Muladona

by Eric Stener Carlson

  They looked pretty unconvinced. ‘I will protect you from all evil. I swear upon my life. I swear upon my mother’s life and on my God.’

  I was dizzy from the heat. I was straining my neck to keep my glasses from sliding off my nose. I was trying not to let any of the men get behind me.

  ‘Truth?’

  ‘Truth. I will do anything to protect you from the evil. Anything at all. Now, please, help me get him out of here.’

  The girl translated and the leader spoke to her. Her face changed. It was no longer radiant, glowing. The girl lowered her pink eyes and looked at the ground.

  I hissed at her, ‘What did he just say?’ The leader hissed something at her, too. She remained silent, looking down to the ground. Her mouth was taut. She was shaking her head back and forth. The leader reached out and slapped her so hard she fell to the ground. He shouted at her and she began to sob.

  I heard a noise behind me and I turned. My glasses, slick with sweat, flew off my nose, disappearing in the long grass. Goddamit! Squinting with my good eye, I could see one of the men had snuck up behind me. As I swivelled round, everything was a blur and I couldn’t tell how many of them there were. I had seven shots in the Spencer. There were, how many . . . eight or nine of them? At this range, I could probably pull off two rounds before they grabbed me. Maybe the sound of the shots would scare them off, but I doubted it. With luck, I could pull the Bowie from my belt and stick one in the gut before he got me. . . .

  But that left at least five unaccounted for.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I shouted at the girl, ‘what did he say?’

  She sobbed, ‘I not say, I not say.’

  I trained my rifle on the closest man and pulled half-way down on the trigger. The hammer went slowly back. ‘Tell me now, goddamit!’ I screamed.

  She shouted out, her white hands clutching at the dark ground, ‘He say I evil. I bring man. I bring you. I bad luck. I bad. He want you take me away. Never come back. He want me . . . dead. But he no do it, ’cause he afraid of me.’

  Everything was quiet, except for the buzzing of bees and the screech of a hawk far away. The prisoner lying on the ground gasped out something in the language of the Indians. The leader’s eyes grew wide, and he looked like he was about to say something. At his words, the girl begged me, ‘No, no. No let him. No let him.’

  The prisoner held up his hands to the leader, showing where he was tied. He pointed towards the girl.

  ‘No let him, no let him,’ the girl screamed.

  Sweat was streaming down my face. I thought of how many men were surrounding me. I thought of the heat. I thought of the day my mother sent me away on the train, the smell of the ham-and-cheese sandwich she’d packed for me, and how a big, retarded-looking kid had stolen it from me. I thought of my old man back in town, and his foul words and his foul breath and all the times he’d ever punished me.

  The leader took a bone knife from his belt and took a step towards the man.

  I squeezed the trigger.

  I did it so slowly I didn’t know it had happened until I felt the buck of the rifle butt. The shot rang out so loud that the whole mob around me stopped in their tracks. The girl dropped to the ground. There was a perfect hole in the centre of her forehead. It was crimson, the only colour in her pale skin. It was like sticking a hole through a piece of paper with a quill dipped in red ink.

  The leader put his knife away and the bound man, my prisoner, started convulsing on the ground. He bawled like a child, ‘I’d a done it! I’d a done it! Why didn’t you let me?’ He ended in a choking fit, his eyes rolling back white in his head.

  I let my rifle fall from my hands. I pulled off my hat and threw it to the ground, feeling the fresh breeze blow through my wet hair. I felt weak in the knees and almost fell, but the men came to my rescue. Many hands held me up, no longer foreign, no longer strange.

  The leader smiled at me. The savages who’d wanted to rip me to shreds a few seconds before gathered around me. They cooed, welcoming me in their language. I looked out at the woods from the clearing where we stood. The leaves, the branches and the rocks were friendly too. The earth was welcoming and kind.

  I tried to slow down the moment in my head. I tried to memorise the shape of the leaves, the form of the clouds hovering above me and the buzzing of bees, to capture it for all eternity.

  I’d done my duty to the Rangers, to my mother and my father. And, more than that, I’d found love.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I lay, supported by the hands of the many villagers, for I don’t know how long. Then, after a time, the village began to ripple and fade. I thought the heat must have finally got to me. Then I remembered that I couldn’t stay in the village forever; I had to take my prisoner back to town.

  The buzzing of the bees and the calls of the birds began to modulate and change. They were gradually replaced by a faint hoarse voice from far away. It repeated words that seemed strangely familiar to me, ‘Mary, Joseph and Jesus . . . Mary, Joseph and Jesus.’

  Deep inside, in a secret corner of my soul, I still felt the heat from that hidden village in the mountains. I was bathed in sweat; it drenched my clothes, but my outside self, in the world beyond the Muladona’s tale, shivered in the early morning cold. My throat was parched and sore, as if it was full of sand.

  I thought of the cool crystalline waters where I’d first seen the girl with the pink eyes. All I wanted to do was bend down and drink there forever. But I wasn’t in the mountains anymore. I realised that the voice I heard repeating the names of the holy family was my own.

  I was in the parlour of my house. The bulb in the hobo’s flashlight beside me was dying, unable to compete with the light of day. Then came the realisation that the Muladona must have left some time during the night, after it had finished its tale. I had been too mesmerised to notice.

  I ceased repeating the incantation and felt something cold and clammy touching me. The hobo was stretched out on the floor beside me, one of his hands in mine. My other hand, caked with dried blood, was still pressing against the ragged wound in his jacket. I could see his chest rising and falling softly, like that baby elk in the woods.

  I bent down to his ear and whispered each word carefully, ‘Is it like that?’

  ‘What?’ he wheezed. His eyes were wide open and glassy.

  ‘Killing someone.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘It rips you up’. I realised he’d also heard the Muladona’s tale.

  I sat for a while on the floor, stupefied. My mind was awash in images of the mountains and the girl I’d shot. I burst out sobbing. I remembered what the Muladona had said; that we had something in common now: we’d both killed a man. I’d killed the hobo just as surely as if I’d trampled and gored him myself. If only I hadn’t enticed him into my house with my mother’s non-existent jewels! Even if I got free of the Muladona, the hobo’s death would hang heavy on my soul.

  I carefully unclenched my hand from his; mine was cramped and painful. With an effort of will I got up and went to the front door. I wiggled the handle above the half-broken lock but the door still wouldn’t budge. I looked at the hobo’s useless knife, its blade broken off. With a grimace I thought of it plunged in the chest of the beast.

  There was no way to get the hobo to Doc Evans. Soon he’d breathe his last, like the little Indian boy lying next to his mother’s corpse in the first tale. Dizzily, I thought maybe I was the boy from the story, and the hobo was my mother’s corpse.

  Could the Muladona see into the future with its tales, as well as into the past?

  I stumbled about the room, mumbling to myself. No one could help. Not my father. Not the Indian villagers. Not my brother. Not Father Anselmo. My eyes lit on the tin-can telephone. In my foggy brain I thought of Carolina. I snorted: Carolina! She should have fetched the sheriff the night before. She could have saved me. But why would I expect anything from her? She was that pink-eyed girl who’d led me into the woods. She was the succubus who’d trapp
ed me in the tower high above the town. All women were like that . . . devious, dangerous. Why, my own mother. . . .

  I shook my head, trying to clear out my thoughts like wet cotton wool in my brain. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I realised these weren’t my own thoughts . . . they were the Muladona’s. Even though morning had broken, its evil spell was still working on me.

  I went to the bathroom sink and turned on the water full blast. I drenched my hair and splashed water onto my face and chest. The cold water sent shivers down my spine. I repeated to myself, ‘My mother loves me. My mother loves me. My mother loves me.’

  The creature hated women with a dark, terrible passion. But I was thankful to the few women I’d known, who’d made my life bearable. My mother. Lupita. Carolina. . . . I trusted her. I needed to trust her. Shivering from head to toe in the frigid bathroom, the last memories of the sweltering forest disappeared.

  I ran to the kitchen and fetched the tin-can telephone. There was still hope that I could save the hobo, if only Carolina would help. I went out of the back door and threw one can over the fence. Immediately, the string pulled taut.

  ‘Carolina? Carolina?’ I demanded hoarsely.

  ‘Yes . . . Verge? Is that you? Your voice sounds so different.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s . . .’ I said, coughing, and felt blood trickle down the back of my throat.

  ‘Thank God you’re all right! What happened last night?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain. Where were you?’

  ‘I went to the Sheriff but he’s laid out sick with the flu. His deputy’s dead.’

  I coughed again and shivered, ‘Tell your father.’

  There was silence for a moment and then she said, ‘No . . . I can’t.’

  ‘Carolina, it’s urgent!’

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I just can’t. . . . He hates your father. He hates you. If I told papá any of this, he’d lock me in the house, and then I’d never be able to help you.’

  ‘Aghh,’ I said, ‘how can adults be so stupid?’ I quickly added, ‘I don’t mean . . . you know. Your father’s a great man. It’s just . . . I’m scared.’

  ‘I know,’ she continued. ‘Look, I couldn’t sleep a wink last night, worrying about you.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘there’s someone else involved. Last night, a man, an odd-job man came to help me. He fought with the Muladona, but he didn’t kill it. He’s dying. I need to get him to the doctor straightaway.’

  The line was silent for a while, then Carolina asked, ‘What are we supposed to do now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I shrugged. ‘I was hoping you had an idea. He’s lost a lot of blood. You need to open the front door.’

  More silence. Then she said, ‘Okay. See you soon.’

  ‘Wait, Carolina. Where are you?’ The string went limp.

  ‘Carolina? Carolina?’ I called, but she’d gone.

  I sneezed, shivering all over. It began to rain again.

  I wasn’t going to do the hobo any good if I died of a chill, so I went back inside the house. I pulled a couple of blankets out of the closet and covered him up. I took his pulse; the faint throbbing came and went. I changed into some dry clothes and sat next to him: the least I could do was to stay with him so he wouldn’t die alone.

  After a few minutes the man stirred and said something. I didn’t register it at first.

  ‘What? What did you say?’ I asked.

  ‘S-sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Why would you be sorry? You saved me. You’re a hero.’

  He smiled weakly and said, ‘Yeah, that’s me all right. Got kicked out of the Rough Riders ’cause of the sauce. Got blown to hell in France before I saw any real action. Couldn’t kill that goddam thing last night. What a hero.’

  ‘I’m sorry. There are no jewels,’ I confessed. ‘I don’t have a penny. I lied to you.’

  The hobo closed his eyes and grimaced. He whispered, ‘Serves me right.’

  I heard the lock of the front door behind me turn. It opened slowly. To my disbelief, Carolina walked in. But it wasn’t the Carolina from my memories; the tomboy with buckteeth and freckles. The girl standing in front of me had long, flowing black hair. She had a slim figure in blue jeans and a tight black wool sweater. Flashing eyes. Perfect face. When I fall asleep at night, that’s the image I see in my mind, framed by the light coming in through the door . . . although it is just a moment from so many years ago.

  I stood, my mouth open.

  ‘My God,’ she exclaimed and rushed over, hugging me. ‘Are you hurt? Can you move?’

  I stuttered, ‘I . . . I . . .’

  ‘You’re shivering all over!’ she exclaimed.

  My cheek touching hers, I asked, ‘H-how?. . .’ I pointed, vaguely, ‘The door?’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t that hard after all,’ she said, smiling widely. I could see the gaping hole where her tooth had been knocked out years before. She twirled my house key around her finger and said, ‘I just went into Mr Bellows’ store and started ordering up a storm . . . twenty pounds of apples, forty pounds of potatoes, thirty pounds of carrots. His crazy wife wasn’t around. He was so busy running around trying to fill the order he didn’t see me slip behind the counter where he kept the key on a hook. I grabbed it and snuck out before he noticed.’

  Her arms around me felt so warm and soft that I almost forgot the urgency of the situation. Snapping out of it, I said, ‘We, uh, we’d better . . . the doctor,’ I said, nodding towards the hobo.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. She unclasped her arms from around my neck and took off an enormous canvas satchel she’d slung behind her. She unbuttoned it and dumped out all sorts of bandages, cotton pads, tape and bottles.

  As I helped unbutton the man’s coat and shirt, she said, ‘I didn’t know what to bring, so I raided my papá’s medicine chest.’

  I pulled back the hobo’s tattered clothes. As Carolina cleaned caked blood from the wounds with iodine, we saw the huge bite marks charred into his flesh.

  ‘My God,’ she said, gulping. I could see the horror in her eyes. ‘Did the creature do this?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well,’ she said, putting on a brave face, ‘I didn’t doubt you for a second, but here’s all the proof I need.’ As she turned her head to apply a gauze pad, her hair brushed against my face. It smelled of vanilla.

  ‘There,’ she said, tying a bandage tight with a knot. ‘That’s as much as I can do. Now, we’ve got to get him to Doc Evans. He’s at the school tendin’ to the influenza victims. Good thing it’s only a couple of blocks, ’cause this guy looks heavy.’

  ‘What?’ I asked, barely listening, the scent of vanilla still filling my nostrils.

  ‘The school. We’ve got to get him to the school. Go get me a couple of brooms.’

  I went to the broom closet and came back with a broom and a mop. ‘You’re going to clean up?’

  She groaned, ‘Pay attention, Verge!’ She took off one of the blankets I’d put on the hobo and made an improvised stretcher with the mop and broom handles. ‘His weight’ll keep the blanket in place. But we’ve gotta be real careful when we lift him up so as not to twist his back.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, astonished. ‘How in the world do you know all this?’

  She stooped down to pick up the man’s legs and said, ‘You remember when you said we’d go off to San Antonio some day and look for the lost San Saba gold mine?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, I thought one of us should know first aid in case there was an accident. So I got an old, beat-up copy of the Boy Scout Manual and read it cover to cover. It’s got all kinds of interestin’ stuff in it.’

  ‘The Santa Cruz de San Saba Mission?’ I asked. ‘That was when we were eight. It was just a game.’

  ‘Not to me,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘Now grab his shoulders and lift.’

  I did as she said and we picked him up between us. Although he was still unconscious the hobo groaned. We laid him on the stretcher. I wo
ndered how we’d explain us two children carrying this battered man, but as we started down the muddy street, through ruts and puddles, there was absolutely no one to be seen. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought we were the only three people left on earth.

  The house fronts, their wooden shutters pulled down in the middle of the day, had an unnatural look about them. It wasn’t the Incarnation I used to know but a diorama in a museum. As we passed Bellows’ store I saw that it was locked up tight. I guess either Mr Bellows got tired of waiting for Carolina to come back, or he was having one of his ‘spells’. All around us, pasted on the empty house fronts were tattered, rain-pocked bills bearing the Surgeon General’s slogans about the flu. I read one that said, ‘Remember the three C’s—clean mouth, clean skin, and clean clothes’.

  Another read, ‘Your fate may be in your own hands—wash your hands before eating’.

  The farther along the street we went, the heavier the stretcher felt. I didn’t say anything at first because I didn’t want Carolina to think I was a slacker, but the truth was I felt like my arms were being pulled out of their sockets. I kept saying to myself, ‘Just a few more yards. Don’t drop him, don’t drop him.’

  ‘Uggh,’ I finally grunted, ‘can we put him down for a second? My hands are all sweaty and I want to adjust my grip.’

  ‘Sure,’ Carolina replied. ‘Let’s put him under the Thompsons’ porch, out of the rain.’

  We set him down under the tin awning of the darkened house on which the rain pitter-pattered. As I stood bent-over, panting, I saw another bill pasted over the front door, ‘Your nose, not your mouth, was made to breathe through—get the habit.’

  I asked Carolina, ‘Do you think that actually works?’

  ‘Dunno,’ she replied, wiping her face with the back of her hands. ‘I think adults just have to make up a lot of rules to feel like they’re in control.’

  Jerking my thumb towards the house, I said, ‘I guess we’d better be quick. We don’t want to wake up old man Thompson. He’s usually in a bear of a mood.’