Read Online The Magdalena Curse by F.G. Cottam - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: F.G. Cottam
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tapestries were draped on hanging frames above the place at which the woman sat. Some of these showed figures. Some showed geometric shapes. The figures were neither human nor animal but at some subtle and unnerving
stage in between. They had uneasy expressions. To Hunter’s eyes, their features combined the cunning found in humankind with the primal malevolence of predatory beasts. The abstract tapestries were more disconcerting, he thought. It was as though in them, geometry, its laws and logic, was somehow undermined. They described sly, anarchic angles and structures. They mocked reason. They defied proof. He thought that you might go mad in their intricate study. Above them, remote on the black concave ceiling of the chamber, a constellation had been painted. But it was a constellation true to no night vista from the Earth. It was alienating, this strange nightscape. It made him feel abject light years away from home and what he knew and understood.
The seated woman turned her head towards Hunter. She wore a green satin turban shaped in complex folds. He knew with certainty that beneath it, she was bald. She opened her mouth abruptly, as if in a yawn so sudden it had surprised no one more than its originator. ‘There is something singularly charming about the river at that particular point, Captain,’ she said. She spoke in a high, clear voice and her accent was English and refined. ‘I can quite see why you chose it, with the curve and shimmer of the water towards the pale arches of the bridge. There is the verdant green of the island. There is the promise of the fun to come under elegant tents in the splash of the summer sun. It’s a lovely spot. There might be no lovelier along the entire length of the Thames. It’s a wonderful location for a sacrament and celebration. Magical, one might say. I know you agree.’ Her mouth snapped abruptly shut. Then she smiled. And the smile was the terrible invitation to share some secret joke.
‘What’s the old bitch talking about, Captain?’ Peterson said. He kept his voice deliberately low. ‘Sounds like a fucking travelogue.’
‘She’s just described the place where my wedding reception
was held a month ago,’ Hunter said. He was aware of being so dry-mouthed that his own voice sounded shrill, like one belonging to someone else entirely.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Peterson said.
The woman turned to Peterson. Hunter thought it had grown darker in there, the light even further diminished. The painted constellation above them grew remote, as though they orbited through space away from it. The figures on the tapestries were reduced to shadowy spectres. There was a glow to the old woman’s eyes that the candlelight could not explain or justify. This glimmer looked to Hunter like the external manifestation of some dark internal energy. He thought the vapid green glow in her eyes was generated by thought. She was a woman, if she was a woman, capable of willing things. Hunter had an instinct for danger honed over years of exposure to the risk of violent death. His hand was greasy with fear when he placed his palm over the butt of his sidearm. The metal felt cold and gnarled and familiar and not at all comforting. On the table, the cards in front of the woman began to curl and then to smoke and smoulder with a harsh stink.
‘You should not have interrupted our game,’ the woman said.
Peterson said, ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Miss Hall. That’s immaterial. But you have gravely offended my hostess, Mrs Mallory. And that is not immaterial at all. Goodness me, no. It is something you will greatly regret.’
On the other side of the chamber, beyond where Miss Hall sat enthroned, there was a whimper of noise. Hunter pulled his pistol free and released the safety. With the weapon in both hands, and giving Miss Hall a wide and cautious berth, he jogged towards the source of the sound. It was a prone figure in battle fatigues. It was Rodriguez. Blood was
smeared around the
stage in between. They had uneasy expressions. To Hunter’s eyes, their features combined the cunning found in humankind with the primal malevolence of predatory beasts. The abstract tapestries were more disconcerting, he thought. It was as though in them, geometry, its laws and logic, was somehow undermined. They described sly, anarchic angles and structures. They mocked reason. They defied proof. He thought that you might go mad in their intricate study. Above them, remote on the black concave ceiling of the chamber, a constellation had been painted. But it was a constellation true to no night vista from the Earth. It was alienating, this strange nightscape. It made him feel abject light years away from home and what he knew and understood.
The seated woman turned her head towards Hunter. She wore a green satin turban shaped in complex folds. He knew with certainty that beneath it, she was bald. She opened her mouth abruptly, as if in a yawn so sudden it had surprised no one more than its originator. ‘There is something singularly charming about the river at that particular point, Captain,’ she said. She spoke in a high, clear voice and her accent was English and refined. ‘I can quite see why you chose it, with the curve and shimmer of the water towards the pale arches of the bridge. There is the verdant green of the island. There is the promise of the fun to come under elegant tents in the splash of the summer sun. It’s a lovely spot. There might be no lovelier along the entire length of the Thames. It’s a wonderful location for a sacrament and celebration. Magical, one might say. I know you agree.’ Her mouth snapped abruptly shut. Then she smiled. And the smile was the terrible invitation to share some secret joke.
‘What’s the old bitch talking about, Captain?’ Peterson said. He kept his voice deliberately low. ‘Sounds like a fucking travelogue.’
‘She’s just described the place where my wedding reception
was held a month ago,’ Hunter said. He was aware of being so dry-mouthed that his own voice sounded shrill, like one belonging to someone else entirely.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Peterson said.
The woman turned to Peterson. Hunter thought it had grown darker in there, the light even further diminished. The painted constellation above them grew remote, as though they orbited through space away from it. The figures on the tapestries were reduced to shadowy spectres. There was a glow to the old woman’s eyes that the candlelight could not explain or justify. This glimmer looked to Hunter like the external manifestation of some dark internal energy. He thought the vapid green glow in her eyes was generated by thought. She was a woman, if she was a woman, capable of willing things. Hunter had an instinct for danger honed over years of exposure to the risk of violent death. His hand was greasy with fear when he placed his palm over the butt of his sidearm. The metal felt cold and gnarled and familiar and not at all comforting. On the table, the cards in front of the woman began to curl and then to smoke and smoulder with a harsh stink.
‘You should not have interrupted our game,’ the woman said.
Peterson said, ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Miss Hall. That’s immaterial. But you have gravely offended my hostess, Mrs Mallory. And that is not immaterial at all. Goodness me, no. It is something you will greatly regret.’
On the other side of the chamber, beyond where Miss Hall sat enthroned, there was a whimper of noise. Hunter pulled his pistol free and released the safety. With the weapon in both hands, and giving Miss Hall a wide and cautious berth, he jogged towards the source of the sound. It was a prone figure in battle fatigues. It was Rodriguez. Blood was
smeared around the
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