The Twelve Strange Days of Christmas

by Syd Moore

  Eventually their prayers were answered when Hercules arrived in town. The hero battled Geryon for three days and three nights before finally killing him by cutting off his head. Hercules decreed that Geryon’s head must be buried deep in the ground and a tower should be built on top of it that should always burn with bright light to prevent the monster reforming and returning to wreak his vengeance.

  A good story. No doubt the colourful myth put the lighthouse on the Roman map.

  I made my way up five levels, noticing as I counted the steps up, that there were five on each turning. At the top, I looked up to see a magnificent rotunda fashioned from golden stone and noted, wryly, there was no light burning.

  The view from the top was indeed breathtaking. One could see for miles across the Costa da Morte, the ‘Coast of Death’, so named because of its numerous shipwrecks. I could have stayed for longer, but the platform was filling up with cantankerous tourists, and although my mood had been lifted by the sights afforded from this vantage point, anxiety now seemed to be drifting back.

  I exited hurriedly, keen to escape the crowds and walked, at a pace, down the causeway. At the bottom an old man in tattered clothing, wearing very large, black-rimmed spectacles, was standing on a soap box. Around him were several placards scrawled with slogans. I paused, curiosity overcoming my keen desire to leave, and screwed my face to the signs. It was useless, the man’s handwriting was impossible to decipher. I began to move on, but he shouted at me. I stopped politely and, unable to communicate verbally, nodded and smiled. The man grimaced, then waved my attention to the tower and barked out a string of hard-lettered words. Beside him was a picture of the Tower with a cross beneath it. He grabbed it and held it to me. He was clearly insane: I smiled with as much sympathy as I could muster, then firmly turned my back on him, unheeding of his loud protestations, and made my way quickly to the road.

  I now had a choice. To go back and see if the hotel was accessible or to continue to explore and stay out until it was time to meet Xosé and Tatiana. I saw from the map that I was near the old part of the city. I would regret not visiting it, if this turned out to be my only opportunity. And realistically I had been gone only three or four hours. The likelihood was that the police investigation and subsequent clear-up was still ongoing. Decision made, I wound my way through the old city wall into the most ancient part of A Coruña.

  Traipsing up and down the narrow alleys I admired the baroque architecture of the churches, the tiled floors, wrought-iron decorative features, and enclosed glass balconies and galerías. The afternoon heat seemed to be building, reflecting off the ancient painted houses with their glorious lemon, honey and peach exteriors. I was sweating profusely and, finding myself hungry, located a café that had not closed for siesta. I selected a table on the terrace shaded by a voluptuous vine-covered pergola complete with hanging grapes. It was while I was waiting for the dreadlocked waitress to notice me that my eyes roamed over the local graffiti. Several walls were decorated with stars, formed of five points. On the floors by the gutters I identified triangles with circles drawn within. Some of these had a ‘handle’ or tag written beneath them, ‘M.A.L’ or mal. I enjoyed graffiti – it gave me something to occupy my mind on various travels – but I had no respect for the fashion of tagging, which seemed to represent nothing more creative than a canine-like inclination to mark out territory. It occurred to me that I had seen both these symbols throughout A Coruña. I was prepared to put them down to a fashion or fad, when I remembered the five floors of the lighthouse. The stars could be pentagrams, an ancient symbol of protection, though a rather pagan practice for a Catholic city. Galicia, it was true, was proud of its pagan heritage, which Xosé had told me was Celtic. The circle within the triangle however, I thought, had a Hermetic origin. Probably, I reflected, it was the totem of a local pop band, spread throughout the city in some kind of obtuse marketing campaign. I had observed such nonsense before.

  I ate a fine meal of tapas, marinated mussels and Russian salad, noting a curious architectural feature in the streets around the café. The ground floor windows of each house or shop were crossed heavily by iron bars. The place seemed so harmonious and full of old world courtesy, that I wondered what the Coruñians might be protecting themselves from in such a blanket fashion. Could it be each other?

  When I commented on this the waitress rolled her heavily mascaraed eyes and shrugged, dismissing me with a word: ‘maligno’. Something had been lost in translation. Was she referring to the name of the band, or the graffiti artist? I sighed and tried to string a clearer sentence together. An older man, maybe the owner, called across from behind the till, ‘No preguntes’. I smiled, again unable to comprehend his meaning and decided to nod back acquiescently. I’m glad I did, for later I learned he was instructing me not to ask questions.

  I made my way east through the sloping streets, eyes fixed on the uneven roads until I reached the harbour when, aware of both the heat and my lack of hydration, I stopped for a beer in a small jazz bar off the main square, Plaza de Maria Pita. From there I wound my way until I came upon a curious island. Having left both my watch and mobile in the hotel I had no idea of the time, but I was keen to view the small castellation that occupied the islet, though Xosé and Tatiana had not recommended it. I walked up to the short rampart, noticing in the car park outside a number of camper vans and caravans. Xosé had mentioned it was a tradition of some Spaniards to tour the region in such a way. I thought it odd as there were no facilities here by way of toilets or showers.

  It became clear that the hour was late: the cashier was counting the till and there were few other tourists about. Regardless of this I went into the castle.

  It was, I learnt from the few sections of English signage, the Castillo de San Antón and dated back to ancient times. Certain areas were thought to be prehistoric. At one point it had been a leper colony attached to the main town by the thread of road. For the most part it served as a fort for the defence of the A Coruña harbour but it had also been a prison until the 1960s. I saw how the casements in the central courtyard could easily be converted into cells with a metal grid. These now housed stone artefacts: coffins, coats of arms, fallen gargoyles. Some stone slabs had strange ethereal creatures etched onto them, thin and colourless with long fingers and slits for eyes, their heads surrounded by tulip-shaped halos though they didn’t look the least bit holy. There was no information to tell me who they were so I moved on.

  The fort was oddly shaped, with a jagged star-like structure that came off a wide ‘stem’ – the battlements and sentry points. On the top floor were a couple of exhibitions. One of baroque furniture, another chronicled the Peninsular War. I lingered in the chapel and noticed along the wall a line drawing, which depicted a winged beast with the face of a man, the paws of a lion, the body of a wyvern and a poisonous sting at the tip of his tail. A spark of recognition flared now I was seeing the full body and I remembered the character – it was Geryon again. Not only had he provided the head under the lighthouse, it was also Geryon, I now recalled, who roamed the dark depths of Dante’s Inferno below the seventh and eight circles of Hell, those of violence and fraud. There were more pictures to view but the atmosphere inside was becoming stifling. I went outside and found, up some stairs, a terrace. At the top I was able to see another little lighthouse on the uppermost section of the star. It was tiny, dwarfed by its older sister on the other side of the ‘neck’. But unlike the other, this one was much neglected and covered in dust and ivy. I made my way over and circled it till I came upon a small wooden window. I don’t know what compelled me to look in, I doubt I ever will. I suppose perhaps I was curious. I deeply wish I hadn’t, for as I pressed my nose up against the glass a hideous face within rose up to view me. I had only a fleeting impression of it before instinct kicked in and I snapped my neck back.

  What I saw will stay with me for the rest of my life, however long that may be.

  The head was malformed, almost triangular in shape.
The skin colour, if it was indeed skin, for it was glistening and cadaverous and seemingly formed of scales, was a kind of blue-grey. The hair hung down thinly, a leached-out colour of mould or dank moss.

  But its eyes were the most upsetting aspect – a clotted blood-red, large black pupils that not only saw me in that brief moment of contact but looked deep inside my soul and recognised it. I felt a deep knife of fear slice me. Fortunately, at that point adrenaline flooded my senses, impelling me out of there, and I took off as quickly as my legs could take me.

  Momentarily overwhelmed, however, I took a new route, one that I had not taken on my way in and, instead of arriving at the exit tunnel, I came into a dark section I had not been in before, a part of the castle that was prehistoric, which formed the cistern of the place. The cavern was coloured in the most garish colours – florid mauve and emerald slicks adorned the wet walls. The walkway came out onto a small platform that looked across a deep, deep pool of water, which had found its way up from the network of caves and tunnels stretching far below the foundations of A Coruña. I stopped for a moment, panting, and grabbed hold of the steel bars that extended across the platform to stop the foolhardy falling in. Just as I did, I felt a sharp stabbing pain on the right side of my neck. My hair fluttered as if wind had displaced it and I heard the rustle of wings by my shoulder. I spun round just in time to see a bat-like shadow fly up and into the dark of the underground cavity. Putting my hand to my neck I saw, as it came away, that it was speckled with blood.

  Yes blood!

  It was enough.

  I turned on my heel and ran and ran and ran until finally I crossed the dark courtyard into the exit, stopping only when I was firmly out of its jurisdiction and in the safety of twilight.

  I must have looked a sorry state as I leant against the metal posts outside the Castillo, trying desperately to calm my breath, for soon I became aware of a voice behind me.

  ‘Hey buddy. Buddy, are you okay?’

  It came from a man about my age, with long hair and a beard. Hank, I learned, was touring Spain in a campervan. ‘When in Rome …’ he said with a shrug as he led me into his modest dwelling to put antiseptic on what he diagnosed as an animal bite.

  ‘Let’s hope old Geryon hasn’t been out and about again,’ he said with a chuckle. But his words frightened me.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I snapped angrily. I was annoyed and rather ashamed of myself for allowing fear to take hold.

  Hank barely reacted to my brusque behaviour. I would come to learn the man was unflappable and I would be grateful for that later. ‘Oh it’s just a legend. Didn’t you read about it in there? The last time this was a prison there was a massacre. The prisoners got out and killed each other. When they found the bodies all their blood was drained out. The townsfolk put it down to Geryon.’

  But he’s dead and under the tower, I wanted to say, shocking myself with such an irrational train of thought. Instead I said, ‘Old continental superstition no doubt.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Hank and applied a plaster to my neck.

  ‘I’m not surprised their imaginations run wild with that deformed lighthouse keeper,’ I suggested, recalling the wretched face at the window.

  ‘Don’t think so, buddy,’ Hank said. His eyebrows had risen significantly. ‘That one’s not been working for years.’

  He was wrong of course. I had seen him. But I was not one to quarrel with my host. Instead I said, ‘Geryon!’ and tittered. ‘Peasant stories.’

  ‘Just because it’s a story,’ Hank replied in a low voice, ‘doesn’t mean it’s not true.’

  The man was clearly not on the same wavelength as me.

  I thanked him sincerely for his help and explained I would be joining friends shortly for a drink and told him the name of the bar should he want to join us. It seemed the least I could do.

  He shrugged and lit a suspicious-smelling rolled cigarette, telling me he might ‘swing by later’. A generous host, he offered me a tug on the joint. I took it and breathed in a heady lungful of cannabis. It did me no good for almost immediately I began to feel disorientated and dizzy.

  It was almost the hour to meet Xosé and Tatiana. I took my leave and began to walk back through the harbour. But as I did a strange sense reared up over me, the feeling that I was being followed. And I wondered if perhaps the lighthouse keeper desired to speak to me. I shuddered at the thought of seeing that face again. Though I cast several glances over my shoulder, as I made my way along the piazza, I could see no one following me.

  As I progressed, the feeling grew to such a degree that I started to jog along the pavement. Despite becoming breathless I was reluctant to stop, and began to notice on the streets a number of misshapen people: women with bulbous eyes and cheeks coloured in purplish bruised skin with sores round their mouths like octopus suckers. Men, white and sickly bumped into me, gazing with what I imagined was malignant intent.

  I passed a temporary stage erected for the fiesta and saw on there a traditional troupe of Galician dancers – nine of them, all ladies, were whirling in a frenzy like their Turkish counterparts. Their wails pitched higher and higher piercing my head so that I had to clamp my hands over my ears to shut out the awful howls. A young man nearby jeered at me. Despite my unsteady legs I took a swing at him, missed and fell, hitting my chin on the ground and biting my tongue. I got up and scurried away like a dog. The blood in my mouth tasted strange. Thick and oily.

  When I reached Xosé I was in something of a state. I could see from my friends’ faces they were disturbed. I however felt no concern for them. I was now experiencing an unquenchable thirst. I ordered a large wine, red, and drank it down immediately, ordering more.

  On the table were a number of small olive and potato tapas. I ignored them and went for the bloody ham, consuming the entire dish without offering it around. Then another wine.

  Xosé had never seen me like this before and I think it was with some relief that he greeted Hank who arrived about thirty minutes later. I introduced them and set off for the toilets as now I was wracked by vicious cramps in my stomach.

  When I returned to the table it was clear something had passed between Hank and Xosé for they turned to stare at me. Tatiana had disappeared.

  Xosé suggested we move on and I quickly agreed.

  I remember finishing my wine, trying to get to my feet, but found myself overcome with an extreme fatigue. I then recall leaning on Xosé and Hank as we made our way through a warren of tiny streets that seemed to go on forever, until we reached a final bar. This was smaller and darker and had little atmosphere. But it did have a couch and it was upon this that they laid me down as the pains in my stomach grew stronger and I cried out for … I don’t know what for. I only know that I was seized by some wild passion, a desire and urge that had me struggling against my bonds. For they had tied me down. A man in black entered the room and looked at me. He gently lifted my head and held a drink to my lips, for which I was grateful and consumed very quickly. Whilst I drank he spoke some words, I think in Italian, though at the time I thought it Latin. I was aware of other people singing, chanting, and the smell of incense in the bar. Then the darkness that lurked in the corners came out and drew me into it.

  I have only a faint memory of the horrors I saw there – a million faces contorted with terror, a beast – something dark and winged and hairy – called to me. I struggled with my sense of self and felt part of it dissolve. There were lights and candles and a precipice, which tugged me closer and closer to the edge, until the priest’s words cut through my dream.

  When I came round I found myself in a shuttered room with only a bed and a chest of drawers upon which stood a glass of water.

  I drank it and sat up. When I opened the door, light flooded in. As my eyes became accustomed to it I saw that I was outside a dusty church, nowhere near the city. On the pavement in front was a familiar camper van.

  ‘Welcome back to the world,’ Hank greeted me.

  He wouldn’t
tell me much as we drove back to A Coruña but I gathered that I had experienced some kind of mental breakdown, a result of my difficult divorce no doubt, and was reassured that it was quite to be expected and nothing to be ashamed of. It had, however, resulted in startling hallucinations and delirium that required sedation. For some reason, which he wouldn’t reveal, this had taken place in a monastery. Hank muttered something about the vagaries of medical insurance but I didn’t believe him.

  When we reached the hotel, he waited outside while I packed, then in silence he drove me to the airport in Santiago de Compostela to get the next flight home.

  As I got out of the car, he told me, ‘You might have been saved but you’re marked. You can’t come back here, right?’

  And I replied to him, ‘I know.’

  I never saw Madness in A Coruña.

  At least, I never saw the band.

  CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE WITCH MUSEUM

  It was Christmas Eve at the Witch Museum and all through the house

  Everyone was stirring, even the mouse,

  For the season of goodwill ain’t limited to sapiens and their cats

  But extends to all creatures including rodents and rodent-looking bats,

  The Hedgewitch in her corner was decked with mistletoe,

  And if I chanced on Sam someone near it I planned to snog them, ho ho ho.

  Mmm. I put the pen down and set off. Could I get away with that? I mean, bats to my mind at least did look a lot like mice. Winged mice. And mice were categorised in the rodent bracket. Still, I wasn’t sure that line was scanning properly.

  Did it matter anyway? I wondered. I mean, it was only a gesture.

  The idea was to thank everybody for coming and to read out something so hilarious it would tickle their funny muscles and kick off the party good and proper. However, as I came into the newly cleared Talks Area, I thought it was already cooking nicely.