POTATO MOON, Part 33: “Santora,” by Allyn Gibson

Note from PAD: Our contributors seem to be feeling their oats. The previous installment was 800 words and Allyn seems to have gone insane and produced over 2400. I’m being flexible about the length, but guys, seriously…feel free to stay within the recommended lengths.

“If you hear the sound of a slash,” Edwood said, passion nearly inflecting his voice “Run!”

No sooner had the last echo of his murmur faded then the darkness of the dismal yet infused with magic forest was slashed with a blood curdling SLASH!

Jakob bounded deep into the dark woods, focused as he was on Edwood’s advice to flee. His ears perked up, though, and he heard behind him SLASH, then SLASH again, and finally he heard a voice, deep and menacing, that chanted “Santora! Santora!”

What was this strange word? Jakob wondered. Was it Spanish? It sounded Spanish. He thought about a cute redhead he had seen in Spanish class many years ago. She had legs that went on forever, and her eyes were so deep and green he thought he might have been able to see infinity in them.

But so lost was Jakob in his reminiscences that he was paying no attention to these woods as he bounded deep into the night.

And he plowed straight into a pine tree, headfirst, knocking himself out.

As he lost consciousness, the words “Santora! Santora!” echoed in his mind. Were they memories, or was whatever had SLASHed at the brooding Edwood started on its pursuit of the werewolf?

Unconsciousness should have been bliss. But it also unlocked a door in the attic of his mind, to a story that his were-sire had told him.

* * * * *

I remember Paris in the summer. The city was bright and gay and the Germans had been driven away and the Parisians reveled in their freedom. There were soldiers in the streets though the frontlines were passing further and further to the north it was as though the war had ended and been won.

There was a bar along the Left Bank of the Seine where I met the American. He was a big man, the American, and his face was hard and lined. He had lived a hard life and he had seen action in the last war and he had traveled much in his time. “I wanted to be here when Paris was liberated,” he said and he was a writer and a journalist. He sat in the back corner of the bar where he was surrounded by friends he had known in Paris from his youth and together they drank red wine into the night. He offered me wine but I declined the offer as I do not drink wine.

“You should try the vodka” he said. “The bar is well stocked, you know.”

“I do like vodka.”

“They have fine Russian vodka. It is fine because it is made with potatoes,” he said and he poured me a shot and it burned as it passed down my throat into my gullet.

“That is fine,” I agreed. “De nada. But I wonder why there would be Russian vodka here in Paris which has been so long occupied by the Germans.”

“I have known many Germans and the Germans like their vodka.”

“But the Germans are at war with the Russians so where would the vodka come from?”

“Have you seen war?”

“I have not.”

“I saw action in the last war and I can tell you that oftentimes your closest friend is the enemy across the front from you because you want to live and you think war is foolish and he is the one who holds his life in his hands just as you hold his life in yours.”

“I have had much vodka and I do not understand that.”

“Contraband crosses the frontlines and trade still flows in both directions. War is a matter for nations and not a matter for men who like their potato vodka.”

“Perhaps the Germans captured a distillery in the Ukraine or the Belarus?”

The American said nothing. He drank more of the red wine. Though the hour was late and the streets were quiet and the sun would rise in two hours he had the stamina of a man half his age.

“Why are you drinking the wine?”

“I like wine. The French make good wine.”

“They do make good wine. Too bad I do not like wine.”

“I like you,” he said. “I will tell you a story.”

“Is it a story of vodka?”

“It is a story of bullfighting.”

Though I do not like bullfighting, I liked the American and I would listen to his story.

“One of the greatest of the Spanish bullfighters was Senor Mendoza. I would vacation in Spain and go to the stadia and watch him in the ring as he challenged the bulls. If bullfighting were poetry Senor Mendoza would be Virgil or ee cumming but not Homer.”

I did not know these names but they meant something to the American. Perhaps it was the vodka.

“Ten years ago I dined with Senor Mendoza at the villa I rented. We dined late into the night and we drank wine and we talked. We did not talk about the bullfights because he said that to do so would be as like a curse in the ring and I could not fault the man for his superstitions.

“The next day I watched Senor Mendoza die. Bullfighting is a dangerous sport and those who go into the ring are men of character who look death in the face and spit in its eye. Mendoza had said to me many years before that he knew he would die in the ring because there was no life for him outside the ring and what he said was true. He lost his footing as a bull charged and it gored him and tramped him and he was dead before the handlers could pull the bull away. The crowd was hushed and there was great sadness and many people left the stands as the doctors came and took his body away.

“In the village that night many people spoke of Senor Mendoza’s death. Some said that his attention had wavered. There was one man named Ricardo who said that he saw some men who glowed in the summer sunshine. ‘They sparkled,’ he said and many people thought he was mad. Ricardo insisted that the shining men had blinded Senor Mendoza and caused him to fall and perhaps he was right. I did not know. I retired to my villa for the night and a woman came and she rubbed my head until it felt relaxed in the Spanish heat and it was good.

“There was much talk in the village the next morning because Senor Mendoza’s body had disappeared from the morgue. While there was much concern the bullfights continued and a new man took to the ring. No one had seen him before and I could see from the height of the stands that he was a short man. He was a bulky man with broad shoulders and a broad and bald head and he looked much like a potato. They called him ‘El Patata’ and many bets were made that he would not last the day and meet his fate as Senor Mendoza did.

“El Patata battled as no bullfighter I have ever seen. He moved awkwardly and when a bull charged him the crowd gasped, certain that he would meet the same fate as Senor Mendoza. But El Patata stepped out of the way of the raging bull and the crowd applauded the man’s audacity. Then El Patata stood and pounded his fist into his hand and shouted out ‘Santora! Santora!’ Soon the crowd took on this chant as their own and as the bull rushed him they shouted ‘Santora!’ I had seen many bullfights and I had never seen anything like this before.

“For an hour the bull and El Patata circled warily. Finally, El Patata ended the battle and wrestled the bull to the ground. The handlers came and dragged the bull away and the village had a new hero. The tragedy of Senor Mendoza’s death had been forgotten.

“As El Patata received the villagers accolades there was a great commotion from the handling pens. A bull burst through the wooden doors and charged its way onto the ring. Handlers ran out to calm the enraged bull but El Patata raised his hand and waved them away. He pounded his hands together and the chant ‘Santora! Santora!’ began again and though El Patata had no cape he positioned himself to confront the bull.

“The bull charged and El Patata stepped out of its way. The bull passed him and El Patata grabbed onto its horns as it charged. El Patata was a small man but he was able to pull the charging bull to the ground and it fell hard against the hard-packed ground.

“The handlers rushed to El Patata’s aid but before they could reach him El Patata raised his fist and punched the bull hard in the chest. It should have taken the wind out of the bull but somehow El Patata’s fist broke through the bull’s hide and gouts of blood spurt all around. There is always death in the bullfighting ring and this was no different but it was still sickening to watch and there was much vomiting in the stands. The bull was dead at the end of El Patata’s killing stroke.

“Perhaps it was the heat of the Spanish sun that afternoon or perhaps it was the wine I had had the night before but what followed I could hardly believe and had I not seen it with my own eyes I would not have believed it.

“The body of the bull transformed. It shrank and it glowed and a strange wind around the bull and El Patata. Moments passed and in the stands the audience gasped and screamed. When the strange transformation finished the bull was gone and in its place there was a naked man with a gaping chest wound.

“I could see that the man was Senor Mendoza.”

The American paused his story and he drank more wine. I could not blame him. I knew what this story meant. There are creatures that the human mind cannot comprehend, and this strange were-bull was one of those things. He had seen much, this American. He had fought in the last war and he had written many books and he had been married and he had had children and these were things that he could understand. The transformation of a man into bull and a bull into man was beyond his understanding.

I took a shot of the Russian potato vodka and it burned as I swallowed and I cherished the pain because it was all I had.

“What happened to El Patata?” I asked the American.

He shook his head and looked faraway at the door to the Rue beyond the bar’s doors. “I do not know. Priests were summoned and the villagers believed that deviltry was at work and I could not blame them for their primitive beliefs. El Patata had vanished and in the night someone set the bullfighting stadium alight with fire to ward away the evil spirits.

“What had Senor Mendoza become? I did not know. He was a good man, Senor Mendoza. I left the town the next morning and I never returned. I have seen much, Monsieur, but I would not wish to see that again.”

I thanked the American for his time. He smiled at me wanly and then his head crashed to the table as he had had too much of the French wine to drink. In his inebriation he whispered the word “Hadley” and I did not know what it meant but I knew it meant something to him and that was all that mattered.

The sun was rising and I took the bottle of vodka and went into the night. This Russian vodka, made of potatoes, was good even though it burned and I would cherish this bottle for a day until I had no more vodka left. It would be a good day.

* * * * *

How long had Jakob been unconscious? He wondered as he snapped to consciousness, his eyes clamped shut, and he brought his hand to his forehead. He touched it, and then recoiled in pain. He had a knot, a large one, a painful one, and he imagined that Bela would never look at him in the same way again, not with a knot like this. Certainly not in the way that he wished she would, not in the way that she looked dreamily and longingly at the prissy and pensive Edwood.

He heard something coming through the underbrush. It hurt him to even think about moving, and he opened his eyes, but it hurt him to even look. Whatever it was approaching him, it moved softly on the dried and fallen leaves. His nostrils flared, certain he could discern from smells the thing that neared him, but this moved the skin on his face and only made pain shoot through him again.

It must be Edwood, he decided. They may be rivals for the affections of Bela, but they had common cause and Edwood had sent him on his way into the night.

Jakob pushed himself up and rolled over onto his stomach. “Edwood, you bloody well took long enough to get here,” he hissed through gritted teeth that were not, thanks to daily flossing, actually gritty. “You bloodsuckers are all stupid bloody gits, you know?”

Jakob wondered when his font of English had become permanently defiled. The headlong charge into the oak — or maybe it was a maple, or possibly even an elk, which wasn’t even a tree — had caused him to sound like he was London born and bred. He decided, after a moment’s reflection, that he was not going to question this; girls put out for boys with English accents, and this accentuated accent could definitively win him back Bela from that git Edwood.

A boot stamped down in front of him. It was a boot, not the black oxfords that Edwood normally wore.

He raised his head and looked up.

Whatever it was in front of him, it did not look human. It looked like a walking potato. It had a head, and it was bald and mottled like a potato.

And it pounded a fist into an open hand.

“Santora! Santora!” it shouted.

“Oh, bloody hëll,” Jakob said. “I need a drink. Where’s the nearest pub, mate?”