please,’ Carolina whispered in my ear, ‘it can’t end here.’
I strained my eyes in the darkness, afraid to even breathe. There was no way both of us could get to the cover of the woods before the Muladona tore us apart. I readied myself to distract the monster, so Carolina could make a run for it. As I looked closer at the beast, I breathed easier and whispered to her, ‘No, it’s not the Devil’s mule, Carolina. Just a horse. If you look closely, you can tell its tethered there. Probably someone rode it to the cemetery.’
Still not daring to move, Carolina hissed, ‘Who would be out here in the middle of the night? Could it be the Muladona’s new hide-out, after it was burned out of the gambling hall?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Okay, Verge,’ she said, drawing in breath, ‘there’s just one way to find out. You game?’
I nodded my head and we continued forward together. We skirted around the horse, moving as slowly as possible so as not to spook it. As we passed it quickly lost interest in us and bent its head down to munch the wet grass. We got to the wall and followed it, pressing our bodies into the shadows. I held onto Carolina’s hand and I tingled all over. As we got to the entrance, we saw that the huge, wrought-iron gates were open. From somewhere inside the gates, I saw a flicker of light. We moved closer, and I heard the faint sounds of hammering and sawing. It was a thick, laborious sound of someone trying to cut through wet wood.
As ridiculous as it sounds, suddenly an image flashed through my mind of a large Roman legionnaire constructing a cross. Behind him, everyone I knew in town—my father, Lupita, Sebas, Mr and Mrs Bellows, Doc Evans, Carolina’s father and the school marm, Miss Dawson—was waiting to crucify me. I imagined Father holding a thick wooden hammer in one hand and a bunch of crooked iron nails in the other. Shaking his head slowly from side to side, he said, ‘I’m sorry, Vergil Erasmus, but this crucifixion is for your own good.’
I shook away this horrible fantasy and crept forward. I clawed through my fear as if it were a mass of thick cobwebs and forced myself to peek through the gates. Suddenly, I felt sick.
‘What is it?’ Carolina whispered.
‘Coffins,’ I replied.
She crept up beside me and saw a dozen or more freshly-cut, pine-board coffins. Some were nailed closed already. Others were open. Inside were fresh bodies, puffy and white. Most had the risus sardonicus of death, as if they all shared the same terrible joke. I looked away from their faces, afraid that I might recognise one of them, espe
cially that of the hobo. Oh, why had I got him involved in all of this?
I’d turned away too late. I caught a glimpse of something I still see sometimes in my dreams: the whole Thompson family, the bodies Carolina’s father had discovered. The four coffins were stood up and leaning against the wall. Mr Thompson stood in his overalls stained with mud, his big coarse farmer’s hands useless now at his side. Mrs Thompson wore her best white kerchief, speckled with blood. The two sisters, Annie, a girl about six years old, and Melissa, a girl our age were rigid and wan, wearing their Sunday dresses, chequered blue and white; they looked more like terrible dolls in department store boxes than the sweet girls I used to go to school with.
‘Oh, Verge,’ Carolina whispered. ‘I’ve never seen anythin’ so awful.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘And it makes me . . . it makes me think, what right do I have to escape this damned mule? Why should I fare any better than the Thompsons? They were good, decent folk. Now they’re gone, without rhyme or reason. Oh, God, look at little Annie. I remember her as a sweet baby not so long ago. I can’t be less deserving of death than she was.’
Carolina gulped hard and said, ‘No one deserves this, Verge. It’s blind luck. Death’s like that roulette wheel we saw in the gambling hall. When your number’s up, it’s up. That’s what our boys fightin’ in France are up against. Some’re gonna come home, some ain’t.’ She squeezed my hand and said, ‘But so long as you got breath in your lungs and fight in your body, it ain’t over. Remember, we saved Corporal Riquelme, didn’t we?’
‘Yes, we did,’ I replied. ‘At least, for a while.’
‘Well, that’s somethin’. And we got out of the gamblin’ hall alive, too, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we just keep doin’ what we’re doin’, Verge. Don’t you lose hope on me, or we’re goners. You understand?’
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