by Rick Hautala
To my surprise, the Reverend chuckled softly, a sound that made my flesh clutch suddenly at my bones. A sly look passed across his face, and he rubbed his false hand on his knees in an unseemly display of boyish excitement.
“No, it is not my soul that is to be taken, Sir, for it is already too black for the Demon’s liking. Instead, I was tasked with seeking out someone of a purer nature to act in my stead: perhaps a brave soul that fought for his country; a kind gentleman that might reach out in friendship to a lonely old man, and share his hearth on a cold night. Such a person I was to find, and mark with this symbol, which they were to accept willingly, without coercion or payment!”
Even as I leap from my seat in rage, I hear a deep-throated, rasping laugh from behind my chair, the sound of a thousand torn throats gasping for air. The room begins to darken and recede, and the fire reaches out to embrace me, until I stand like the witch on her flaming pyre, trapped by bars of scarlet and yellow. As razor sharp talons dig into my cheeks and slice them from the bone like cuts of meat, the last thing I hear is the Reverend’s baritone voice calling my name a final time.
“Forgive me, Bentley, forgive me!”
*****
Phil Hickes is an advertising copywriter residing in New Zealand. His stories are featured in the Detritus anthology published by Omnium Gatherum Media and Satan's ToyBox: Toy Soldiers, from Angelic Knight Press. He also has a story featured in the upcoming Attic Toys anthology, edited by Jeremy C. Shipp (Evil Jester Press). He can be found on Twitter @hickesy.
DUST AT THE CENTER OF ALL THINGS
John F.D. Taff
The wooden crate was sealed tight, stenciled in plain black letters.
Llullaillco Volcano
Museum of High Altitude Archaeology
Salta, Argentina
¡Frágil!
It squatted in the center of the museum’s warehouse, squatted and steamed ominously. Bill knew it was just the dry ice, keeping the small bundle nestled within as frozen as when he had found it.
She slept within, swaddled in ancient textiles, encased in Styrofoam, packed into a steel case, then sealed inside another steel case which was then, finally, crated in wood and stenciled with those four simple lines.
Technicians, representatives of the Argentine government, tribal leaders of the local Incan community residing in Salta, museum staff, representatives of corporate donors, and even members of the National Geographic Society milled about the wide expanse of concrete the box occupied.
Bill, Dr. William Sanford, stood by idly, almost complacently, watching the team of men unpacking the crate slowly, methodically, so as not to pierce the metal containers. What was inside, curled into a sleeping position held for more than half a century, was delicate, incomprehensibly valuable.
…delicate…incomprehensibly valuable…
Those words made his jaw ache, and, unbidden, her face swam into his mind, her sweet, innocent face, eyes slowly closing…drifting, fading, slipping away. A small enigmatic smile had remained on her lips long after whatever emotion had caused it evaporated with whatever spark had animated her.
That smile, that smile frozen on her blue lips like an ice sculpture, remained with him, as he knew it would until whatever spark animated him had left, too.
But that was another her…
“Doctor,” came a voice beside him. “We’re ready to remove the Styrofoam and move her into the temperature-controlled chamber in the lab.”
Bill cleared his throat, absently wiped at his eyes, eyes that were, surprisingly enough, dry. “Sure, Ted. Let’s get her in there before she melts and causes an international incident.”
Clapping the lab assistant on the back, Bill drew in a deep breath, strode toward the main knot of people gathered around the smoke-shrouded crate.
Of course my eyes are dry, he thought. I can’t cry anymore.
There’s nothing left inside me…nothing in my heart…
…nothing but dust.
Daddy?
Yes, sweet pea?
…when will it hurt?
Hurt? I hope it won’t ever hurt, honey.
The doctors said it would hurt, that I’d feel bad…but I don’t.
That’s good, baby.
It feels like…I’m floating in a pool, Daddy.
Like I’m floating in the clouds…
*****
Bill snapped awake.
He gasped for breath, swallowed, but his throat stuck together, dry and adhesive.
Beside him, his wife lay wrapped around a giant sleep pillow, an eye mask on, drugged to the gills. He knew how she felt, wished that the drugs, the alcohol, the sleeping until all hours worked for him, too. But it didn’t. The grief was too keen, too stinging, too present.
As he watched, her shape under the blankets, that crescent-moon shape, reminded him of her…and her.
One that he’d found on the side of a South American mountain a year ago, curled cold and dead.
The other he’d buried in the dry ground of Mt. Pleasant Cemetery a month ago, just as cold, just as dead.
He threw his legs off the side of the bed, drew on a robe, went downstairs to make coffee.
He knew, from bitter experience, knew that there would be no more sleep tonight.
*****
La Doncella, they called her…the maiden.
Dr. Sanford and his team had found her a year ago on the side of a dormant volcano in Argentina, nearly at the top of the mountain’s 20,000-foot peak. She was perfectly, exquisitely preserved, mummified by the cold, dry air, wrapped in blankets, clothed in handmade textiles of breathtaking intricacy, adorned with feathers and jewelry and a head piece.
She’d been no more than 12 years old, her skin still beautiful, her hair still braided and plaited, supple and shiny. Five centuries ago, her Incan elders, her parents, her grandparents, perhaps, clothed her and led her up to the top of Llullaillco. She still had the remains of cocoa leaves in her mouth, which the Inca chewed to ward off altitude sickness. Her stomach still held traces of the corn liquor they’d given to warm her, perhaps, make her sleepy.
And then they left her there, left her bundled in blankets, dressed in her finest, left her drunk and drugged and alone to freeze to death at the top of the mountain, as close to their heaven as they could physically get.
She had drifted to sleep, perhaps, drifted away borne on exposure and hypoxia and the alcohol coursing through her veins…drifted peacefully into a death where sharp, cold blue skies swirled overhead and hard, unforgiving rock pressed up from below.
It was, Dr. Sanford knew, an act of purest love on the part of her family.
He had done much the same for his daughter, just a few weeks ago, had swaddled her in her favorite pajamas, tucked her favorite stuffed animal in a crook of an arm that was too thin, too pallid. Covered her with her blanket and kissed her and allowed the doctors to fill her veins with drugs that, like the cocoa leaves, like the alcohol, closed her eyes, slowed her breathing…carried her away.
But his act seemed one of cowardice, one of abandonment, and it ate at him, gnawed at his tired, grief-wracked brain.
Perhaps, he thought as he sat at the kitchen table, the clock on the microwave blinking 3:14 a.m., the light over the table yellow and wan, perhaps in a thousand years some detached academic will find her and postulate that what he’d done had been an act of purest love.
Right then, though, at 3:14 a.m. in the lonely, almost aseptic kitchen in his lonely, almost aseptic house, his wife curled alone in their bed overhead, he doubted that.
Daddy, I don’t want to leave you and Mommy.
We...I…don’t want you to leave, either, honey.
Will I remember you…when I’m gone? Will I remember anything, Daddy?
Of course you will, sweetheart.
…will you remember me?
God, honey, of course I will…always…
*****
The lab was all stainless steel and glass, blinking lights and gauges, the
hissing of cryonic gasses, the beeping of various temperature and humidity sensors. Dr. Sanford sat at his desk, apart from the relative hubbub of the lab, white coats whisking back and forth with clipboards and papers of one kind or another.
His eyes seemed to be focused beyond his desk, to the space partitioned off by four walls of double-paned, floor to ceiling glass. Within, atop a cold stainless steel table, she lay.
La Doncella.
The lights illuminating the large, refrigerated room were harsh, sharper than sunlight, crisper than fluorescents. Under those lights, from this distance, she almost seemed real…almost seemed alive.
Dr. Sanford’s eyes, though, were not focused on La Doncella. They were not focused on anything, because what he saw, he saw through the lens of his mind.
She lay in a small pink casket, morbidly doll-colored, morbidly doll-sized. The mortuary had draped the casket’s opening with some kind of spangly, gauze-like material, which softened the gaunt lines of her cheeks, the hollows of her eyes.
The lights in the funeral parlor had also struck him as too bright, too illuminating in a way that he had found forced and unnatural. Death seemed to warrant dim lighting, respectful lighting, twilight instead of high noon.
Despite himself, he had noticed that the small, faint smile still remained on her perfect, rosebud lips, their blue carefully painted over with pink.
Under those lights, from that distance, she almost seemed real…almost seemed alive.
*****
Hours later, how long he truly didn’t know, he felt a hand on his shoulder, tentative, questioning.
“Hey, doc,” came Ted’s voice from behind him. “We’re about ready to call it a day here. Time to lock up and go home. Need a full night’s sleep before we try unwinding some of that cloth tomorrow and see what was wrapped up with her.”
“Tomorrow,” Sanford repeated mechanically, feeling dazed and…cold.
“Yeah…umm…and you might want to come on out of here,” Ted said, a note of uncertainty in his voice. “You’ve been in here for more than an hour staring at her with no coat on. You’re gonna catch a cold. Besides, Martine says you’re raising the ambient temperature in the room by two degrees Celsius.”
Sanford swallowed, blinked. He’d been in here…staring at her…for over an hour? That didn’t seem possible. Where had the time gone? Why had he come in here in the first place?
As these thoughts swirled like a cold fog in his mind, he realized that, whatever the reason, he didn’t want to go home, not right now, not just yet. His home was full of ghosts; the ghost of his dead daughter, the ghost of his wife.
“Go ahead and send everyone home,” he croaked. “I’m gonna stay for a while, wrap some things up. I’ll lock up when I leave.”
There was silence for a moment. Sanford realized that he hadn’t even turned to face Ted all the time they’d spoken.
“Bill, listen, I know it’s been rough and everything, what with Rebecca’s…” He trailed off. “All I’m saying is don’t spend so much time here that you lose your wife, too. Don’t forget that Margie’s also lost a daughter.”
Dr. Sanford turned to Ted, consciously affixed a smile to his face, hung it there as carefully as a framed painting over a crack in a wall.
“I know, Ted, I know. And I appreciate your concern, I really do,” he said, watching his words, his lies condense in the air, float away on puffs of vapor. “But we’ll…I’ll be OK. I won’t stay here too long tonight, I promise.”
Ted looked at him as if trying to determine whether there really was a crack behind the picture, but eventually returned the smile.
“OK, I just wanted…” He sighed. “Well, don’t go and unwrap the present without us. And no fair peeking, either.”
Bill laughed, clapped his assistant on the back. “Don’t worry about that. Looking forward to getting started tomorrow. Have a great evening.”
Ted spared one look back as he departed the cold chamber, closed the door behind him with a loud thunk.
Dr. Sanford turned back to La Doncella, and the cold he felt evaporated away.
Daddy, I feel cold.
Does it hurt, baby?
…no…it feels nice…after being so hot for so long. It’s making me sleepy.
Well, then you just relax, sweetheart, relax and be comfortable and don’t worry.
I’m not worried, silly. Just…tired…
It’s OK. If you want to sleep, you just sleep.
I will. But I don’t want you to worry, either, Daddy.
Me?
Yes, you.
I’m not worried, honey.
Yes, you are. I know. But it’s OK. You don’t have to worry anymore.
…why?
Because you found me.
Sanford shook all over, like a dog coming out of a lake. Cold, dry, stinging cold flooded his senses, stabbed at every pore of his body. He shook his head again, and found himself slumped across the frigid steel table at the feet of La Doncella. His cheek pressed against the steel, the nerves there numbed and heavy, he looked up at the mummified girl. Her knees were drawn up and her arms were locked around them, clasped hand in hand, drawing her body to itself to conserve whatever heat her small frame had once held.
Her smooth skin was dark ochre, the color of bricks and chilies. Her black hair shone in the harsh lights, and her eyes, though still preserved, were dark stones shrunken at the back of their sockets, wizened and shadowed. They looked down on him with sadness and compassion.
Because you found me…
He’d been dreaming, of that he was sure.
But Rebecca had never said anything like that.
Had she?
He lifted his head slowly from the dull, dead pain of his cheek against the cold steel table.
And noticed, noticed for the first time, the small, faint smile frozen on her lips.
Lurching up, he staggered toward the door, nearly fell. Catching himself on the latch, he took a deep, hitching breath, yanked the heavy insulated door open, nearly fell out into the lab.
Couldn’t be…can’t…
Sparing a look back, he swore that her eyes followed him, tracked him deep within their dark recesses.
His hand shaking, he flipped the light switch, and the chamber went dark.
Twenty minutes later, he was home, pouring bourbon in a glass, downing it, pouring another. As he swallowed the second glass, he noticed the bottle, which had sat in the liquor cabinet for years without having been touched, was now nearly empty.
Looking up at the ceiling, as if he could see the figure of his wife coiled in the winding sheets of their bed upstairs, he frowned, put the glass, now empty, onto the counter, went upstairs to join her.
*****
The next day moved sluggishly, like thick blood through a drowsy body. Dr. Sanford remembered dim, disjointed images from the day, pulsing in dark flashes across his brain.
Carefully, oh so carefully, removing the stiff, brittle blankets La Doncella was wrapped in, peeling them back like the layers of a butterfly chrysalis, its contents dry and larval.
The press of his team in the cold chamber, their breaths drifting from their paper masks and coagulating in the air over their heads like ectoplasm.
The lights, too bright, too revealing, seemingly coming from every angle and illuminating every feature of her face, the depth of her eyes, the sere wrinkles of her dark, parchment-like skin.
And her smile…so faint, so vague…so familiar…
His mind drifted as they unwrapped her, and he was back in that other cold room, in the basement of the funeral home. His hand had gripped a plain paper grocery bag, crumpled, ordinary. Inside was a frilly pink confection of a dress, a pair of patent leather shoes, anklet socks, a pair of pink panties.
He’d handed this bag over to the man with the sad eyes and cold hands, such a simple transaction, suffused with a drab, melancholy ordinariness that belied its depth.
Daddy?
Yes, sweetheart?
I want to look pretty.
You’re beautiful, honey.
No, silly. I want to look pretty…after…
Oh…
I want to wear my pink Easter dress, the one I never get to wear.
OK.
And the shiny black shoes.
…sure, baby.
You won’t forget, will you?
No, baby. I promise.
I want to look pretty…
…when you find me.
But she had never said that, not the last part, not those words.
Who had, then?
Dr. Sanford found himself again in the cold chamber. His body shivered uncontrollably. When he looked around, he saw that the lights in the lab were still on, but no one was there.
When had he wandered in here? How long had he been here?
La Doncella was wrapped again, that part of the investigation over. They had found her clothing underneath, some bits of jewelry, her body, her frail, withered body, so leathery, so dry.
Sanford reached out, drew his hand softly over her hair, fine and silky. The span of five centuries had done nothing to roughen it, nothing to remove its essential luster.
He sighed, closed his eyes.
Daddy?
Yes, baby?
I want to go with you.
You’re with me right now, honey, right here.
No, I want to go home…with you.
Honey, we can’t go home. You have to stay here, where the doctors can care for you.
No, I want to go home, I don’t want to be here anymore. Please take me home, Daddy…please!
Rebecca…
No, silly. My name is Toctollssica…don’t you remember?
…oh…right…
Please take me home, Daddy…please…
OK.
*****
Later…
He found himself sitting on the couch. He was still dressed from the lab, his white coat open, his ID badge hanging askew, his tie undone. He thought, for a moment, how his life was becoming a series of disjointed scenes, with no connecting tissue between them…none, at least, that he could remember.
