Muladona

by Eric Stener Carlson

  ‘Now you’re speakin’ una tontería completa, Verge,’ Carolina said with a frown. ‘You couldn’t never hurt me, just like I couldn’t never hurt you. Now, take the lamp ’cause my knees are gettin’ soggy.’ With that, she was under the fence and out the other side. I followed her, but the leg of my pants got caught on the wire. I pulled myself free and it cut a gash on my calf. A small stream of blood trickled into my boot.

  In the long shadows of the garden we walked in silence, towards the rear entrance. I took the lead, guiding us around obstacles—piles of old farm tools and the wheelbarrow with fractured arms—dim shapes in the drizzling afternoon. When we got to the back door, Carolina put her hand on the doorknob. It turned easily. She said, ‘I guess they figured there’s no use lockin’ the door, ’cause it’s all fenced off anyway.’

  I struck a Lucifer and it sputtered in the wind. Carolina cupped her hand around mine to keep it from blowing out, and we lit the lantern together. For the briefest moment she kept her hand about mine. My heart began to beat furiously. She touched the bandage where my fingers had been chewed off. ‘Does it hurt much, Verge?’

  ‘Not really,’ I lied. My heart was pounding, my lips were dry. ‘I . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ she said, drawing closer. Her eyes sparkled in the lamplight.

  ‘I . . .’ I began again, and then my courage failed me. ‘I guess we’d better get inside.’

  ‘Yep,’ she said, the sparkle in her eyes fading, ‘supongo que sí.’ She took the lamp from me and pushed the door open with her foot. A dank stench escaped from the building. It smelled like a mouldy tarp left out in the rain. We cupped our hands over our noses and mouths. In the hallway, the lamp leapt to life. The walls were warped and covered in moisture stains and mould. The floor was uneven and as we advanced, we splashed through little pools of water on the floor, or crunched over patches of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. An incessant dripping filled my ears.

  The soggy mess of a carpet must have once been a beautiful Arabian delight. In the lamplight there glinted strands of golden thread woven into geometric patterns. There were outlines of waterfalls, castles and prayer towers. We slogged our way down the hallway, the water sloshing up to our ankles. We emerged into the main salon. Its floor was raised and it had escaped water damage. Carolina held her lamp up high and the light sparkled off an enormous crystal chandelier hanging over us, heavy with dust and cobwebs. She ran her hands along a mahogany rail, wiping through decades of grime. As she did so, griffins and chimeras emerged, carved into the wood. Hanging from the wall was an enormous mirror, spotted with tarnish where the silver behind it had faded. I dared not look into its depths.

  We approached a group of tables covered with sheets speckled with bird droppings. Carolina handed me the lantern and took the sheet off one of the tables. On it was a round wheel which had red and black numbers etched around its edge. She uncovered another table with a dirty green felt top and painted squares with more numbers in them.

  ‘What are those?’ I wondered out loud.

  Carolina put her hand on the wheel and spun it round. ‘It’s called una rueda de roulette. You put a little ball here and you bet on a number or a colour. Ain’t you ever heard o’ one before?’ The wheel wobbled and clicked as it turned. ‘It’s from the old Spanish times, but there were rumours that some of the new settlers used to meet now and again for games of chance. ’Course, your grandpa took care of that. He had it closed down.’

  ‘Father doesn’t believe in gambling. I’m not allowed to talk about such things.’ I don’t know why, but I added, ‘Like I’m not allowed to talk about my mother.’

  The sound of water dripping was all around us as the clicking of the roulette wheel slowed.

  ‘Verge,’ Carolina said softly, ‘what do you remember about your mother?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Is there anything special you remember about her? Like, when you think about her sometimes?’

  ‘I don’t want to say it. It’s kind of personal.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Carolina said, looking down at her feet. ‘It’s just, I don’t have a lot of memories of my mamá, ’cause she left when I was real young. Only a few words, and the way she wore ribbons in her hair. It’s kind of like memories of memories, you know? Or maybe it’s things I think I remember. No sé cómo explicártelo.’ Her bottom lip trembled and she said, ‘I kind o’ remember her kissin’ me on the forehead the night she left. ’Cause when I woke up, my pillow smelled of her toilet water. I still think of that last kiss sometimes. Or maybe I just want to think it happened. As time goes by, I get less sure.’

  There was silence between us. It grew wider, like when you grab the ends of an old towel and start ripping it apart for rags.

  I said, ‘I think I remember my mother reading me “The Land of Counterpane”.’

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, looking up at last.

  ‘It’s a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. You see, when he was a little boy, he used to get sick all the time . . . like me. He couldn’t go outside and play with the other kids. So he made up this magic place on his blanket, with knights and soldiers and kings. I think I remember my mother one night, not long before she disappeared, cuddling up beside me in bed. In her clear, smooth voice, she recited:

  When I was sick and lay a-bed,

  I had two pillows at my head,

  And all my toys beside me lay,

  To keep me happy all the day.’

  The poem echoed slightly in the empty salon, ‘Happy all the day.’ I said, ‘I can’t be sure if my mother really read me that poem. Like you say, maybe I just want her to have done.’

  Very softly, Carolina said, ‘I think she really read to you, Verge.’

  ‘Well, I think your mother kissed you before she left.’ I slowly closed the space between us, and my heart began to pound furiously in my chest again.

  ‘Verdad?’

  ‘Yeah, she kissed you goodbye ’cause no words could explain how much she loved you.’

  Our faces grew closer until our lips were almost touching . . . and then we heard a creaking noise; footsteps on the floor above us. Our faces were almost touching, but the magic had gone.

  I looked up and saw the chandelier sway from side to side. I took out the bayonet from my belt; it almost fell from my hands. My knees began to tremble. I was about to bolt from the room when something happened that stopped me.

  Night after night, I’d been trapped in my bed with the Muladona preying on me. All I could do was to cower under my sheets. My fear was like my sickness, filling me with microbes, sapping my strength. But here I was, out of my house and venturing into this dark, awful place. I’d come out of my shell, and Carolina was standing right beside me. I realised that I was sick of being afraid. I was sick of waiting for others to save me. I was sick of cowering and begging and pleading for my life.

  I looked down at the stubs of my fingers, gnawed off by the creature and I got angry. I knew I could no longer run away.

  ‘C-come on,’ I whispered to Carolina. ‘Let’s go.’ I grabbed her by the hand and we advanced across the creaking planks into the salon. We carried on into an adjoining room and I could see it led to a staircase, the same one I had gone up in the tale of the succubus. We looked over our shoulders and all about us. Then we heard a new noise above us. Carolina whispered what we were both thinking, ‘It’s coming from the tower.’

  ‘Look here,’ she said, as we passed another set of gambling tables. ‘The dust is all disturbed, and there . . . look!’ The lamplight flickered as she pointed to a collection of old whisky bottles and empty tins of sardines. The foetid, oily mess made me nauseous. There was a bunch of cotton balls, bloody and wadded up, and reels of used bandages. Next to them on the ground was an old felt hat and a carpetbag.

  ‘Do you think they’re a hobo’s . . . or maybe a bank robber who’s holed up here?’ she whispered.

  I poked through the bloody mess with the tip of my bayonet
. Under it were old newspaper clippings, yellowed and spattered with drops of blood. I picked one up with my good hand and held it to the lamplight, trying to read the fine, faded print. Something amongst the bloody cotton balls caught my eye. It was a piece of metal glinting in the light. ‘Oh, God, no,’ I whispered.

  ‘What is it?

  ‘It’s the tip of Corporal Riquelme’s knife!’ I said in horror.

  ‘That means it’s here, Carolina hissed. ‘This is where the Muladona’s been hiding during the day. Oh Verge, it’s well before midnight. If she’s still in human form, we might be able to finish her off here and now.’

  We heard again the creaking noises overhead. Whatever was making them had moved closer. It seemed to come from the top of the stairs now.

  ‘Come on, Verge,’ Carolina said. She pushed me into the hall. To our backs was the front door, boarded up and covered in dust; in front of us, the dark flight of stairs. We wove our way round boxes of old whisky bottles strewn all about, packed in cedar chips. With Carolina’s help, I put my foot on the first step of the staircase. Once I’d made that first step, I felt all the muscles in my body contract. I was a marionette; all my strings pulled me backwards at once. ‘I c-can’t move,’ I whispered. ‘I c-can’t face her.’

  ‘Come on, Verge,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘It’s now or never.’

  ‘No,’ I whimpered. ‘We have to leave, before she realises we’re here. You have no idea how horrible . . .’

  A figure emerged from the shadows at the top of the stairs. It held a lamp, the light from which extended far in front of it. I could make out only a vague outline of a human body, but I knew it was my mortal enemy. I could feel its anger seethe through the darkness. It was the wicked person who had been hunting me and who wished to drag me down to hell.

  For a moment the whole world seemed to freeze. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move. There was no sound save for the creaking of the old building and the dripping water all around. I heard an awful cry come from the dark figure. I saw the light of the lamp up above detach itself from the extended arm and it came tumbling, spinning down the staircase, end over end. I stood in the lamp’s path, dazzled like a deer by the pine-pitch fire used by the Indians to hunt at night.

  Just before the flaming lantern reached me, Carolina pushed me down onto the floor and covered us both with her father’s horse-hide coat. As we slammed against the floorboards, the Muladona’s lamp crashed into a box of whisky bottles beside us. It exploded, sending a shower of glass and cedar chips over us. The rickety boards and mouldy curtains soon caught fire. We were engulfed in clouds of dark billowing smoke.

  From that point on, I don’t remember things clearly. In the choking, awful darkness, we scrambled to our feet. We stumbled back the way we had come, through the adjoining room and back into the gambling hall. Slamming against the roulette table, gasping for breath, we saw the black cloud part and the fire take an insane path across the wall and ceiling. It reached the bar, and the mahogany griffins’ wings were soon ablaze, more like phoenixes now. The entranceway to the hall was consumed by the flames.

  The only way out was through a window behind us, but it was boarded up. I turned and began to hack at it with the bayonet, but I only succeeded in puncturing a few slits of light through the boards. I put the bayonet back in my belt and looked for something else to use. Both our hands met on a fallen candelabra almost two yards tall. We heaved the great thing against the planks. I heard them bend, the rusty nails creaking in their holes. I tried to see if we were making progress, but the acrid smoke seared my nose and throat and closed my eyes. I could no longer see Carolina, but I felt her hand interlocked in mine as, once more, we rammed the candelabra against the planks. This time, the planks gave way and the candelabra fell from our grasp with a dull thud. I couldn’t see the hole, but I knew we’d broken through because the smell of damp, clear air came rushing in. The fire fed on the influx of air and I heard a tremendous whooshing sound behind me.

  I pushed Carolina through the opening and we both tumbled out onto the sidewalk, scraping our faces and limbs on the mucky road. I was free, but I couldn’t see Carolina because my eyes were still blinded by the smoke.

  Something huge pounced on me. The Muladona had survived the blast and was going to finish me off! I struggled against it, but it pinned me down. I waited, helpless in the filthy road for the creature to rip my throat out. Then, above the crackling of the fire and the sizzle of the rain, a voice called, ‘Lucas, my li’l Lucas, are you okay? You promised never to play with matches again. How could you do this to your mama, just when I got you back?’

  With tears streaming down my face, I looked up to see the blurry image of Mrs Bellows. She was hovering above me, pinning me down with those enormous arms of hers. I struggled against her, coughing and choking on the smoke that still filled my lungs.

  ‘I’m not Lucas, you crazy old woman.’ I wriggled out of her grasp and rolled belly-over on the muddy ground. Close by, I saw Carolina on her knees, holding her chest and retching. I crawled over to her. I pulled her hair behind her and slapped her on the back.

  ‘Oh, Lucas,’ Mrs Bellows continued, ‘How could you, how could you?’

  Carolina and I crawled on our hands and knees into the muddy town square. Acrid smoke poured out of the hole we’d made. We flopped down on our backs, gasping for breath. Within moments, we witnessed the old gambling hall collapse in on itself, with a long, extended groan. The water trapped inside rolled into the flames like the wrath of God engulfing Pharaoh’s chariots. It sent out a steaming filthy mess into the street.

  I grabbed Carolina by the arms and lifted her up. We struggled together towards the shelter of my house. Old Mrs Bellows sat in the middle of the muddy street behind us, sobbing, ‘Lucas, Lucas, come back to me, my li’l one!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Carolina and I sat on the front steps of my house, wheezing. The back of her horse-hide coat was peppered with glass fragments. When I finally caught my breath, I said ‘Thanks for saving me back there. I . . . I just couldn’t go up the stairs.’

  ‘Thanks for saving me,’ Carolina said, leaning her head against my shoulder, ‘Lo siento tanto, Verge. I shouldn’t have pushed you to confront the creature. I just wanted it to be over.’

  ‘Me, too,’ I said, glancing at the front door. I shuddered to think of the night that awaited me. The creature would be even more furious now that I’d tracked it to its lair.

  Carolina reached out to hold my hand. It had been balled up since the fire. Slowly, she pried open my fingers. ‘What’s this?’

  She took out a crumpled piece of paper from my palm and flattened it out on her knee.

  ‘I picked it up inside the gambling hall. Junk, I suppose.’

  ‘Let’s see . . .’ she said, examining it. ‘It’s a page ripped out of the County Gazette. You know, that monthly sheet they used to print back before the war days. Mostly farming news: when to plant, when to sow? Papá’s got a stack of these old yellow pages at home. He uses them to wrap seedlings in. This one’s from 31st October 1878.’

  ‘That’s strange. It’s my mother’s birthday, same date, same year.’ I stared into the drizzle of the grey afternoon and said, ‘Or rather, that’s the day we used to celebrate. My grandmother found her abandoned on the front step of the church that night. This October 31st she’d be forty years old.’

  Carolina paused for a moment. ‘She disappeared when you were seven, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied automatically, ‘Christ’s age.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was thirty-three years old when she disappeared. Jesus was thirty-three when they crucified Him, and then He ascended into Heaven. I used to think about the resurrection a lot. I thought maybe Mother would come back, like Jesus. One day I asked Father about it. He was so furious. He told me it was a blasphemy to suggest she’d ever come back to us.’

  There was more silence between us. Then Carolina said, ‘October 31st, Hallow
een. That’s your birthday, too, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, half-smiling. ‘I always loved the fact my mother and I shared the same birthday. I didn’t mind there were no presents to speak of, except maybe a book from Pastor Olafssen.’

  ‘You’re gonna be fourteen in a couple of days. That’s two times seven, right?’

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  ‘Seven’s an important number in the Bible,’ she said urgently, ‘like the seven heads of the Beast. And what you said just now about your ma havin’ the Lord’s age when she disappeared. That’s an important number, too.’

  ‘Oh, come on now,’ I said, ‘you’re just dizzy from the smoke.’

  ‘And the last visitation from the Muladona,’ she continued in a low voice, ‘is gonna be on All Hallows Eve, when you turn fourteen . . . two times seven!’

  My thoughts came thick and slow. ‘You know,’ I conceded, ‘Father says the Devil’s more active on All Hallows’ Eve, and invades the land with his lies and deceptions. Sebas used to kid me about that. It just doesn’t seem funny anymore. If only. . . .’ My voice faded out.

  ‘If only what?’

  ‘If only I can make it to All Saints Day, November 1st. If only I can uncover the Muladona’s identity, before it’s too late.’

  Carolina looked again at the old yellow page. ‘See what it says here?’

  ‘What?’ I said, my eyes blurry, looking at the headline, ‘ “Grain prices set to rise”?’

  ‘No, below that. “Indian woman jumps from tower of the old gambling hall”.’

  ‘Let me see that,’ I said, straightening up and taking the crumpled paper from her.