Beautiful Blood

Darkness slipped in, lamps were lit in the little huts, their gapped walls revealing families moving about within and the jungle resounded with the singing of insects and frogs. The old man, whose name was Alonso, served a dinner of beans and rice and chorizo, brought by a sallow girl with a cast in one eye. He joined Rosacher at a table and told stories of the village and the king. How Carlos had shot the man-eating jaguar of Saxache, a creature that, once dead, had turned back into an elderly woman, a bruja of some renown. How Carlos had hunted down the great caiman of El Tamarindo, also a killer of men—its head was now mounted above the Onyx Throne. How Carlos had brought doctors and medicine to Becan when the village had been afflicted with dysentery. Other men dropped by and, after being introduced to Rosacher, joined him and Alonso for a drink. They, too, spoke highly of the king’s courage and largesse, and one, a bearded fellow by the name of Refugio, missing a leg, told of how Carlos, his rifle empty, armed only with a machete, had risked his life to save him from a wild boar.

“A man like that,” Refugio said. “A rich and powerful man who would sacrifice his life for someone poor like me when he has so much to live for…he is much more than a king. He has been crowned by the gods and will one day reign with the Beast in heaven.”

“Truly,” said Alonso, and the other men echoed his sentiments.

Tipsy now, sweating profusely in the windless night, in that cramped circle of men, Rosacher understood for the first time that he intended to kill a man who had done far more good than evil. Even if one discounted the stories as embellished, it was impossible to deny that Carlos was an anomaly, a benevolent ruler in a region that consistently spawned kings who were little more than human monsters with the souls of jackals. He tried to think of how to avoid killing Carlos, but made no headway and instead bought the house a round from another example of the king’s largesse, a second and previously unopened bottle of Scotch. This accentuated the air of rough bonhomie that had come to govern the cantina, and soon stories about the king were replaced by songs that celebrated women, famous hunts, and the fictive events that masqueraded as glorious Temalaguan history. A choir of drunken voices served to suppress Rosacher’s guilt, but not to drown it utterly. As a result he happily joined in the singing, but his joy was compromised by an undercurrent of fretful thought and half-formed plans to return to Teocinte, his mission unfulfilled, and the possibility that he could approach Carlos, persuade him not to join forces with Mospiel. He entertained the notion that he was fighting on the wrong side and that he should immediately break with the city council, with Breque, the only member of the council who mattered, and throw his weight behind Mospiel and Temalagua.

He heard the screaming before he really registered it and, by the time he clutched for his rifle, it had ceased and all that could be heard was a snapping of poles and thatch crunching and the hoarse shouts of the men who had preceded him through the door of the cantina. He staggered out into the night and saw people running toward the ruins of a hut across the way. He followed them and then realized that the ruined hut was the same one toward which Cerruti and the woman had been heading.

He sprinted to the hut, thrust people aside, and saw Cerruti, naked, smeared with blood, sitting against the remnants of a wall, head in hands. Some of the thatch lay across the pallet where Cerruti and the woman had been, and was soaking in a puddle of dark arterial blood. Rosacher knelt and Cerruti glanced up, wild-eyed, strings of mucous hanging from his nose. He tried to speak, but only a bubble of spit came forth. The villagers behind Rosacher babbled and someone let out a wail.

“He plucked her right off me.” Cerruti appeared to be speaking to someone hovering above his head. “I’s giving her a ride and Frederick…” His breath caught in his throat and he started sobbing.

“Shh! It’s all right!” Rosacher held his head, hoping to silence him before he gave away their part in this butchery.

“His face…” Cerruti’s voice was partially muffled by Rosacher’s chest. “I never seen Frederick like that before.”

“Get a hold of yourself, man!” Rosacher pulled Cerruti more tightly to him and whispered in his ear, “People are listening!”

“He didn’t act like he knew me!”

“Here! Help me with him,” Rosacher said to the villagers. “Get him a blanket!”

As he walked Cerruti over to the cantina, Rosacher caught snatches of conversation: “What will Adelia do now? Yasmin was her sole support.” “Give me something to wipe off the blood.” “He said, ‘Frederick’. Who is Frederick?” “Alonso, bring a cup of water!”