When it comes to the nature of evil, you could read book after book without coming upon a clearer expression of the nature of evil than in this Barry Yourgrau flash fiction.
HULA HORROR
It's very late at night - very early in the morning. I'm in a thatched-roof hut. Earthen floor. Kerosene lamp. A girl - a fellow tourist - has gotten drunk and is now dancing just for me, lasciviously as she can manage, in the middle of the place. She sways and bobs, come-hither style. She's stripped off her clothing and is attired solely in a 'native' grass hula skirt, colored pink.
I drink, as I have copiously all evening, the gramophone squalls, the lamp throws a melodramatic light, harsh, utterly black in the shadows. I keep time with my glass, thinking, Man, the brochures don't tell you about this, and then a horrible realization pops into my mind, like a window shade flying up. That pink skirt, I realize, my skin turning icy - that pink skirt is hideously evil: it's an instrument of black magic, a voodoo booby-trap planted here on us two boozed-up, wooly-brained tourists.
The girl of course is utterly ignorant of this. She's not exactly the brainy type to start with. I rise from my chair slowly, wide-eyed, watching in horror as she runs her fingers teasingly through the waving mess of pink strands. i wave my hands for her to stop. "Don't!" I tell her. "Stop it." My throat is all tightened up. She thinks I'm teasing. She giggles, yummily, wiggles her boobs and shimmies backwards, away from me, enticing. I go toward her. "You don't understand!" I whisper desperately. She squeezes her eyes shut for a second and laughs, all dimples. "Oh yup I do!" she gurgles.
I jump for her. She dodges me and goes scooting, squealing, out the door. I grab as she heads into the night and get a handful of pink grass. It writhes in my hands. Screaming soundlessly, I struggle with it on the floor. Frantically I flap behind me with one hand for something heavy. I get something - an individual-portion casserole of our 'native' dinner - and with it I pound and pound on the twitching strands, driving them into the earth, spraying Spanish rice all over the room.
I sprawl backwards, gasping. The air is full of drumbeats, pulsations. I crawl to the door. In the distance, surrounded by an unearthly, bizarre luminosity, the girl is doing her dance of the seven veils encircled by a ring of fat white candles in the undergrowth. She is sputtering with idiotic excitement, gleefully shouting for me, till absolutely unaware of the nightmare taking place, because she shakes her hips but she doesn't have to: the skirt is clearly moving of its own accord. I watch as it begins to climb up her ribs. She squeals ticklishly and slaps at it.
I can't bear to see what's coming. I scramble up and frantically throw some things into a suitcase. I heave it out the window and clamber after it. Perhaps she will divert attention long enough to cover my escape. I rush into the darkness. i can hear her screaming now. I try to go faster. The moon pops from behind a cloud, suddenly as if a garish spotlight had been switched on, flooding the way as I plunge down through the ever-pinkening brush.
Author Barry Yourgrau, born 1949
Comments
Post a Comment