Gorgesque

by Jon Jacks

  But my cry’s too late, drowned out too much in the cracking gunfire.

  Courundia and her horse stumble, pitch forward clumsily; and she’s brought down to the ground amidst the nauseating spurting of blood.

  Then, suddenly, I’m falling too.

  *

  Chapter 20

  ‘Falling’ is an inadequate word to describe what really happens to me.

  Momentarily hurtling through space; that would be a more apt description.

  As my horse crumples beneath me, no longer able to keep on her feet, the steep incline finally proving too much for her, I’m thrown forward. Arms flailing, incapable of maintaining any control over my flight, I land with a series of sickening crunches on one side, my face taking most of the impact.

  The momentum of my ‘fall’ continues to carry me forward, scraping me hard over sharp rocks and stones, every one of which seems to take delight in shredding at my flesh, or gouging as deeply as it can. My right eye in particular feels as if it’s about to be entirely torn from its relentlessly pummelled and stretched socket.

  Fortunately, after a few brutal seconds of this agonising punishment, I drift out of consciousness.

  *

  ‘Señorista?’

  The voice is worried; a man’s, deep and authoritative.

  ‘Señorista Teresimo?’

  He’s close alongside me, kneeling by me I think, as he tries to tenderly turn me over to face him.

  I’m still lying face down. Still dazed.

  Still wracked with an agonising pain that strikes me everywhere all at once, as if every bone is broken, every muscle sorely torn or at least bruised.

  Everything appears red and fluid to me: I’m looking through a sheen of blood covering my eyes, I think, I hope. As I slowly and painfully turn to face the man, I see him smile in relief that I’m alive, that I’m at least moving a little.

  He’s a Gorgesque, a captain, I think.

  His eyes open wide; he’s either startled or horrified or both. It seems to me that he has to stop himself from lurching away from me.

  The blood: I must look a complete mess, probably far worse than I actually am.

  He turns away from me, calling over to his men to hurry up with the bandages and water.

  ‘How…how do you know my name?’ I ask.

  ‘We were sent out searching for you, Señorista,’ the captain answers as one of his men also kneels by me, soaking some bandages in water poured from a flask.

  ‘How did you recognise me?’

  The man who starts gently dabbing at my face with the soaked bandages looks as worried as the captain. He’s neither Gorgesque nor a lowly Grotesgeous, just a regular soldier.

  ‘I was given a…a portrait,’ the captain answers unsurely, giving me the impression he’s not quite sure if he’s used the correct term.

  ‘A photograph?’ I say helpfully, squealing a little in pain as the bandages seem to catch on some grit caught within my skin.

  ‘Photograph; yes, that’s right, Señorista,’ the captain replies brightly. ‘So remarkably accurate: you were beautiful, Señorista Teresimo!’

  His eyes widen in horror once more, but this time, I think, because it’s just dawned on him what he’s just said.

  It’s too late: I’d heard his words.

  You were beautiful.

  *

  Chapter 21

  ‘It…it’s just one side of your face, Señorista!’

  The captain means to reassure me, obviously.

  After all, isn’t one side of his face remarkably hideous?

  ‘Courundia – is she…?’

  I saw her fall, the soldiers shooting at her.

  I didn’t want her to die. I just wanted to escape her, to return to the Delmestras; to Pavro.

  I try and sit up a little more, so I can look over to where I saw her and her horse fall.

  It’s a very painful exercise, despite requiring relatively little movement.

  ‘Courundia?’ The captain frowns, confused. ‘Ah! The other girl!’

  My horse lies just a little up the incline from where I ended up, its body torn and bloodied, the legs oddly angled and undoubtedly broken. She’s unmoving, dead.

  At least Courundia appears unarmed. She’s being led down the hill, her hands bound behind her back. It must have been her horse that had been shot from beneath her, causing them both to stumble and fall.

  ‘She’s under arrest, don’t worry!’ the captain declares assuredly, obviously mistaking the reasons for my concern.

  As she passes close by, Courundia looks over our way, her face abruptly creased with distress as she sees the state I’m in.

  ‘Andraetra!’

  Despite her bound hands, she attempts to rush towards me. The guarding soldiers, however, catch her hard by the shoulders, dragging her back.

  ‘Please, take care of her!’ I plead to the soldiers, each of whom rewards me with a perplexed grin.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ I shout towards Courundia. ‘I needed to get back: back to Pavro!’

  Pavro!

  What will he think when he sees my badly gouged face?

  I allow myself a relieved chuckle.

  Isn’t that, after all, what the Gorgesque is all about?

  The dark side, our devilish side, and the side of our inner light.

  The grotesque merged with the gorgeous.

  I stop laughing.

  It’s my right side that’s disfigured.

  And that, of course, is supposed to be my beautiful side.

  *

  ‘Do you have a mirror?’

  It’s a simple enough request, and yet it seems to fill the faces of both the captain and his soldier with horror.

  They swap doubtful glances with each other.

  The captain shakes his head.

  ‘No, sorry, Señorista; there is no need for a lancer troop to carry a mirror with them!’

  The soldier eyes his superior suspiciously, no doubt aware of the lie.

  Don’t our soldiers carry mirrors to use as a way of signalling to each other over long distances?

  ‘Have you anything shiny then, that I could see myself in? Polished metal, maybe?’

  Once again, I see the exchanging of anxious glances, the shaking of the captain’s head.

  ‘No, Señorista: sorry!’

  ‘What did I look like’ I ask, curious. ‘In the photograph, I mean?’

  ‘I have it, Señorista! You looked–’

  Yet again, the captain abruptly stops himself from saying any more.

  ‘You have it? Can I see it?’

  ‘Is…is that wise, Señorista?’

  I nod, only to immediately regret doing so: any move, even the slightest, is still agonisingly painful.

  Raising an arm, briefly turning away from me, the captain signals to an especially smart soldier holding the reins of two horses.

  ‘The satchel; on my horse,’ he yells.

  Within the satchel, of course, there’s a covered package.

  A glass plate.

  As the captain helps support my back as I sit up, I unveil the sheet of chemically transformed glass.

  It’s me, standing before the chaise longue, perhaps way too brightly lit, caught in the sunburst glare of an overloaded magnesium pan.

  My eyes are closed, as if I’m dead, posed to just merely appear alive.

  My beauty is captured here forever.

  A reminder of how I used to look.

  Yes, it truly, truly has captured my soul.

  The soul that has just died within me.

  For within the reflection of the glass against its backing of cloth, I can see my real face.

  Within the real world, my beauty no longer exists.

  *

  Chapter 22

  I’ve twisted my hat around a little, so that the veil covers the disfigured side of my face.

  Of course, it covers the right side of my face

  Which means I’m not a Gorgesque: I’m
a Grotesgeous.

  Even the soldiers appear unsure as to how they should react to me.

  The captain, naturally, remains entirely courteous. Yet as he rides alongside me I can sense his discomfort that his own disfigured side is presented to my beautiful side: which, of course, is not how it’s supposed to be at all!

  He’s elegant, handsome too, in his way: in his Gorgesque way.

  I will never be beautiful again; not even in a Gorgesque way.

  I will be forever hideous, and in a lowly Grotesgeous way too.

  More hideous than that, indeed, as I will possess no beautiful side whatsoever.

  I am unmarriageable.

  No one will ever accept me.

  Yet if I’m feeling so ridiculously sorry for myself, whatever must poor Courundia be thinking of her own sorely fallen condition?

  She’s still securely bound, her hands behind her back, a rope halter fixed around her neck and binding her to the harness of the horse she’s forced to walk behind. A soldier accompanies her, one taking his turn with her before being allowed to mount up again.

  I’ve been granted the use of one of their mounts.

  As befits a Gorgesque: but not, naturally, a Grotesgeous.

  *

  The captain won’t allow me to approach Courundia: not even to ask if she’s been injured in any way by her fall.

  He’s anxious for my safety.

  The Delmestras have offered a huge reward for my safe return, he’s informed me.

  As he’d said this, I wondered if I’d caught a glint of anxiety in his eyes: does this count as a ‘safe’ return?

  Will I still be worth the reward money originally offered?

  It could be I’m being ungenerous.

  It may well be that no such thoughts passed through the captain’s mind.

  But they surely passed through mine.

  The travelling’s easier on the roads, now that we’ve come down from the higher reaches of the hills. Yet the soldiers have a nervousness about them, a wariness that’s replaced the air of ease they had while we came down from the mountains.

  Although held proudly upright, their lances twitch at every odd sound of movement that erupts from the clusters of boulders or bushes we pass.

  I find it hard to believe anyone would be foolish enough to attack a troop of smartly-attired lancers: in fact, even as the captain keels over, a bloody hole having suddenly appeared in the centre of his chest, I remain in a strange state of disbelief.

  *

  Chapter 23

  At first, I couldn’t understand the abrupt loss of order and cohesion amongst what had originally been a tightly knit group of soldiers.

  Then I heard the blood-freezing yells of our attackers, more animal howl than shout. Our assailants moved with breath-taking speed and agility, swarming through and amongst us so suddenly that I could have sworn they had sprung up from the ground itself.

  Dust and dirt clung to them, or hovered about them as sepia coloured clouds as they struck out mercilessly with swords or fired their muskets. Their faces were wild, the wildness of animals; which it seemed many of them actually were, their faces covered with thick fur, their snouts large, jaws wide and snarling.

  The men around me screamed in terror as they fell or were brutally pulled from their rearing horses, disappearing under the clubbing of gun butts, the slashing of blades or even their own lances.

  If any of our attackers died, I didn’t see it. Every solider fell, however, thankfully swiftly in most cases.

  The only survivors of the platoon were Courundia and myself, both of us being almost instantly surrounded by triumphantly whooping hybrid men and women.

  ‘What of the girl, we don’t need her do we?’ someone hollered out.

  ‘Check her out, she might have a tattoo!’ another snarled.

  Two of the attackers sprang towards the still firmly bound Courundia, ripping her blouse from her. She remained imperiously proud, despite her nakedness.

  ‘It’s a good one; worth a bit, I reckon!’ the semi-fox-headed man holding the largest shred of Courundia’s blouse yelled gleefully.

  ‘Should we just kill her anyway, slice off what we need?’

  ‘And how do you intend keeping it fresh and alive,’ a man tightly holding the reins of my severely frightened horse cried back without even glancing their way.

  His eyes were locked on me, enjoying and hungrily devouring the fear he detected there.

  Half his head was that of a dog.

  His long, red tongue slavered as he spoke.

  ‘And as for this beauty, the Delmestras will be paying out far more for her than even they’d intended!’

  *

  If they see that my beauty has become seriously flawed, will they no longer see me as someone it’s worth keeping alive?

  Will anyone amongst these beasts realise that I’m veiling the wrong side of my face?

  They each take great delight in calming the terrified horses, only to instantly execute them with a sharp stab of a lance to the heart. As the light goes out of the horses’ bulbously horrified eyes, as their legs give way and they crumple to the ground, these half- beast, half men laugh. The only horse they spare is the one I’m riding, which also now serves as the horse Courundia is tied to and has to walk behind.

  For some reason, too, they take care to save the satchel containing the glass plate of my image, tightly strapping this to my mount’s harness: I can’t see how they would even know of the photograph’s existence, let alone have any use for it.

  For the most part, they’re still covered in dust, dust I now realise they’ve deliberately covered themselves in. They had dug holes close alongside the road, some even lying within the road itself, and here they had lain in wait for the arrival of our small column.

  In what I take at first to be a rare display of kindness, one of the bestial men takes a jacket from one of the dead soldiers and drapes it around poor Courundia’s bared shoulders.

  ‘Don’t want the sun ruining our merchandise, do we?’ he says with a delighted snigger.

  *

  The sun was harsh.

  Every now and again, I glanced back towards Courundia, wishing there was something I could do to help her.

  Not that she appeared to be seeking pity: she still remained proud and resolute, refusing to be bowed by the cruel way she was being treated.

  At least her hands had now been tied before her rather than behind her back, but this was only to make it easier for the men to fix her to the horse.

  The beasts rode along the road with no fear of attack. They had their own horses, it had turned out, horses that seem used to the hideous visages of these men, for they show none of the terror exhibited by the soldiers’ mounts.

  We hadn’t been traveling far when one of the other men rode up alongside the dog-headed man to draw his attention to a dust cloud on the road behind us, one that surely heralds the swift approach of either a hefty carriage or another large band of mounted men. Flicking open and extending a telescope, the dog-man languidly swung around in his saddle, looking back and studying the approaching men with complete nonchalance.

  ‘It’s the troop we killed earlier.’

  He slipped the telescope back into its pocket, with no hint of surprise on either side of his warped face. Neither did he display any sense of urgency, for he allowed his men to continue their steady, unhurried pace along the dusty track.

  The troop of galloping men soon caught up with us, the gaily fluttering pennants of their rigidly upright lances flickering like red streaks above the veiling dust their mounts were throwing up. One of the soldiers no longer wore a yellow jacket, while another had to share a horse, ungainly clinging on behind one of the other riders.

  If I’d had any doubts that these were indeed the men I’d seen killed only moments ago, this was immediately dispelled when the once handsome captain gave me a smart salute of recognition as he and his troops drew closer, deftly riding in amongst us. <
br />
  The captain drew up alongside the dog-faced leader, yet made no effort to join in conversation with him. Despite this, something must have passed between them, for Dogface suddenly glowered my way, a mix of possibly bewilderment and irritation causing him to almost growl.

  With a furious flick of his reins, and the merest dig of his heels, he pulled his mount right across our column until he was close by me. Rising high in his saddle and reaching across, he wrenched the veil away from my face.

  And this man with the face of a dog observed me with glaring-eyed horror.

  *

  Chapter 24

  ‘Hold her!’ Dogface snarled.

  On his growled command, the men nearest to me abruptly urged their horses to draw close to mine, stretching out with grasping hands to grab me around the shoulders and arms.

  I was too slow to react and fight them off. Yet Courundia was far more instinctive in her actions, throwing herself forward and leaping up against my mount’s flanks in an attempt to keep the men from taking hold of me.

  Even if she’d had her hands free, I doubt if she’d have had much of a chance of helping me. Despite the vigour of her struggles, she herself was brutally knocked and dragged clear.

  ‘Watch her tattoos; don’t damage them!’ someone callously ordered.

  I was firmly held, such that no amount of squirming was going to result in me being released. With a signal of a waved hand from Dogface, the men pulled back hard on my shoulders, painfully bending me backwards in my saddle.

  Dogface drew closer still, leaning over me as if preparing for a kiss.

  Hands abruptly clasped around my eyes, effectively blindfolding me, throwing me into an edgy darkness. Then another large hand completely enveloped my nose, such that I feared I was going to be smothered.

  Instead, there was the strangest sensation of water trickling down my nose, causing me to gag, like someone drowning. I tried to shake my face from side to side to prevent this, but it was all to no avail; I was far too firmly held.

  The water – which wasn’t much more, I now realised with relief, than the slightest dribble – streamed off to the right side of my face, flowing beneath my skin, spreading out and making even the muscles (it seemed to me) rise and fall in undulating waves.