The River of Souls (5 page)

“Mr. Matthew Corbett,” said Prisskitt, “meet my daughter Pandora.” 

And the vision had risen from her seat at the spinet and offered him her soft hand. Opening a Chinese fan before her face she had batted her eyes at him, lowered her head and said in a voice as sweet as the honey crust on a cinnamon cake, “I am so
enchanted
, Mr. Corbett.” 

In the two days to come before the ball, Matthew was the one who found himself enchanted by Pandora’s manners and presence. He did find it odd, however, that such a creature should be lacking for a local escort, but an afternoon’s ride along the river with Pandora’s father had cleared up the mystery. It seemed that Pandora was so beautiful she had no suitors. “Too striking for the local men!” said Sedgeworth. “Can you fathom that! Yes, it’s true! My daughter absolutely
loves
to attend the social events…and you do know it’s important for a young woman of her status to be seen at these gatherings…but, Matthew—may I call you Matthew, as I feel I know you so well?—she is never
asked
by anyone! That’s why I was forced to hire you. Yes, forced to hire a young gent all the way from New York, because no man in this town will ask my daughter to
anything
! And it’s a shame on them, Matthew! Oh, I don’t understand this younger generation! Well…I mean…
you
are of the younger generation, but…of course…you’re a sophisticated sort, aren’t you? Listen to me prattling on! Why don’t we retire to the shaded porch, have us another glass—or two—of Sir Richard and relax as Pandora plays us a few hymns. Would that suit you, Matthew?” 

“Oh, yes sir!” said the sophisticated sort, who didn’t realize the power of the Southern sun upon his noggin. “I am well-suited for a stirring hymn!” 

“Indeed you are, my boy,” Prisskitt had replied, as he’d turned his horse back toward the stable. “Indeed you
are
.” 

One of the tapers in a silver candelabra to Matthew’s left spat sparks, as above his head the breeze through the open garden door made the sword of Damocles sway back and forth…back and forth…

“Death,” said Matthew, “can have many definitions as applied to the human condition, sir. For instance, there is the death of an idea. Or the death of hope. Do you agree that someone can be said to die of shame?” 

“Of
shame
? What are you goin’ on about? Either a man
dies
or he don’t!” 

“Precisely so, but there can be the death of the spirit as well as of the body…may I call you Mr. Muldoon?” 

“Reckon. What’s
your
name?” 

“Matthew Corbett, at your service.” 

“Pleased to meet you.” 

“The same.” 

“
Now listen here!
” Muldoon roared again, the beast taking up its vengeful burden. “What are we gonna
fight
with?” 

And here was the question that needed answering. Matthew had realized that Magnus Muldoon was the real reason no young man of Charles Town offered to squire the lady Prisskitt to any of these socials. No young man of Charles Town wished to wind up in the graveyard or laughed out of town for refusing this monster’s challenge. A glance at the dandies and dames in this dignified dungeon told Matthew that there were a few too many grinning faces and glinting teeth for a civilized gathering. He had no doubt that several gents had been laid onto the banquet table for worms due to Muldoon and his fixation on the angel of the room, but probably many more had run for their lives. Matthew had seen in Muldoon’s eyes that the man expected him to run…no…really,
wanted
him to. For the beast was not a born killer, it was just that he was somewhat bewitched by the awesome beauty of Pandora Prisskitt. And who was it who once said there was no such thing as witches? 

Matthew had not desired to be the center of the evening’s entertainment, but he stepped up to the task. 

“My weapon of choice,” he said firmly, “is a
comb
.” 

Muldoon cupped a hand behind one of his ears, which was hidden by his matted mane and might well be plugged by a thumb’s-length of wax. “Must be goin’
deef
. Thought you said your weapon of choice is a comb.” 

“You heard correctly. A comb it is.” 

Magnus Muldoon shook his head as if he’d already been axed in the brainpan. “A comb. For the
hair
?” 

“Exactly so. And I prefer to have satisfaction right
now
, at this moment.” Matthew reached into a pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew his own simple wooden comb, and then he surveyed the onlookers. “Might one of you have a comb Mr. Muldoon and I can use in our—” 

“You’re
crazy
!” It was still a growl, but somewhat weakened. “How can a comb be a weapon in a duel?” 

“I think you’re about to find out, sir. Ah, thank you!” An older gentleman with a shock of white hair had brought a tortoise-shell comb also from his waistcoat and offered it to Matthew. “I will be glad to pay for the comb,” said the problem-solver, realizing the fate of one of these implements. 

“Are you suffering some insanity?” came the voice of Sedgeworth Prisskitt. The question was a polite repeat of Muldoon’s. “What’s a comb got to do with duelling?” 

Matthew preferred not to answer the man nor give him and his daughter a glance. Suddenly Pandora was not so beautiful to him. After all, this entire scene had been set with him in mind as a sacrifice, just so dear Pandora could attend the ball. He could either wind up dead or running like a rabbit out of town, but it was all for the woman’s vanity. He didn’t think fifty pounds was enough for this job. Still…it was a challenge, and never more so than at this moment. 

“Choose one, if you dare,” Matthew told the mountain. There was hesitation in the black-bearded ogre. “Come on!” urged the piece of puff, in a voice that sounded like a man who had fought one or two uneven battles in his life and, in truth, didn’t mind a little scuffle in the dirt. He held the combs forth. “If you have any courage, you’ll take one of these. If not…
get out
.” 

With that taunt, Magnus Muldoon bloomed red at his cheeks and came forward like a thunderstorm. He reached for the tortoise-shell comb first, but then his hand paused. He snatched up Matthew’s wooden implement. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, as if biting off a hunk of meat from a bone. 

“My challenge to you,” said Matthew, “is simply to comb your hair. Yes,” he allowed to Muldoon’s expression of bafflement, “that’s all. I say that whoever can draw their comb completely through their hair is the winner of this duel. Oh…you’re not
afraid
, are you?” 

“Hell, no! Not feared of nothin’ that walks on two legs or four, crawls on its belly or flies on the wing!” 

“Good. Not fearful of a little
comb
, then are you?” 

Muldoon regarded the teeth as if peering into the maw of an unknown animal. “No,” he answered Matthew, his eyes aflame…yet his voice was more smoke than fire. 

“Can someone count to three and start us off?” Matthew asked the assembly. No one came forth, and Matthew figured the throng was quite disappointed that they weren’t going to either see a sword or pistol fight at dawn or a New York problem-solver’s behind as he ran for the packet boat dock. “Mr. Prisskitt?” Matthew offered. “Count to three, please?” 

“Well…I…” 

“I’ll do it!” said the young woman who was not quite now so beautiful. She actually wore the hint of a wicked smile, which proved that beauty was indeed skin-deep. “One…two…
three
!” 

Matthew put comb to hair and began to smoothly glide it through. Magnus Muldoon put comb to hair and made another legion of fleas jump and a flight of flies grumble and buzz. In another moment, as Matthew continued to effortlessly guide the comb through his own hair, the Magnus Man found the going as tough as fighting upsteam through a barricade of beaver dams. His comb got hung up on one tangled and matted mess after another. When Matthew was finished, Muldoon was yet struggling and tearing out hair in the process. The bearded beast had to drop his tricorn and take hold of the comb with both hands, as if he were swinging the heaviest axe ever made. But he was no quitter, that was for sure, and though the bear-greased black sprigs clogged in the comb’s teeth and the fleas jumped and the flies swirled and tears came to the eyes of Magnus Muldoon, still the hands wrenched and tore and the mouth grimaced with pain. He was hardly halfway to his crown, where the worst of his wilderness grew. The comb ripped, snagged and clogged with bear grease. Muldoon gritted his teeth and kept tearing. Suddenly rivulets of blood began to trickle through the man’s hair down his forehead, along his cheeks and into his beard. 

“Stop!” said Matthew, alarmed at this flowing of red rivers. “There’s no need for this!” 

But Muldoon wasn’t listening. He continued ripping his scalp to pieces, tearing out hunks of hair with what had become a true instrument of pain. 

“Muldoon! Stop it, you fool!” urged Sedgeworth Prisskitt, standing in front of his daughter. She had her hand up over her mouth, as if about to release all the stuffed victuals with which she was stuffed. Her eyes were no longer angry; now they just looked a little sick. 

The madman would not stop. Matthew realized this was indeed a duel, and Magnus Muldoon was taking it as seriously as the New York dandy had not. Matthew was about to implore him to cease the struggle, as more blood ran over Muldoon’s face, but then the comb clogged with its ugly mess of hair, grease and God-knew-what-all became well and truly stuck nearly to the man’s crown, and try as he might with his beastly strength Muldoon could not move the comb a shilling’s width through his unfortunate tangle. He staggered back and forth and struggled with it—God’s breath, did he struggle! Matthew thought with equality of horror and awe—but as the blood trickled down Muldoon’s forehead and cheeks and the comb refused to budge it was clear the duel had but one winner. 

At last, with a
whuff!
of released breath that indicated even the Magnus Man had come to the end of his determination, the loser of this contest released his hold on the comb, which yet was held fast by the aptly-named locks. Someone in the watching throng—a woman, or perhaps a highly-excitable man—gave out a laugh in the upper register that cut across the room like a razor across a throat. Matthew saw Muldoon wince, saw his face tighten beneath the crimson streamers of blood that streaked his face as surely as if the sword of Damocles had fallen upon his head. Then Muldoon reached into his black coat, pulled a long knife from a leather sheath at his waist, and took two steps toward Matthew. 

Matthew did not retreat. His legs wished to—and almost did—but it seemed to him the wrong thing to do, so he did not. 

Muldoon stared into Matthew’s eyes while he used the knife to cut the wooden comb free. Then he gave the quite unusable and disgusting instrument to Matthew’s hand. He sheathed the knife, picked up his tricorn hat, and gazed around at the gathered throng who seemed to be waiting for the next act to what was yet this unknown tragedy or comedy. 

“You lot,” said the bloodied man, with a painful half-smile. “Thinkin’ you’re so high God has to reach up to you to wipe your tails with a pinecone, and you lookin’ down haughty on me. Oh, you bagful of snakes and dirty sinners! Laughin’ and laughin’…when there ain’t nothin’ funny at all.” 

Maybe someone further back in the room did give out an unfortunate and muffled chuckle, but mostly silence of the stony kind met this assertion. 

“And
you
,” Muldoon said to Pandora Prisskitt. “The loveliest vision I ever did see, or hope to see. You walk through my dreams. When everythin’ seems dark out in the woods…you’re the candle I hold tight to. I want for better things. Does that make me so bad?” 

“You know what you’ve done!” Sedgeworth’s voice was tight and strained. “You’ve killed three of my daughter’s suitors, run a dozen more of them out of town and nearly ruined her life! Why don’t you leave us both alone and keep to your own kind?” 

“What kind would that be?” came the reply. “The animals of the field?” Again he directed his gaze toward the lovely one. “I thought…when I first seen you on the front street that summer morn…and I recall it, down to the minute…that if I could only walk at your side, and hold your hand, and have the favor of God’s blessin’ to look upon your face…that everythin’ could change for me, and I would give you a life worth livin’. And a love you would never have known, straight from my heart. But…I kinda
see
you now. I kinda see…how you brung this fella all the way from New York, for me to kill…just ’cause you
have
to go to these fancy dances. That ain’t right, Pandora.” He let that hang in the air, as much as the sword hung in the air above the festivity. “Ain’t right, to use a person that way.” He faced Matthew. “My apologies to you, sir. I’ll make apologies for
her
, too.” 

“You don’t need to speak for my daughter!” said the father, getting more enraged by the minute. “How dare you! Speak for yourself! Or…let the world look at you and
smell
you, and that tells the story well enough!” 

Magnus Muldoon opened his mouth perhaps to fire an angry volley at Father Prisskitt, but suddenly it appeared to Matthew that all the salt went out of him and all that was left was sad clay. “I reckon you’re right,” said the man. He nodded. “Reckon you are.” His eyes found the loveliest vision, who stared at him with the warmth of a blizzard. “
Pandora
,” he said, and the sound was like a heart breaking. “I know I done wrong…but I thought…maybe…with you at my side…I could be better than I was.
Am
,” he corrected. “I would’ve given you love,” he told her. “I would’ve held you like the finest cup in the world, and poured myself into you. Is wishin’ that so wrong?” 

“It is
hideous
,” Father Prisskitt answered, and in it Matthew heard the hiss of the snake. “And if it did not make me so sick I would laugh myself to the floor.” 

“Get out of our sight!” the daughter nearly shouted, her face contorted and eyes glittering and not nearly so lovely as Matthew had thought at the evening’s beginning. “Get out of this
world
, you black-bearded monster!”