Robert Masello - The Medusa Amulet

“I was considering it.”

“You have an awful lot of ground to cover, don’t you think?”

“But an awful lot to tell, don’t you think?”

“No one would ever believe you.”

That much he would concede. But who cared? An artisan did his best work without worrying about what his audience might think or believe.

They kissed, her arm around his broad shoulders, and then she squirmed out of his grasp, saying, “You know where to find me.”

Benvenuto drained his cup, then turned off the desk lamp. He was still wide-awake-she was probably right about the chocolate-but he had an itch to read over the old papers that had been gathering dust in the vaults. He was feeling oddly inspired tonight.

He made his way down to the main floor, then down another flight of stairs to a ponderous steel door, heavy as the door on any bank vault. Pressing his finger, then his eye, to the biometric scan, he turned the wheel and the door swung open. The lights automatically went on and the fans began blowing.

There were several interconnecting vaults, holding bronze statues, oil paintings in gilded frames, antique tapestries, and cabinets filled with priceless gems. An Ali Baba’s cave, if ever there was one. But he didn’t stop until he came to the deepest and farthest recess of them all. Although the overhead light fixture there was the same wattage as in all the other vaults, for some reason that corner always seemed darker, as if some other force were struggling against the light. Even the marquis had never liked to linger in that spot. Against the farthest wall of rough-hewn rock stood the squat, black safe in which his most valuable treasures were kept. Lowering his head to the lock, he entered the combination, then turned the handles and opened the double doors.

On the bottom shelf, the harpe nestled on its black velvet cushion, right beside the silver garland.

In the middle, the manuscript pages rested in a cracked leather binder, which he removed and placed on top of the safe.

And in the shadowy confines of the topmost shelf, the iron strongbox glinted as silently and dully as a crocodile’s eye.

He was already closing the safe again when something made him stop. It had been years since he had last opened the iron box-first made to contain the looking glass-and even then he had sworn to himself that he would never do it again.

But at present, for whatever reason, it beckoned to him. His curiosity was aroused, and he found himself drawing the box far enough forward that the circular dials on its lid were revealed.

The combination, of course, was as simple as Caterina’s nickname, and he turned the circles one by one, carefully, until he heard the tiny click of the lock unlatching.

He paused, wondering if he wanted to go on.

But his fingers, as if possessing a will of their own, were raising the lid and pressing it back on the hinge.

The cold, white light of the vault pierced the black hollow of the box. For a moment, there was no response from the trophy resting inside. But then, as the marquis kept his eyes firmly fixed on the mirror affixed to the underside of the lid, it awakened to the sudden glare. Bewildered and unfocused at first, the yellow eyes quickly assumed a desperate cast. The snakes that made up its hair waved in the air, their tiny teeth snapping in vain. The mouth opened in its habitual snarl, as if struggling to cry out.

But even if it could shriek in fury, who besides the marquis could ever have heard it?

He met its gaze in the mirror, trying not to flinch, as the severed head assumed an expression of impotent fury, of seething and inexpressible rage. Even now, he thought, the Gorgon remains the indestructible embodiment of madness, death, and desolation. To behold her reflection was to stare into the abyss. He had thought, many times, of simply consigning his gory prize to the flames. But each time his hand had been stayed by some mysterious impulse. To destroy it would seem a sort of perverse sacrilege. Glad as he was that his own life once again moved forward like anyone else’s, he was not prepared to eradicate this last living proof of immortality. Life and death, good and evil, were all part of some unknowable cosmic plan, and though he was forever done with his interfering, he was not done with his sense of wonder.

Pressing the lid down until he heard the lock catch, he slid the box backward on the shelf. Then he shut the safe and swiftly retraced his steps through the vault. He swung the heavy door closed, turned the wheel to seal it, and then, clutching the manuscript under one arm, mounted the narrow stairs. The whole way he felt as if there was something right behind him, ready to plant its claw on his shoulder, spin him around and petrify him with its baleful gaze. Only when he had reached the top did he stop and turn around and, after flicking off the lights, stare defiantly into the inky darkness. Nothing stirred, and he slammed the door to the staircase shut with a bang loud enough to awaken the whole arrondissement.

Then he stalked off to his study to continue his story where he had left off so very long ago.