The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(42)

Montgomery had never heard it called that. He didn’t go in there for there was nothing inside he might want, and the old donkey’s skull made him quiver with a certain superstitious fear. He felt as if a wicked feeling lingered in that spot. The hybrids felt the same, except perhaps for Lupe, whom he’d spotted in that old shack all by herself.

Moreau used that fear to his advantage. When he wished to scold or punish a hybrid, he had them taken to the donkey’s hut. The alcohol kept them pliant, the medicine kept them loyal, the sermons burned the rules into their minds, and the hut ensured misdeeds were quickly corrected.

“Come on,” Montgomery said.

They followed him without further comment, and the three of them waited outside the hut. Soon Moreau appeared. With him came the Lizaldes, and to his surprise there was also Carlota. Montgomery took off his straw hat as he crossed the threshold.

The building was in a bad state of disrepair. Montgomery did the minimal upkeep on this place. Spiders had woven their nests in all the corners and there was dust upon every surface. Light filtered through holes in the wooden boards and hit the donkey’s skull nailed to the wall at such an angle that it made it gleam. It almost looked like it was grinning.

The gentlemen looked more curious than afraid of the old hut and the bones hanging from the wall.

“Cachito, you have bitten the hand of Mr. Lizalde and for that you will be punished,” Moreau said as he took off his jacket and handed it to Carlota. “Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you strike him with a rod, he will not die. If you strike him with the rod, you will save his soul from Sheol. Say it.”

“If you strike him with the rod, you will save his soul from Sheol.”

“Punishment is sharp and sure and you will feel it now. Kneel and pray.”

Cachito did as he was told, kneeling like he did in the chapel during one of the doctor’s services. When Moreau preached, Montgomery paid little attention. He looked away and yawned and did not listen. When Moreau punished one of the hybrids, Montgomery was not present. But now there was no choice but to watch.

First, the doctor did nothing. Cachito kept praying and the man let him. Then the doctor raised his arm and brought it down, hammering against Cachito’s head with his great fist. Even in his old age the doctor was tall, strong, a creature of Herculean proportions. Cachito was scrawny and small.

The boy yelped, and the doctor hit him again. And again. Montgomery was suddenly reminded of his father and the way his fingers had closed around the collar of his shirt, pulling him close, his breath smelling sour, and then the fierce sting of his knuckles against his flesh.

Montgomery hadn’t cried when his father beat him, he hadn’t protested. He’d known well enough that a single tear or a panicked scream would have resulted in harsher blows. He had simply breathed.

Cachito seemed to be doing the same. He quivered, but aside from that first, startled yelp, he had not said anything else. He accepted the blows and the blows came again, harsher.

All fathers are tyrants, he thought.

Until that moment Moreau had limited himself to hitting Cachito with his hands, but now he snatched his cane from Carlota’s grasp and raised it. Its silver tip shone bright.

Montgomery crushed the hat between his hands, bits of straw falling on the ground. But it wasn’t he who spoke up.

“Papa, please!” the girl cried out.

Her voice was like a clap of thunder. It startled them all. Moreau wavered, the cane still held up, but his face was contorted with doubt. Eduardo cleared his throat and spoke up. “I think the point has been made.”

“Yes,” Moreau muttered. His face was flushed. “Yes, it’s been made.”

Moreau lowered the cane and took his jacket from Carlota. The men walked out together. Montgomery’s fingers relaxed and he felt like chuckling. I’m a damn coward, he told himself.

Lupe was helping Cachito stand up. She heard Carlota say something about cleaning Cachito’s wounds, and he followed the three of them into the house. Why he followed them, he had no idea. They did not need him. He could do nothing for them. He couldn’t even raise his voice against Moreau. When it mattered, he was useless.

Carlota brought rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, and other small supplies into her room.

Cachito sat on the girl’s bed, while Lupe hovered next to him. Montgomery stood by the doorway. He wanted to open another bottle of aguardiente, quick, and he almost felt like laughing and had to press a hand against his mouth.

God. He was a worthless shit.

“How are you feeling, Cachito?” Montgomery asked, his voice hoarse.

“How do you think he’s feeling?” Lupe asked, practically hissing at him.

“It’s fine,” Cachito said. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Carlota said, kneeling next to Cachito and touching his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know where Juan Cumux can be found,” Lupe told Cachito. “We should head there, away from this place. They wouldn’t dare look for us there.”

Carlota let go of Cachito’s hands and looked at Lupe. “What are you talking about? You can’t head anywhere. You’d die out there. You’re always making up silly stories—”

“You’re the one with stories in her brain. All the junk you read in books.”

“Stop, please,” Montgomery said, shaking his head. “Both of you, don’t start bickering now. The last thing we want is the doctor or those boys coming here.”