After making a salutatory bow, Rosacher thought he detected a flicker in the king’s expression and, thinking that this signaled recognition on the king’s part, he said, “It may be presumptuous of me, Your Majesty, but is it possible that we have met before?”
“Carlos,” said the king. “There are no majesties here. Yes, I was thinking the same thing myself.” He studied Rosacher for a moment. “The House of Griaule, was it not? You’re the elusive Mister Mountroyal’s aide de camp. I’m sorry…I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Myree,” said Rosacher. “Arthur Myree. I did serve Mister Mountroyal for a brief period in that capacity, but we parted ways after a disagreement over salary. I am now a trader in exotic birds.”
“So Alonso tells me.” Carlos indicated that Rosacher should enter the cantina. “I have spoken with your companion, Mister Cerruti, about the beast that attacked him, but he was not very forthcoming. I’m eager to hear what you have to tell me.”
“Where is he?” Rosacher asked, as he stepped inside the cantina. “He was suffering from shock and may need medical attention.”
“He’s with another of my party. An artist. I hope he’ll be able to describe what he saw and that my artist is able to capture its likeness. I’ll have my doctor look in on him once he’s done.”
Alonso served Rosacher a plate of beans, rice and fried plantains. As he ate, he told Carlos the story he had earlier told Alonso and, when he had done, the king said, “It would appear that the creature is nocturnal. All the attacks thus far have occurred at night…though one of the three killed in Dulce Nombre occurred near dawn.”
“Three?” Rosacher set down his fork. “I was told only two, a mother and daughter.”
“There were three. A girl sent to fetch water with which to prepare the morning meal. She happened upon the remains of the other two and was killed. A black shape was seen feeding upon her flesh, but the witness was too terrified to remember much detail.”
The acuity that Carlos brought to bear on him as they talked unsettled Rosacher. The king seemed to register his every movement, every change in expression, but Rosacher maintained the demeanor of a man who had been through a frightening experience, yet had mastered himself and was trying to be helpful—he did so, he believed, without error, but he could not be certain as to what Carlos perceived.
Their conversation was interrupted by a middle-aged man whom Carlos introduced as Ramon, who brought with him a large sketchbook that he handed to Carlos. Rosacher asked Carlos, who was leafing through the sketchbook, if he was in the habit of traveling with an artist.
“I am a vain man in many ways,” Carlos said. “Often I am unable to bring home a trophy from my hunts, and thus Ramon travels with me to record my successes and failures.”
He stopped leafing through the book and showed Ramon one of the pages. “This?”
“He swore it was accurate,” Ramon said. “But his memory may have produced an exaggerated image.”
Carlos handed the book to Rosacher. On the page was the sketch of a furred animal standing on its hind legs, as might a bear, but with an elongated head that resolved into the leathery face of a horrid old man, so distorted and vile, every wrinkle and line etched so deeply that it appeared the face of a demon, its mouth open to reveal an array of needle-like teeth framed by fangs. The drawing was beautifully rendered and shaded, rife with delicate lines that implied musculature—in the manner of one of Durer’s engravings. Rosacher gazed at it, struck speechless by this representation of, he assumed, Frederick’s base form.
“There are a few details over here,” Ramon volunteered, encouraging Rosacher to turn to the next page.
A black paw with three nasty-looking talons; an eye, almost human, but having a slit pupil and red shadings at the corners; a fang and several teeth, discolored in the way of ivory.
“Does any of this seem familiar?” Carlos asked.
Rosacher shook his head—he no longer had to act in order to simulate the confusion of the recently traumatized. “No, I…I never saw its face, but this…It’s impossible! It’s the face of something out of hell!” He laid down the sketchbook. “It can’t be!”
“Cerruti swears to it,” Ramon said.
“He was in shock! His memory can’t be trusted.”
“The only sure way to ascertain the truth,” said Carlos, “is to hunt it down and kill it. I hope that you and Mister Cerruti will join us in the enterprise.”
Confounded by this pronouncement, Rosacher fumbled for an excuse, citing fatigue and the need to be in Alta Miron by market day; but the king insisted, saying, “There will be other market days and I assure you that you will not find the hunt taxing. We will set a trap for the creature at some distance from the village, but not too far away, and near the river so that we’re able to take refuge should the occasion arise.”
“I fear for Mister Cerruti’s health,” said Rosacher. “Perhaps he should be left back to recuperate.”
“My doctor will examine him and make a determination.” Carlos laid his hands flat on the table. “In the meantime, my men will go on ahead to find a suitable location for a campsite. We will join them in mid-afternoon. You may do as you wish until then. Sleep, rest…or if you will grant me the pleasure of your company, we can chat some more. I’m sure both of us would find it edifying.”
15
Try as he might, Rosacher could find no viable reason why Teocinte’s national integrity should be preserved at the cost of Carlos’ life. Aside from being vain about his appearance and his skill as a hunter, the king had no apparent flaws. Over the next few hours he discussed with Rosacher his intentions for the people of Temalagua, a grand design involving land reform and the gradual elevation of the peasant class by means of education and the opportunities presented by an emerging industrial state. He treated all around him as equals and they clearly loved him—not only the villagers, but also his guards, who engaged their king in rough yet good-natured repartee, and those who, upon hearing of the king’s presence in Becan, had made their way to the village in order to pay their respects and, in some few instances, to ask that he decide some matter of local controversy—this he did with uncommon grace and charity. A case in point, Gregorio, a farmer from the town of Sayaxche whose wife had left him for another man—all three parties came before the king to offer testimony. Gregorio’s wife, Bedelia, did not deny that Gregorio was a decent man and a good provider, but they had married sixteen years ago when they were but children and she had fallen out of love with him and in love with Camilio, who owned a dry goods store. Since her union with Gregorio had proven childless, and as she was already carrying Camilio’s child, she felt justified in moving on with her life. Gregorio claimed to love Bedelia still and, though not a violent man by nature, he had been humiliated and was plagued by thoughts of retribution. For his part, Camilio wanted to avoid bloodshed, but did not believe this would be possible under the circumstances, since he was unwilling to foreswear his love for Bedelia and refused to relinquish his parental rights to the child. The king adjudicated the matter thusly: “In my palace there are many lovely women, the great majority of them yet unwed. I invite you, Gregorio, to come to Alta Miron and live on the palace grounds and work in my gardens, this in the hope you will find there a more suitable wife. If at the end of a year, you have not found a wife or are otherwise unhappy in your estate, you may return to Sayaxche.”