PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “The evening’s ‘entertainment’. Cristian suddenly looked much older, as the candlelight started to flicker. He began to weep quietly, yet he smiled too—he was truly ecstatic. The flames went out, one-by-one as if on cue, and, looking over at Beatriz, I must confess that she frightened me—she looked as if she were dead. Her expression faded, and her face was . . . blank, no life within it.”

  “A young man and an even younger woman, a girl really, walked into the hall. They were both naked. The boy, curly-haired and wild-looking, pulled the girl roughly by the shoulders, and kissed her as if he were biting a ripe fruit he’d stolen. She bled from the lips, but she didn’t cry out. Then he took her, in front of us all.”

  Holland waited for Allen to continue his story; the man needed to tell it—that much was certain—though its telling cost him dearly.

  “This was bad enough, but what made it worse was the sight of Cristian and Beatriz in communion, as it were—Beatriz’s mocking laughter and Cristian’s strange, joyful sobbing muffled the reverend’s protests. I know how odd this may sound, but I felt in that instant that Salazar was trapped in his own skin, at the mercy of his cousin’s whims . . . or vice versa . . . I don’t know which.”

  “She rested her hands on Cristian’s shoulders, and he laughed until it pained him. Salazar moved his hands in the air as if he were actually painting the scene before him. The young couple were still making love . . . if you could call it that, but now the girl sat above the feral boy and, I swear, his grunting matched the sound of Cristian’s laughter. Beatriz looked on with pride. Morley’s face was contorted with . . . lust, I believe.

  “Then, Salazar moved his hands, as if gripping something, and the girl began to strangle her partner, in the midst of their act. He didn’t struggle, and I had the horrible feeling, no, conviction that he couldn’t resist. Her eyes misted over and showed that she was still in the throes of passion. She lowered herself and bit into her lover’s neck. The life ran out of him—we all heard the death rattle, there could be no doubt that he was dead. Salazar raised his hands, and she began to dance, slowly and seductively, before each of us in turn. As Cristian lowered his hands to the table, the girl bowed low to us . . . and took off her face as one would remove a mask.”

  “And you all just sat there, watching this?”

  “It’s as if we were stunned, at first. Perhaps Morley was less affected by it than the rest of us, and made to leave, making clear his disgust as he did so. But his face reflected the horror we all felt; ‘disgust’ was merely an afterthought. My glance fell upon the remains of the meal we had so enjoyed—it was loathsome . . . the meat was raw and bleeding.

  “James had to restrain the reverend; do you know, the old man actually scratched at Beatriz’s face, drawing blood? I’d never, ever seen Alfred Morley behave in such a manner. She spat at him, cursed him in a language unknown to me.

  “Cristian remained in his seat, but when he swept his hand through the air, Morley fell as though he’d been struck violently. Martin Preston bundled the reverend out of there before it got any worse. We practically ran from the house, the Salazars’ laughter echoing behind us. Morley died seven days later, of natural causes, I’m told.”

  The tale complete, Allen replaced his glasses, fidgeted with a few papers on the desk and waited for Holland’s reaction. He broke the silence.

  “Salazar is only human—I’ll make him tell me what he knows.”

  Recognising the bravado of Holland’s remark, Allen was philosophical—he was certain it would require more than one brave soul to take on the Salazars. He showed Holland to the door.

  “I’ve been reading about their kind for years—I may know how to stop them. You’re always welcome here; that is, if you require help.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Holland said.

  He would walk to Salvació House. With enough persuasion and insistence, he hoped, Cristian Salazar would tell him the truth about Helena. If not, Salazar would suffer.

  CHAPTER XIII: DAMNATION

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Holland followed Cristian Salazar into a living room which stunned him with its chaos of scattered books, clothes and newspapers. Perhaps, Holland mused, Salazar sought to distract himself with these items, as he spent his nights awake.

  Salazar waved his hand vaguely in the direction of a leather chaise-longue. It seemed that Holland’s presence had become an afterthought. Holland suddenly had the feeling that nothing he could relate to Salazar would surprise or shock him.

  Salazar lowered himself into a well-worn leather armchair and unfastened his tie. He wore a waistcoat of a singular shade, primarily faint purple, but with a dull golden hue which came to the fore when light played upon it. A pocket watch, its black face decorated with gold filigree, hung above grey pinstriped trousers. The outfit might have looked tasteless on another, but it suited Salazar and made him appear urbane and cosmopolitan.

  He felt around blindly until his fingers touched a whisky glass. Both of his shaking hands wrapped around the glass, as though it were a hot drink warming his hands in winter. He replaced it on a small table to his side, and his long fingers gripped the armrests of his chair. He lowered his head and began to speak.

  “Tell me, why are you here?” Still he failed to meet Holland’s stare.

  “I believe my fiancée is staying here. I will see her now, if you please.”

  “Walk with me,” Salazar said. He picked up his cane and left the room.

  Once outside, they came to Salvació’s maze, where a few sparrows instantly took flight from the top of a hedge as the men approached. From his waistcoat, Salazar took a cigarette from a silver case and held it towards Holland.

  “Thank you.” Salazar’s gaze focused intently on Holland’s hands as he lit the proffered cigarette. “Now, what can you tell me about Helena?”

  Salazar walked slowly, Holland obliged to follow him.

  “Resign yourself—Helena is at peace now.”

  The phrasing shook Holland. He was about to speak when Salazar elaborated.

  “She is content, with her lover, in a far country.”

  “But how do you know this for certain, Mr Salazar?”

  “Did she not share her secret with you?”

  Holland frowned, doubt beginning to show itself on his face. “I’ve read her journal. She was not herself. Perhaps I . . . I should have read more closely.”

  “Ah . . . then you have your answer.” Salazar smiled, as if Holland would now guess the full story, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the smoke and exhaling gently. “Women long to keep secrets, but they also desire to tell them. You must rejoice in her happiness. She is blessed, shrouded in bliss—a new land, a new love . . . you should not seek to blame.”

  Salazar stopped and looked into Holland’s eyes.

  “Think yourself fortunate, Mr Holland—you still have hope of reunion; I will never embrace my beloved again.” He looked over Holland’s shoulder towards a small grey building which the younger man took to be a mausoleum. Salazar’s grim expression changed into a wry smile.

  “Helena breathed Romance, you know it is true; she only lived in her dreams. Now, she is free.”

  “But are you sure?”

  “I know this. And I know you will hate the one who took her from you. But console yourself—do not mourn your lover. Let us talk of the future, not the past.”

  He briefly placed a comforting hand upon Holland’s shoulder, and the walk resumed. As they passed a gap in the hedges, Holland briefly glimpsed the distant church spire.

  “Have your family always lived here, in Carliton?”

  “No, no, we are from Catalonia. My ancestors were—ah, what is the word?—hunted, no, persecuted, because of our religion. Our enemies thought we were damnation itself. And so, we came to England.”

  Holland’s cheeks reddened. “I’m sorry to say that I have no faith.”

  Salazar smiled sympathetically as if to console him. “Ah, you mean you have lost your faith,
I think. Perhaps you will find it again, here. Come, at least you will admire our church for its grace, if nothing else.”

  Holland followed Salazar across a field leading away from Salvació, as the Catalonian chattered on about the history of the town until Holland retreated into his own thoughts. Much of the cemetery was overgrown; wildflowers and nettles snaked around the tombstones to disturb the sterile dignity of the dead. Salazar remarked upon items of interest as they walked past a flat rectangular stone marking the place where once, Holland was told, a ‘holy fool’ had been martyred. As Holland looked about the neglected graveyard, Salazar continued speaking.

  “Many years ago, my ancestors built a new church upon this ancient site. They were priests, after a fashion, and devoted to their rituals. The people were stubborn in their ways, the faith of the foolish—they set our first church ablaze. But no matter—my family were so . . . persuasive . . . that soon everyone in the town came to the services. Come, let us discover the living past.”

  The interior was surprisingly well-kept, considering the forlorn state of the cemetery. A generic statue of the Virgin, smiling in bliss or perhaps boredom, stood before the aisle and, as the oak door closed behind him, darkness covered her face, and her expression suggested sorrow.

  Salazar moved the heavy altar stone aside and took out a vellum-covered book. The cover was swathed in dust, but the pages were pristine. After reading through a few pages in the book’s centre, he passed the volume to Holland.

  “Here is history.”

  A column of names graced the left-hand side of the pages, a list of people who had succumbed to the plague in medieval times. The small, neat handwriting contrasted with lurid colour illustrations which littered the other side of the page—fair ladies in splendid costume turned to skeletons before the reader’s eyes; children played with crude toys before an accompanying drawing showed them in the clutches of a cruel death. Salazar watched Holland intently as he perused the garish sketches.

  “I see you admire the work of my ancestor, Xavier. He found solace in the suffering of the people, because it was proof of His judgement. A great man . . . a saint, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Holland was unsettled, suddenly fearful, but this very fear steeled him. “Yes, well, it’s an interesting book, certainly, if rather gruesome. I’m afraid I must leave you. Surely someone in Carliton knows where Helena is now; I intend to find this out.”

  Salazar turned to face him. “And what will you do then, boy?”

  Holland met his menacing stare without flinching. “Then I will act. Thank you for the history lesson. I will meet with you again, you can be certain of it.”

  “If you really want the truth, I will reveal it to you. Follow me.”

  Holland walked at a distance from Salazar. At this moment, his body tensed but finally his resolution overcame his wariness. He pondered on, making a show of losing patience, forcing Salazar to tell what he knew now. When they finally reached a small room at the rear of the church, Salazar opened the door and, as it swung back, Holland could see an open coffin lying on a table. A female body rested within it. He walked forwards and forced himself to look at the corpse’s face; Helena’s face. A sigh, deep and prolonged, and then the single word “No” was all that Holland could summon-up, such was his sorrow and bewilderment. In despair, he rested his head upon Helena’s chest.

  “Do not weep,” Salazar said. “Soon you will be together again.”

  Salazar gripped Holland’s hair, pulling his head back and exposed his throat. As he was forced to kneel, Holland lashed out with his elbow and struck his assailant’s injured leg.

  Now upright again, Holland turned around in time to see Salazar draw a knife from his waistcoat. Sunlight struck the blade, and, in the next instant, he stabbed wildly through the air, preventing Holland from coming closer.

  “Give her to me!” he cried.

  “She is mine!” Salazar shouted, his voice superior in volume and passion. “Just as you took my bride from me, so I will enjoy yours. If you are good, child, I may leave you some crumbs.”

  “I had nothing to do with your wife’s murder. Ask your cousin—I saw her alone with Aurelia when I left the house,” Holland said.

  As Salazar started to reply, his rival seized the moment to lunge forward but he wasn’t swift enough—the blade cut a fine, long line across his neck. His hand found the wound and an intake of breath revealed his pain and momentary vulnerability. Blood soaked his collar, and the sight of this only spurred Salazar on—he moved forward suddenly, smashed Holland’s head against the coffin and left him dazed on the floor. Salazar smiled as his victim struggled to regain his feet and swayed even when he eventually did so. Holland now knew he could not win this fight for life; he rushed past his opponent and exited the church, stumbling blindly into the harsh daylight.

  In the backroom, Salazar wiped the blade against the corpse’s dress, but then he could no longer help himself, and fed upon her until he was satisfied. He pushed the coffin until it fell from the table, spilling Helena’s ruined body onto the flagstones. After retrieving his ebony cane, he left the church and returned home.

  AFTER MARCUS ALLEN CALMED HOLLAND, listened to his tearful, heartrending story and fed him a cooked supper, they agreed on a pact to destroy the Salazars. They would begin their quest the very same night.

  CHAPTER XIV: RESOLUTION

  AS THEY MADE THEIR WAY TO SALACIÓ, the winter air swept around Holland and Allen, attacking their unprotected faces. They struggled against a harsh wind and their progress was slow. But they were not discouraged, only frightened.

  They passed the church. Allen strode on but Holland halted and called to his companion.

  “Marcus!” He stood open-mouthed as Allen returned. “What in God’s name has happened here?”

  Stark moonlight twisted the quaint church into something grim and unwelcoming. The small building loomed over them. Their eyes were drawn to the cemetery in the foreground—each and every cross had been broken in two, leaving only short jagged stone pointing weakly towards the heavens. A few shattered headstones remained above ground, although the names of the dead were lost forever in fragments scattered across the graves.

  Allen took all this in his stride. He continued along, his bemused colleague hurrying to catch up.

  “It’s tradition, nothing more. And the Salazars’ wretched faith is nothing if not traditional; centuries-old, in fact. It is witchcraft.”

  “What do you mean?” Holland asked.

  Allen turned up the collar of his jacket to keep out the cold. “You will think me mad, I’m sure. Still, you need to know. The Salazars have made this town their domain, their home-from-home—they’re in exile from the Basque country. Their family wore out their welcome there, so they’ve sought new lives abroad; other people’s lives . . . .”

  “When I was younger, I might have laughed in your face at such fantastic talk,” Holland said. He looked at the icy ground, downcast at heart. “But now I’m older, and sadly, granted wisdom only through bitter experience. I know you are right about them; but how do you know so much?”

  “Oh, Cristian isn’t shy, let alone wary of strangers knowing his secrets . . . or his family history. He’s rather vain about it all. I picked-up enough from his rambling table-talk, and the overheard conversations between the cousins, the gossip that his servants spread around the town.”

  Allen rubbed his face briskly with both hands. “I believe Cristian wanted people to know what was in store for them if they didn’t scrape and bow to their new master. Even this—“ he gestured towards the broken crosses, “—is homage and testament to the Salazars’ history and godless beliefs; this destruction is traditional behaviour for their kind. But it also shows that they are vulnerable—it means that, for once, they fear us.”

  The two headed directly towards where they estimated Salvació House stood, ignoring the most direct route for fear of being observed. They crossed the moonlit path and entered the forest. Above
, branches swayed, bowing to the breeze, their movement rhythmical, slow and disturbing.

  Birds called to each other, their song eerily resembling human voices. The wind died down, and all was still for a moment. To Holland’s horror, Beatriz Salazar stood in the distance, naked, her arms raised to the cold night sky.

  They listened to her cries as she called whatever devilish god she worshipped, watched in silent fascination as she danced across the rough ground. Her aged body appeared unnaturally crooked and loathsome; folds of skin became taut, then loose, as she capered and stooped low, time and again, her long and slender arms spread out before her.

  The two men, obscured from view behind the cover of a stout oak tree, were dumbstruck at this bizarre sight. Her eyes were closed, and she smiled, ecstatic, though this offered precious little comfort to the hidden audience. Confident that they had not been seen, Allen and Holland backed away and headed for Salvació.

  At this moment, Beatriz opened her left eye. She retrieved her clothing and made her way briskly through the forest.

  Again, Marcus Allen took the lead while Holland merely followed. They reached the perimeter of the house. The iron gate was firmly shut, and Allen rested his right hand upon it as he reached into the cloth bag borne on his shoulder. Holland looked on as he fastened a crude star, a pentagram constructed entirely of wood, upon the gate. He tested it and, certain of its secure position, backed away.

  “We can go now,” he said.

  “That,” Holland said contemptuously, “is going to rid us of the Salazars?”

  “You don’t understand . . . we have to fight fire with fire, so to speak. They’ll think their influence is limited to Salvació and its grounds. The two of them will believe this even if we don’t. Or perhaps you’d prefer to challenge them face-to-face?”

  “I would welcome the chance, even if it meant my death.” Holland said. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, Marcus.”

  “Cleverness—not courage—is called for now, my friend. One more thing remains—we’ll have to go back to the rectory. Reverend Jardine’s help will be absolutely crucial.”