PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “Aurelia is waiting.”

  “I’m sorry?” Holland said.

  “The mistress of Salvació. You will see her now.”

  CHAPTER VII: INGÉNUE

  ANTICIPATING THEIR ARRIVAL, Aurelia Salazar had positioned herself in a majestic red leather chair. It was a seductive pose, her long fingers lightly tapping the armrests, her legs crossed jauntily. She dressed in a rather mannish black suit, which looked strange and ill-fitting on a sixty-year old woman, but she’d never cared what others thought of her.

  “Our guest will have some wine,” she said to Beatriz. The older woman handed a glass to Holland, who tasted the sour liquid out of politeness, not thirst. “Now you may leave,” Aurelia ordered Beatriz. Aurelia’s thin smile lengthened as she looked Holland over.

  “You have a rather bland face, Gabriel Holland. I like that . . . . It means that I can’t define your motives. One gets so bored with obvious men. But you are a mystery to me.”

  “There appears to have been a misunderstanding—”

  “I trust that you are here for lessons, yes?”

  Holland nodded.

  “Cristian demands that you are tested. If you succeed, all is well; if not, he will refuse to instruct you. So many fail to satisfy . . . .”

  Exasperated, and abandoning his air of tact, Holland sat down without waiting for an invitation. “You have the advantage—how did you know that I seek tuition?”

  “But you told Cousin Beatriz that you were ‘expected’, did you not?” She smiled until Holland blushed. “Cristian wishes you to draw. In this way, he will gauge your ability, should you possess any. My protégé and I will sit for you presently.”

  At a loss for further conversation, Holland looked about the room and saw that a series of pictures graced each and every wall. He assumed that the sole, attractive model was the Salazar’s daughter.

  “You must be very proud of her,” he said.

  “Alatiel is my life.”

  At that moment, a young woman in a black dress entered the room. Holland recognised her at once—Salvació’s wall-painting had come to life. She took Aurelia’s hand and led her to the sofa where Holland sat. Unnerved, he laid a sketchbook upon his lap; both women raised their heads high and preened, sweeping hair away from their faces with a sudden movement of the neck. For some reason, he was reminded of unbridled horses—and this amused him a little, though he dared not show it—but nevertheless there was something contemptuous about such unbridled vanity.

  He fussed with a pencil, not quite willing to look them in the eye as yet. Beatriz Salazar passed swiftly by the open door, and Holland was grateful for the momentary distraction. His left hand traced a rough outline of the pairing, and he busied himself with shading the edges until he could delay no longer. He looked up at last.

  The two women were caressing each other, apparently oblivious to his presence. The upper halves of their bodies were now exposed, and as their lust grew in intensity, they watched Holland from the corner of their eyes. They seemed to melt into one another’s skin, becoming, to their observer at least, a single writhing creature. The girl’s fingers appeared to grow in length until they resembled the thin, scampering legs of a spider. Aurelia’s eyes were closed now, her passion at its highest pitch, his presence forgotten or dismissed. Now, Alatiel beckoned to him.

  Holland finally raised himself and backed out of the room. He found that he could not speak.

  He tried, at first, to maintain some dignity, but soon he was out the house and running along the driveway, despite being unsure as to what had disturbed him so badly. He heard a scream and reluctantly slowed to look back towards Salvació. In the distance, Aurelia kneeled at the foot of the living room window, her hands clasped around her neck in a vain effort to halt the escape of blood. Beatriz Salazar knelt beside her; Holland assumed she was trying to help her cousin.

  Though he did not see her leave the house, Alatiel waited for him to turn around before following patiently; time was on her side.

  1881

  SINCE THAT DREADFUL DAY two years ago, the shadow of Alatiel had fallen upon Gabriel Holland’s friends and loved ones, shrouding their lives in misery. The tale told by Helena did not touch upon the mystery of her parents’ deaths while touring Catalonia, nor did the author realise that Gabriel was the true object of Cristian Salazar’s wrath. Day by day, death by death, Salazar would have his vengeance for the murder of Aurelia. He tormented his victim by degrees until, despite his fear and uncertainty, Gabriel Holland returned to Salvació.

  CHAPTER VIII: THE SCARS OF MEMORY

  UPON ARRIVAL IN CARLITON, Holland deliberately sought the company of his old friend from university days Ian Jardine, who had recently taken up the post of town minister. At the rectory, he found that the reverend greeted him with a somewhat exaggerated friendliness; Jardine was a little too welcoming. Perhaps he was lonely, or maybe he needed someone to talk to.

  After tea and small talk, the conversation turned to the recent funeral of Jardine’s predecessor.

  “Did you know Reverend Morley very well, Ian?”

  Holland noticed that his host’s hand trembled as he placed his cup on the small trestle table between them. Jardine had a pleasant, open face. Ordinarily, Holland felt, people would instinctively trust such a man, rely on him for guidance, spiritual and otherwise. But he perceived that Jardine was in a state of nervousness, in spite of his easy smile.

  “Sadly, no. I never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance, in life. I’d read about his good works, seen his picture in the newspapers, but never actually met the man. I should have liked to—I’m sure he could have told me much about the town and . . . the church. Yes, I would certainly have asked him about that.”

  Sensing that he was being encouraged to lead the conversation, Holland drew the cleric out. “I’ll have to visit it again someday.”

  “It’s a very peculiar place; bizarre even. The first thing one sees within it is that awful grey sculpture of Christ crucified.”

  Holland knew it well. The sculpture showed Jesus as a coward, his expression one of utter, childlike fear. His face was scarred, the wounds livid. The body twisted unnaturally, as if Christ fought desperately to escape his destiny.

  “Why has it not been removed?” asked Jardine, his question resembling a plea. “That abomination has no place in the House of God. People are devoted to it—they foolishly believe it keeps them safe from harm. I was told that some local boys dragged the statue from the church once, and let it fall into the stream beyond the cemetery; next day, the ghastly thing was back in its place. The limbs were painted red, as if it had been bleeding. Such mockery of Our Lord’s suffering. . .”

  Jardine sighed, and his hands dropped into his lap as if he were exasperated or resigned to defeat. “I’m not sure that I can remain here. I know how weak that sounds, but I admit, I’ve begun to question my mission. My kind are not welcome here—I have been warned. I can trust you to be discreet, can’t I, Gabriel?”

  “Of course.”

  Before Holland had the opportunity to respond fully, the reverend unburdened himself:

  “Immediately after the funeral service, I returned to the church. It was bitterly cold within. A thoroughly miserable day, it was, fitting the sad occasion perfectly. As I walked the aisle, deep in my own thoughts, I glanced up as a sudden movement caught my attention—the closing of the confessional door.

  “Perhaps a mourner remained in the church, I thought, so I entered the stall. A veiled woman sat across from me—the lattice-work is particularly dense in St Xavier’s Reconciliation, so I couldn’t tell who she was . . . at first. She looked so thin . . . half-starved, in truth. I concluded that the woman was a pauper, or perhaps too ill to take care of herself properly.

  “The destitute and the frail often patronise church services, as I’m sure you know; I consider it my duty as a minister to welcome them and give counsel if need be. On this occasion, I thought, it may be that the grieving woma
n needed consolation. Or perhaps, she didn’t know the deceased at all and had sought shelter from the rain.”

  “Your devotion does you great credit,” said Holland. Jardine ignored his friend’s compliment and looked into the distance as he spoke.

  “I said ‘Good day to you,’ but she didn’t stir at all. She was muttering something to herself, and on hearing what I assumed to be prayers, I felt sorry for her—perhaps she had known Reverend Morley. I could hear only snatches of whispering—the wind seemed to carry her words away. A prayer book was open before her, but she stared right into my eyes as she murmured. Her lips didn’t move at all, you know. I could only make out her last sentence, a line from Corinthians about the resurrection of the dead: ‘What is raised is imperishable.’”

  Jardine lowered his head, as though he were embarrassed.

  “Go on, Ian,” Holland urged. “Please don’t think that I doubt you—I’ve seen enough myself to know what you’re saying is true.”

  “My nerve failed me, and I stumbled out of the confessional, such was my panic. I passed the fourth Station of the Cross and stopped, for she called to me. As I turned to her, the sun must have broken from cloud cover, and light flooded in through the tall window opposite the woman. She had removed her veil. I felt that I might have seen the blood running beneath her skin, had she been human at all. Her face was pale, off-white, the colour of those hideous plump worms one sometimes encounters in woodland, under stones . . . blind worms. . .”

  Jardine stopped. His eyelid twitched, betraying his unease. He exhaled heavily, and his lips shaped and then abandoned a few hesitant words. The force of the memory held him in thrall. He gathered himself and carried on.

  “A rush of wind tore through the church, but . . . it didn’t seem to touch her. The hymnals were dashed from the pews, a vase of flowers fell and smashed into pieces. I managed to stay upright, just about. I couldn’t look away from her face, yet I could barely stand to look at it. Her hair had been swept back, and hung in limp strands—it glistened . . . but I doubt that the rain you or I experience had ever touched it. She seemed to glare and smile at the same time. This disturbed me to the point where I doubted my faith, doubted myself—she knew my sins, all of them. I ran, ran like the despicable coward I am.”

  Holland started to speak but was cut off by Jardine, who blushed furiously as he tried to regain composure.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve said too much. She isn’t real, and I shouldn’t allow a mere creature of my imagination to upset me so, no matter what illusions my wretched mind conjures up.”

  Holland edged closer to his friend. “She’s not an illusion, Ian. We both know this, don’t we? We deny it at our peril.”

  “Yes. She will not stop, it seems, until those responsible are punished.”

  “Responsible for what, Ian?”

  “The death of Aurelia Salazar.”

  LATER, AFTER HOLLAND TOLD OF HIS OWN ORDEAL at the hands of the Salazars, and the loss of his friends and acquaintances since that time, he suggested an extreme solution to their mutual woes. He concentrated on lighting a cigarette, almost oblivious to Jardine’s sudden but anticipated fury. “It’s the only way, Ian. Lord knows, I’ve tried to think of something more civilised. Don’t doubt that Salazar and his creatures would do the same to us.”

  The younger man’s cheeks reddened again. He paced the floor, caught halfway between rage and incredulity. Jardine stopped every once in a while, to question, to vent his objections.

  “Murder? Are you serious, man? Quite frankly I’m amazed—and ashamed—that you apparently believe I could have anything to do with such an insane scheme. I simply cannot, will not.”

  Holland decided to make one last effort. He had, of course, expected the cleric to react in this way, but as he was a relative newcomer to Carliton, one who’d yet to fall under the Salazars’ spell, Jardine was one of very few people who might play a part in their downfall. Holland stood up and appealed to the reverend as a friend, as a man.

  “Ian, we must act. Your life is in danger too, not just mine. I believe that the Salazar family have only allowed strangers, people like yourself—Christians—to conduct church ceremonies as some kind of obscene entertainment. That would appeal to them, you see: a cruel game, like a cat toying with a mouse before the kill. They’ll kill you, too, in time, just as they probably murdered Reverend Morley.”

  “Don’t be foolish—Morley died of heart failure. Enough of this nonsense. I’ll hear no more of it. You might have suffered some misfortune but—”

  “Misfortune? My friends are dead, Ian—most of the people in my circle of friends are dead; that is hardly ‘bad luck.’”

  Jardine strode to the door and began to open it. Holland caught Jardine’s wrist.

  “So tell me, why do you think I have come home? To visit you, perhaps? To catch-up on old acquaintances? No, I am here to save myself and the few friends I have left alive. We can end this, this . . . curse, together.”

  “I-I saw nothing that can’t be explained by fatigue and imagination. I don’t wish you to come here again, Gabriel.”

  Holland stepped over the threshold.. “Many more lives may depend—”

  The door slammed, and the sound of the locks snapping home echoed in Holland’s ears.

  CHAPTER IX: BLOODSPORT

  THE SORROW VISITED upon Salvació House due to the murder of his wife seemed to have little adverse effect on Cristian Salazar, outwardly at least. If anything, the man appeared to adopt a more benevolent attitude towards those who had once shunned and despised him. Now, Cristian’s reputation was reborn; he cast himself as a selfless benefactor, no longer the hated foreigner but respected by all. The misdemeanours of the past had been forgotten, unmentioned and dismissed by the natives of Carliton. But Salazar did not forget. Nor did he disregard Beatriz’s ever-shifting lies about Aurelia’s death: her blaming of Mrs Pierce, a serving woman from the town, for allowing the murderer Gabriel Holland to enter Salvació.

  Cristian slowly gained the townspeople’s loyalty. Not a few of the local girls came to work for him, and the folk who benefited from his largesse would defend him to the death, an irony not lost on Salazar. Those who avoided his company were of little concern, for they would know him well in time.

  While Cristian grieved privately, Beatriz, his cousin and constant companion, spent her hours alone in the forest or contemplating in Aurelia’s mausoleum. Peace descended on the town of Carliton, or so it seemed. And as if to herald the Salazar’s personal renaissance, Lucas Pierce, aged seven, helped celebrate Cristian’s birthday by gorging on the poisoned cake reserved for the child.

  The party was going so well, Salazar thought, and now, to his amusement, the guests pleaded for the entertainment to end; a few of the men wept as they begged him in vain. But they found their pleas cut short—they could not help but stare in silence at their strange host. Black hair had been combed back, revealing a forehead unmarked by the passage of time. Likewise, his dark and pointed face betrayed no sign of great age at first glance, although when light struck the skin around his eyes, it revealed itself to be heavily-lined, cracked even. Long, slim brows and a thin moustache gave him the look of a nobleman from centuries past. He was old and young, all at once, both sinister and glorious.

  Wooden chairs lay on their backs upon the street, broken strands of coloured bunting trailed in the dust as children and their parents fought viciously for the toys and trinkets that Beatriz had thrown at their feet. Discordant music, without visible source but heard by all, seemed to goad the revellers into further desperation, and they clawed at their rivals’ faces until the flesh was torn and bleeding. Salazar’s expression varied from moment to moment; first, a wide, exaggerated smile, now a look of sheer contempt as he peered at the families pushing and shoving each other to lay claim upon rancid pieces of meat, beset by flies.

  As the manic requiem faded into silence, the celebrants staggered to their homes, hugging the tawdry gifts to their chests. Only you
ng Lucas remained at the table, the colour of his face matching the blue frosted birthday cake. As his weeping mother cradled his body, Salazar lingered to watch for a moment. He leant his head to one side, gathered himself and then spat with force upon them. Cristian and Beatriz started to stroll back to Salvació House, their expressions speaking of mutual satisfaction. The party was over, but the games had just begun.

  IN THE EVENING, the families regarded the spoils for which they had risked their lives. Cristian’s charity provoked a mixed reception; for every exclamation of joy, there was a corresponding lament. Soon enough, even those who had considered themselves most fortunate had reason to curse and weep.

  The dolls which little girls cradled in their arms fell apart, leaving their new owners with wailing, limbless playthings that wept dirty tears. Tin soldiers revealed themselves to be as fierce as their real-life counterparts; the boys who marched them to war soon found their hands ravaged by stinging cuts and snaking scars. Across living room battlefields, to the cries of their commanders, cavalry horses waded in blood.

  At night, as Carliton’s young climbed the stairs to their rooms, and the shadow of long, crooked fingers matched the rise and fall of each step until they grasped at the children’s bare legs. In bed at last, peeping above the make-believe security of thin cotton blankets, the boys and girls saw their nurseries come alive; shrill, mournful wailing sounded from toy prams which had never held a human child; stark moonlight flowed over Fuselian rocking horses, all blood-stained teeth and wild, terrifying eyes. When a brave few children sought sanctuary in locked bathrooms, clouded mirrors showed faces old and bereft of joy.

  Outside, a whirlwind rushed through the streets, and darkness flowed along the thin gaps in the brickwork, covering the eyes of stone saints upon the church facade. Alatiel had taken the night as her disguise. She hammered at doors—teasing the terrified families, for in truth she could enter their homes at will—and her fingers rapped on windows until the glass fractured and fell apart like thin ice. The sound of screaming told the whole town that she had taken another child into her hateful embrace. By morning, Cristian’s grand illusion would end, his victims resuming their lives in blissful ignorance of his sport.