Then I saw the shadow of the Muladona set upon him. It trampled and bit him with obscene passion. For an instant, I caught a glimpse of its muzzle streaked with blood. I stood rooted to the spot. My heart went out to the hobo, but I was unable to help or run or hide. I heard an awful scream, a thunderous roar in a hundred demonic voices: it was a cry of pain from the Muladona! Somehow, although ground into a bloody pulp, the hobo must have stabbed the creature.
After that horrible cry resounded in my ears, I heard nothing save the gasping of my own breath. Had he defeated the Muladona? Were they both dead?
Then I heard a panting and a scrabbling, as something dragged itself along the floor in my direction. I tried to steady the flashlight with both hands, but it fluttered like a moth. My brain screamed out, ‘Oh, God, it’s the Monster!’
Out of the shadows emerged a human hand streaked with blood. ‘Help me, Kid,’ the hobo said in a feeble voice. ‘Help me.’
I stayed frozen, afraid the Muladona would pounce on me. But then I thought of how this complete stranger had thrown himself into the creature’s maw to save me. I willed myself to put the flashlight down and go towards the wounded man. I willed each step, as if walking were no longer familiar to me. I grabbed the man by the wrist and with both hands pulled him towards the glare of the flashlight. He left a long, bloody trail on the floor.
I bent down, trying to find where he was bleeding most so I could apply pressure. He was such a mess. A warm, sticky substance covered my hands. I whispered in his ear, ‘Is it d-dead?’
‘No,’ he groaned in reply, ‘take this,’ and he pressed his knife into my hand.
‘What am I supposed to do with it?’
‘Cut a . . .’ His voice faded away.
‘Cut a what?’ I asked, horrified.
‘Cut . . . a design in the floor ’round us. It’ll protect us. Do it now.’
‘What sort of design?’
‘A box,’ he wheezed, ‘and draw the sign of a cross inside it . . . with an . . . arm touchin’ each wall.’
‘But. . . .’
‘Now . . . or we’re both dead.’
As I took the knife I saw that most of the blade had been snapped off in the struggle. With the jagged nub that remained I cut the shape of a box into the floorboards around us. The lines were wobbly and absurd, like a child’s kindergarten drawing.
I said, ‘It’s done. Are we safe now?’
‘Not yet,’ he gasped. Then he went limp.
‘What do you mean?’ I shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him gently.
I heard a groaning and stirring in the shadows. Then there came the hellish braying. ‘You see. . . ?’ the words poured out like venom in the darkness, ‘no-othing can sto-op me. You’re doo-oomed, little boy.’
The monster dragged its belly through the shadows, its snout emerging into the beam of the flashlight. I could see one of its ears, sliced almost in half, hanging down limply. I shook the hobo, shouting, ‘What do I need to do? How do I make us safe?’
The wounded man stirred ever so slightly and groaned, ‘Repeat the name of the holy family . . . Mary, Joseph and Jesus.’
Just as the shadow of the creature touched the border of the box, I muttered, ‘Mary, Joseph and Jesus.’
‘Again,’ urged the hobo.
‘Mary, Joseph and Jesus.’
‘Again, again,’ he urged, and passed out.
The shadow of the Muladona shrank back into the darkness. I could see its devilish red eyes flickering like the flames of a furnace. It seemed to be waiting for me to stop so that it could pounce on me. I muttered, ‘Mary, Joseph and Jesus,’ over and over again, as fast as I could.
The creature spat out, ‘Fine, enj-ooy your paa-rlour-room tricks tonight. You’re only del-aaying the in-eevitable. And, you’ve killed a m-aan in the pr-oocess. So, you and I finally have something in cooo-mmon.’
A gurgling rose in its throat, as if it was swallowing its own blood. Then it said, ‘As long as you’re not going anywhe-ere, I’ll tell you a story. I’ll make it a special one, in hon-our of your army hero here. It’s about a young man who’s full of ill-uusions—honour, integrity, dignity. He dreams of showing the world what he can do. But let’s see if he has what it takes, when he finally gets his chance. . . .’
While the Muladona spoke, I repeated ‘Mary, Joseph and Jesus.’ I couldn’t help staring into its flickering eyes as I pressed my hands against the hobo’s bloody belly. I became entranced by the creature’s eyes, my surroundings began to fade away. Soon, the dying man beside me and everything else around were nothing but a blur, a shimmering of heat. The Muladona’s eyes flickered and grew brighter, as bright as the noon-day sun high above the mountains around Incarnation.
The heat of the sun beat down on me; the moisture of the foliage covered every inch of my body, as if the wetness were a living thing trying to trap and suffocate me. . . .
THE THIRD TALE
Stigmata
The leather strap of my hat was knotted tight against my throat; it’d been chafing me for the past few hours as I’d climbed down the gulley. I knew it’d be stupid to try and undo it, ’cause it would mean I’d have to put my rifle down on the ground.
There was no cover from the damned sun. For all I knew, Menendez was just over the next ridge waiting to take his shot. I had to keep my eyes peeled for a flash of light off his scope or the sound of pebbles rolling down from the ledge above.
Perspiration was running down my forehead and dripping onto my glasses. It made them fog up and start to slip down my nose. I pushed them back and clutched my Spencer tighter, keeping its point raised just like my old man said, in case I stumbled against a root, so I wouldn’t shoot myself in the foot. Did he think I was a complete idiot?
Yes he did. He thought I was an idiot. They all thought I was an idiot. The jokes, the ragging, the name-calling. It was ‘Squint-eye Harold’, ‘Off-target Harold’, ‘Mama’s boy Harold’. So what if I had a stigmatism and had to wear these big, clunky glasses? The problem was in my right eye—the left lens was just window glass—and if I squinted, I could shoot with the best of them. ’Course, it always made me veer off half an inch or so to the left, but I could compensate all right. And it was my mama who’d sent me to this Godforsaken place to live with my old man when I was only twelve, while she stayed home nice and comfy back East. She’d fed my dreams of being a Ranger, encouraged me to be just like him . . . as if she’d forgotten why she’d left the bastard in the first place.
So I ended up here, where only two things can survive the heat of the day and the cold at night—the coyotes and the Indians. One not much better than the other.
I’d show them. That’s why I volunteered for this. My old man looked like he was gonna lay an egg when I was the first one to step forward. That made me proud because I’d showed him I wasn’t afraid. But he’d robbed me of the moment when he’d sneered, ‘All right, you can go. I guess the job’s easy enough, even you can’t screw it up.’
It had sounded easy. If what the girl had said was right, I just had to go due west, following the trail, find Menendez and then come out again. He’d been badly wounded in the last job, and I’d picked up a blood trail half-way up.
But no one had said it was going to take so long to get through the undergrowth. And then my stupid horse went lame. How long ago had I left him behind, tied to the dried-out tree? Five hours? Six? I tried to get my bearings but it was impossible. With the sun so high, I couldn’t tell which direction was west. I had mountains on either side. I slowed down and then stopped. There was a sound, or was it two sounds? . . . a brook, I thought, water bubbling over stones, even though where I stood was bone-dry. It sounded like water but almost like a lullaby at the same time.
As I approached, the gully opened out. There was a shallow river cutting through the mountain, with thick vegetation on the far side. Crouching down in the middle of the river, her back to me, I saw the shape of a girl. She was in up to her ankles,
bent over, her face almost touching the surface of the water. She was making that eerie sound I’d heard, like she was singing to the river.
It’s hard to describe . . . it was an undulating rhythm, like the sound of the river but transformed into a voice. I couldn’t say if it was beautiful, but it was captivating. That sound, mixed with the heat and my own exhaustion, made me forget why I was there for a second or two. Then I thought of my old man waiting back in town, fuming over how long I was taking. I shook myself out of it. I strained my eyes, peering at the girl, but her figure was blurry through my fogged-up glasses. I pushed them down and squinted at her with my good eye. The light reflecting off the water dazzled me. It bounced off the rocks, painfully bright, and the girl’s hair shone so much that it almost looked like a halo. Was she the girl?
I looked right and left along the riverbank. Then I took a deep breath and walked out into the open, feeling as if I had a target painted on my chest. I cleared my throat and hissed in the girl’s direction. ‘Hey, are you the one who came to town and spoke about the wanted man?’
She turned around and looked in my direction. Even before she answered, I knew it was her. She was just like Jenkins had described: an Indian girl, with sharp features like they have, but pale white, and she had bright, pink eyes, like a rabbit I’d once seen in grammar school. When she’d walked out of the shadows, Jenkins’d almost shot her out of fright, ’cause she came towards him like a ghost, floating in the dark.
‘Ye-es,’ the girl responded in a sing-song voice. Then she looked back to the sparkling water.
I scanned both sides of the river again and whispered, ‘Can you show me the way?’
‘Ye-es,’ she said, and ran her hand along the surface of the water, as if she were caressing it.
‘Now?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and laughed, splashing around in a circle, and then suddenly splashing in my direction.
‘Stop that,’ I said. ‘Someone will hear you.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she sang out loud.
I said, ‘Can you understand what I’m saying? Can you speak English? Hab-las esp-anhole?’
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘My mother learn with a pri-est. But she dead now. My father . . . he dead, too. I show you man.’
She skipped along in front of me, splashing through the river, making enough noise to wake the dead. Then she disappeared somewhere on the other side. I scanned the river again then bounded after her, trying to move like a snake, so Menendez couldn’t get an easy bead on me. Like a clumsy ox I slipped on the green rocks and almost dropped the Spencer. As the cold water splashed against my legs I felt a momentary freshness, but it disappeared as soon as I entered the vegetation on the other side. I felt even heavier, wetter and hotter there than under the sun.
I caught a glimpse of the girl, pushing under branches, scrabbling over rocks. Then she disappeared again. It was like playing follow-the-leader, but the terrain was hostile and wouldn’t let me forget why I’d come. A couple of times I gained on her, and the branches she pushed out of her way slapped me in the head. One cut into my face like a sabre and I felt a drop of blood form on the stinging wound.
‘Slow down!’ I hissed at her.
She mocked me, ‘Slow down. Slow down. Yes, yes, yes.’
I prayed she hadn’t made up the story she’d told in town. She was definitely queer in the head. I followed the sound of her laughter. Then suddenly I caught sight of her. She was standing very still, like a pale white sapling, pointing straight in front of her.
I stopped in my tracks and tried to slow my breathing. I raised the Spencer, seeing if I could swing it 180 degrees without having it stick in the branches. Then I advanced towards the girl, head down, elbows up. I couldn’t see anything but the trees. When I got close to her, I whispered, ‘Is it the man? Is he there?’
She turned her head to me. Her bright, pink eyes were shining like a thing from another world. She moved close to me, I thought so she could whisper in my ear. I could smell a scent of wild flowers on her and she kissed me on the cheek.
I stood dumbfounded; she moved back to where she’d been pointing. Squinting with my good eye, I could just make out a small elk, about the size of a dog, with tiny, nub-like horns and reddish-brown, white-spotted fur. It stood frozen, its eyes glassy, breathing in panicky gasps.
The girl advanced towards the animal. She began making a cooing noise, soft and low. The glassy look in the animal’s eyes disappeared and its chest expanded and contracted more deeply. She had got half-way to it when the elk walked up to her and nuzzled her hand. She kept cooing as the thing rubbed itself against her. She said, ‘Wa-pi-ti.’
‘Wa-pi-ti,’ I repeated, unsure why I did so.
She motioned to me with her free hand. It was a strange, dream-like moment. I can’t explain why, but I advanced towards them both, cradling my rifle, reaching towards the animal. I was just about to touch its small velvety horns when a twig snapped under my boot and the animal took off like a shot.
I felt inexplicably angry. I clumsily raised my rifle and tried to get a bead on it, but it had already melted into the woods. Why would I do that? If I took a shot, Menendez would know I was there.
The girl giggled, ‘Follow.’
I followed as she sped along, stopping now and then to sniff at a flower. Sometimes she cocked her ear, listening for birds in the trees. We went on like this for I don’t know how many hours, and the fatigue was taking its toll on me. My thoughts became confused; I was uncertain as to why I was in the woods. Why was I still going forward? Why couldn’t I just lie down and rest?
Amidst these cloud-like thoughts I had the impression I couldn’t stop, even for a minute, or the earth would swallow me alive.
Then I realised that something had changed. The ground was firmer now. The hanging branches were farther apart. I looked down and saw a hard path under my feet. I followed the girl into a clearing. She ran ahead, calling in a language I didn’t understand. It took all my concentration to keep my finger lightly on the trigger.
I stepped out into a ragged clearing where the jungle had been chopped back by crude machete-work. There was a collection of leaning structures that seemed like they could be taken down very quickly. The foliage would grow back and swallow the ground and there’d be no sign they’d ever been there.
I passed by two or three Indian women; squatting, pounding roots with pestles. Young children sat on the ground separating chaff from grain. My ghostly guide spoke to a group of six or seven men. They were all dark with black spiky hair, hardly clothed, nothing like her. I couldn’t understand what they said, but by their gestures and the tone of their voices, they seemed angry. She laughed and played with her long, white hair, taking strands of it and biting it, and then pointed at me. The oldest man in the group shouted something. The girl became very still and silent, like when she’d stood observing the elk.
My finger still on the trigger, I moved a step forward. I said, ‘I’m a Texas Ranger. I’ve come to take charge of the man you have here.’
The men looked puzzled and shouted something back in their strange language. ‘Ranger, Ranger,’ I repeated. I freed my finger and pointed to the tin badge pinned to my chest. The men shouted something at the girl, and then she said to me, ‘I talk you.’
‘Tell them I come from the Rangers, that I have heard they have a man here,’ and then I pointed at my face, ‘a man like me.’
The girl began to translate, then she stopped and asked me, ‘What’s Rangers?’
‘It’s a, it’s a . . .’ I tried to explain, but my brain felt so tired. I was irritated I couldn’t find the words, so I shook my rifle at them and said, ‘Rangers, Rangers.’
The girl asked, ‘You warrior?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said, and I don’t know why, but I added, ‘I, warrior. Great warrior.’
She translated, and the man said something else. ‘Who you fight?’ she asked.
‘Anarchists,’ I responded. I could see from th
e look on her face she didn’t understand at all. My face was sweating so much that my glasses were starting to slide down my nose again. But I didn’t dare take my finger off the trigger, even for a second. I didn’t like the glances the men were casting at me—dark, suspicious, angry.
‘Tell them that . . .’ I said, ‘I fight . . . evil. An evil that wants to take their possessions. Steal from them.’ God, I sounded just like my mother when she used to tell me stories about my old man.
‘Poss-essions?’ the girl asked.
‘Yeah, things . . . things you own, things you buy and sell.’
She looked at me with a dumb expression on her face. ‘What’s . . . ?’
‘Never mind,’ I snapped. The men were gathering around me. ‘Just tell them evil will come to steal their land if they don’t give me the man.’
She translated, and then the men asked through her, ‘What you do with man?’
‘I take this man back for trial.’
The girl screwed up her face at me.
‘For questioning, for God’s sake,’ I shouted. ‘To find what he stole.’
The man who seemed to be the leader gave some orders. Two of his men went into a hut and dragged a man out. His hands and feet were bound with some kind of vines. It was Menendez all right. Long, scraggly beard, wool poncho, bloody and ripped to shreds, leather sandals. The sight of him made me sick to my stomach.
I said to him, ‘Thought it’d be easy hidin’ up here in the mountains, huh? Well, I guess you picked the wrong village.’
Menendez peered up at me with his bloodshot eyes, wheezing, gashes all over his face. How in the world was I going to drag him out of there and back to town, especially with my horse halfway down the mountain?
‘Can your men help me carry him?’ I said to the leader through the girl.
‘If we give you man, maybe evil get angry. Find us. Hurt us. Who will protect us?’
Looking around the group of angry men who surrounded me, I said, ‘I will protect you. Don’t worry.’
Muladona Page 12
