The Masterpiece Of The Devil

The village of San Dorino has only one crossing. The driver faces a choice when he reaches it. He can go left, right or forward. If he decides not to go forward, the road bends sharply and after a few minutes, he reaches the crossing again. But from the opposite side, it looks like a different crossing. Satisfied that he is on the right path, the driver again accelerates, enjoying the cool breeze blowing down from San Jose peaks to the North-west.
The pinnacle of enigmatic architecture of the Inca.
A few minutes later, his petrol runs dry, and he is forced to accept his fate. He is lost. He gets off. He walks over to the vegetable seller, a man called Pablo. The honest Chilean has seen this type of driver many times, lost in open space and short of petrol. His eyes glitter at the prospect of unexpected income.
“I’m looking for Adavile, senor.”
“Si.”
“Por favor?”
“You want directions, senor?”
“Si.”
“But first, you must buy some tacos from my son. Business has been slow, ya?”
I understood what the plea meant. Money first, directions later. I took out a few pesos, hoping they’d quench his greed. It worked.
“Gracias, gracias.” I noticed his accent. It was hardly Spanish. It sounded more crude, more raw. Doubtless you don’t understand me, but I have heard the silver speech of Spaniards so long that any variety of dialect thoroughly unnerves me.
“You are not Hispanic?” I asked.
The old man looked into my eyes with an expression betraying his astonishment.
“Neither are you,” he said, recovering.
“Si. I am of mixed parentage. My father is Russian, my mother Venezuelan.”
He didn’t seem too interested. I left him, taking the directions carefully. I drove away as fast as I could. The air there was too still for my comfort.

I was shocked when my boss asked me to go to San Dorino the next Monday.
I was even more shocked to hear that a series of murders had taken place there. Serial killings with a terrifying twist. So far eight bodies had washed up in a nearby lake, each with a part of the anatomy missing. The photographs drew bile from my stomach.
It was thoroughly disgusting. No similarity connected these people except that they were all journeying through the village. Not residents. Not locals. Each had something missing. Either the eyes, ears, tongue…
One poor soul had lost his face, cut away by an incredibly sharp object. The perfect outline of a human face remained in the picture. Devoid of skin. This was the work of an artist, I thought. The carving could almost be called divine, if it weren’t degraded to being hellish.

An hour, and I was back in front of the old man, his son selling tacos. He couldn’t answer any of my questions properly, so I went away, asking for shelter in a nearby motel. This case would need waiting, not talking.
I noticed that the road to the church was closed. An elderly woman informed me that it was being repaired. The same glint in the eye, the same awkward accent. It was rather odd. In the middle of Chile, people existed who were not Spaniards??

The motel was dirty. Yellow walls, grime and dust covering every inch of walking space. I walked over to the reception counter. Slime covered the seat, so I decided against sitting down.
“Room?” The accent again.
“Yes, please. Single bed, windows facing town.”
“Facing town, senor? The San Jose does not please you?”
“Not at all. I lived in Adavile. The mountain is my courtyard.”
The man said something in a different language. I did not understand. Another fellow, slightly older to him, looked at me and nodded. An agreement. The elder fellow looked like a professional. He had steady hands, a keen glance and behind his impassive face was a brain that was continuously thinking, formulating, planning.
Planning what?

Night.
The room was cosy. The lack of company slightly disturbing. In a village of odd people, the last thing I wanted to do was sleep alone. It couldn’t be helped though, so I did the best I could, blocking the door with a chair and locking the windows.
I tried to figure out the cause of the killings. Hardly money. Travelers passing through San Dorino would not be tourists. Kill a man and deface him to get ten pesos and a car with a half tank of gas. Hardly.
Then I remembered the dangerous looks of the townsmen. Eyes always laughing at some hidden joke. Faint smiles at the edge of lips, quickly covered by an odd accent.
I drank something they brought me. Tasted like sherry mixed with grapes. Disgusting.
That night, I dreamt.
Or did I?

It felt real enough.

Hands grabbing…bars beating against the wooden windows…splinters hitting the floor with muffled creaks…eyes burning through form outside…wind blowing…its moaning slowly increasing in volume…windows going down…door creaking…groaning…people entering…words uttered…unknown language…blackout.
I remember the journey back to the church…
Was I dreaming still? Did it hurt so much in dreams? Did it feel like a thousand horses were pulling you apart in the middle of the night?
The church.
Congregation of the unholy. Hymn of the diseased. Faith of the wayward.
It was there that I finally understood.
The language was not Spanish at all. It was an old Aztec dialect. They were singing one of my mother’s songs. “Penance” she had called it. I remembered the words well.
This was not a mass murderer at large. It was something much, much worse.
Cult.
I was taken to the altar. The church bells sounded. A late night sermon.
Then suddenly, the head of the congregation spoke in Spanish. The words – aimed at me.
“Behold the unveiling of Supay – our god of death – the ruler of Uca Pacha. What you call Hell.”

The sight was spectacular.
Forged of the remains of the dead was a sculpture. Pieces of flesh from different individuals had been sewn together, revealing a hideous face. The entire body was made of different men’s limbs, paled by the loss of blood. Dried blood stained the ground, forming a garland of red around the so called diety.
He asked me to look at the face.
Lifeless eyes stared back at me. Drained of blood, drained of emotion.
I realized why I was witnessing the sight.
The fingers were missing…