Рис Хьюз - Madonna Park[e-book - рассказы]

Published by

Ghostwriter Publications

Dorchester, Dorset, England

www.thepennydreadfulcompany.com

© Rhys Hughes 2009

"There's a jaguar in the hills."

Julia knew it was going to be a stressful day as soon as Karl spoke those words. He had been out all night; foliage and damp earth had left green and brown stains on his jacket.

"Yes dear? And how do you know that?"

"I heard it." Karl gave her a knowing wink. "The sound is quite distinctive. What's for breakfast?"

"Nothing." Julia pulled open the larder door and peered inside. "We've run out again. Why don't you let me drive into town and buy some food from a grocery store?"

Karl shook his head. "We agreed to live entirely by hunting. I'll just have to go out again tonight and see what I can find. Perhaps if the jaguar comes back…"

Julia wrinkled up her nose. "Do you think we could?"

Karl shrugged. "Why not? The meat's just the same as any other. Isn't it?"

Julia sighed. They had been living the frontier-style life for two months now. It had seemed a good idea at first to reject the comforts of modern civilization and retreat into the wilds, but lately she had been nagged by doubts.

As for Karl, he was in his element. It was still as exciting for him as it had once been for her. It was Karl who had developed their own special brand of hunting, a brand that was highly illegal, of course, but also more productive than trying to snare rabbits or spear fish.

"I'm going to clean my trophies," he suddenly announced. He was becoming increasingly obsessive. Soon, she realised, he would care more about his trophies than about her.

Feeling in need of fresh air, she opened the kitchen door and stepped out onto the porch. The sun had not yet risen over the hills. A chill fog filled the valley. The pine trees on the highest slopes seemed to hang in space.

As she clattered across the wooden boards, she muttered to herself. Suppose Karl was going insane? After all, his talk about a jaguar was rather dubious. Jaguars simply did not exist around here.

She shivered and squinted up at the hills. When the sun finally cleared the peaks, the fog would lift. And then she might be able to see, like a silver thread snaking through the trees, the road that was her only link with the outside world.

For her, this road was the source of all hope. It was seldom used, except by young couples. They would return night after night to presumably enjoy more than the scenic view. Julia envied their innocence.

Our days are numbered, she thought gloomily. Her worst fears were surfacing again. Surely it would not be long before someone reported them?

She tramped down the steps of the porch and across the sodden ground to a large shed. Inside stood the sausage machine, unused since their last kill over a week ago. The machine had come with the cottage: the previous tenant had kept pigs. Julia entered the shed, took out her wire brush and set to work.

As some of the original sparkle began to return to the rusty contraption, her reflection became clear in the metal. She was shocked by her haggard appearance. Her eyes had become deep-set, her cheeks sunken, her long auburn hair tangled and dirty.

After she had finished cleaning, she turned her attention to all the other mundane tasks that were necessary to keep their little homestead going. There was wood to be cut for the fire, water to be drawn from the well, knives to be sharpened. She even had to oil Karl's rifle. At least when he ran out of ammunition they would have to go into town, if only for more.

She looked forward to that day.

She did not see Karl again until dusk. He crept up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. He was armed with a sack and a rifle.

"Don't worry." He smiled at her. "It will be like any other hunt. Just a better trophy."

"But how long can this last?" she cried. "How long before we are stopped?"

"The locals like us. We help rid the area of pests."

She nodded. It was probably true. Most of the locals were farmers and eager to shoot things themselves.

She stretched stiff joints and walked to the house without looking back. Karl scratched his head, bewildered. He wondered if she was growing soft or whether this was just a special case. Perhaps she merely thought a jaguar too noble to destroy?

"Little fool," he called after her. He knew that if he did miss this opportunity, both their stomachs would regret it. With a peculiar chuckle, he loped off into the gloom.

Julia reached the kitchen, placed the kettle on the stove and spooned coffee into a cup. Caffeine always gave her courage. If Karl was successful in his hunt, she would need to be brave.

She heard the shots during her fourth cup. They were distant and sounded unreal, as if they came from the depths of a dream. She did not bother to look when Karl returned and held up his sack.

"I was right," he said. "A jaguar. Quite rare around here I should imagine. Now even rarer, eh? This will take pride of place in my study."

Her reply was a mumble: "Food?"

"In about a minute. Take out your knives." He grinned and left the kitchen for his study. He was only halfway there, still in the hallway, when he heard the frantic pounding on the kitchen door, the click as Julia opened it and the desperate voices.

"We saw your house in the dark. We need your help!"

"There's a madman out there. A madman with a gun!"

And moving into his study, Karl found a suitable space on his wall. Then he selected nails and hammer, opened his sack and drew out his prize: a gleaming chrome hub-cap.

The three friends were mountain climbers who had trekked to the roof of the world. They had encountered many dangers on the way and each had taken a turn to plunge down a crevasse. Bound together by ropes as well as friendship, it seemed they had all escaped death by the narrowest of margins. One by one, they had praised their luck and had agreed that teamwork was wonderful.

After the end of one particularly difficult day, as the crimson sun impaled itself on the needle peaks of the horizon, the three friends set up their tent on a narrow ledge. The first friend, who had survived the first crevasse, boiled tea on his portable stove and lit his pipe. Stretching his legs out as far as the ledge would allow, he blew a smoke ring and said:

"The wind whistles past this mountain like the voice of a ghost, shrill as dead leaves. The icy rock feels like the hand of a very aged corpse. Those lonely clouds far away have taken the form of winged demons. Everything reminds me of the region beyond the grave. I suggest that we all tell ghost stories, to pass the time. I shall go first, if you like."

Huddling closer to the stove, the first friend peered at the other two with eyes like black sequins. "This happened to me a long time ago. I was climbing in Austria and had rented a small hunting lodge high in the mountains. Unfortunately, I managed to break my leg on my very first climb and had to rest in the lodge until a doctor could be summoned. Because of a freak snowstorm that same evening, it turned out that I was stuck for a whole week. The lodge had only one bed. My guide, a local climber, slept on the floor.

"Every night, as my fever grew worse, I would ask my guide to fetch me a drink of water from the well outside the lodge. He always seemed reluctant to do this, but would eventually return with a jug of red wine. I was far too delirious to wonder at this, and always drank the contents right down. At the end of the week, when my fever broke, I asked him why he gave me wine rather than water from the well. Shuddering, he replied that the 'wine' had come from the well. I afterwards learned that the original owner of the lodge had cut his wife's throat and had disposed of her body in the obvious way…"