The Collector

The body Morana wore had little insulation, it was worked to the bone, with varicose veins and arthritic fingers, hurting with the dull, ceaseless pain of a hard life. Neon lights irritated her eyes as she approached the bus terminal in the pre-dawn darkness. A bakery, a betting shop, a newsagent: brash colours, blinking, blinking. Cold wind made her shiver.

The bus was there, thank whatever deity presided over punctuality these days. She rummaged through her overflowing handbag, looking for the ticket.

The driver stood outside, a short, round man with a reddish moustache, chewing a sandwich that reeked of chicken offal and garlic. “Luggage?” he asked between bites.

“No, just my bag.”

She climbed the steep, narrow stairs, her knees flashing fiery bolts of pain. The dim interior of the bus was full of women: sleepy, tired, overworked just like her. On Monday morning, the first bus from Rijeka to Trieste was packed with caregivers who worked on the other side of the border, taking care of the old Italian ladies. For the rich Italians, it was a relatively cheap way to look after their elderly grandmothers; for the women, it was a lifeline that saved whole families.

She found her seat and slumped down unceremoniously beside a plump blonde woman who was trying to read a tabloid in the weak light.

“Good morning,” Morana said.

“Morning,” the woman replied, glancing towards her. “Haven’t seen you here before. New?”

“Yes,” Morana replied, wishing she could sink into the dusty, greasy seat and close her eyes in silence.

“Zorka.”

“Morana.”

Awkwardly, they shook hands in the tiny space between the seats.

“So, have you done this before?” Zorka asked.

Morana thought about the question while the yellow neon outside blinked, counting the seconds. “Yes, I have, many times,” she said at last. “But it’s been a long time since I crossed the border.”

The driver started the engine and the doors closed with a hiss. The upholstery still gave off a faint smell of cigarette smoke, though smoking had been forbidden for twenty years.

“I used to be an oncology nurse,” Zorka said. “But the salary wasn’t good. What did you do?”

Simple enough question, but Morana took her time again, watching the sky change from black to grey, while the bus drove down the street. “I’m a collector,” she said.

Zorka gave her a strange look. “Like a…debt collector?” Her voice became guarded.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Morana assured her. “I just take things nobody wants anymore.”

“I see.” Zorka shrugged. “Well, these grandmas, they’re like that. Nobody wants them, but they pretend they do. The relatives will drive you mad with their petty rules.” Zorka shook her head. “They mask their guilt with demands, they pretend they care, even though they’re just waiting for grandma to die so that they can inherit the house.”

“I see.”

“Don’t let them bully you, they always think they pay you too much. You speak Italian?”

“I can get by.” Morana watched the early morning traffic, the gray facades, the sea in the distance.

“That’s good. I could barely say buongiorno when I arrived. But you’ll learn fast. Where’s your grandma? In Trieste?”

“I was told it was a villa in the hills just above the city.”

“Oh, fancy. But beware, the richer they are, the worse they treat you.”

“I don’t think I’ll be staying for long,” Morana whispered. The borrowed body confined her, but there was no crossing the border without it. She closed her eyes. “I’d like to sleep, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, sure.”

It was warm and quiet inside the bus and the hum of the engine was soothing. She drifted off and dreamt of winter. Wide fields covered in snow under a gray sky, frozen rivers, the black skeletons of trees, a frozen immovable world. No birds, no animals, just the white dominion of death.

“Identity cards, please,” a male voice said.

Morana flinched.

“Slovenian border,” Zorka whispered. “Just lift your ID up where they can see it.”

Morana did as she was told. The policeman’s eyes were hard, disinterested. He counted the documents without looking at the women’s faces.

“Thank you, have a nice day.”

Morana closed her eyes. Crossing into Slovenia felt seamless, it was still her territory, so she returned to her dream of winter and stillness.

She woke feeling a slight headache, a mild nausea that had nothing to do with the body she was in. “We’re in Italy.”

“Yes. Look, it’s Trieste.”

The bus crested the hill and a wide bay opened before their eyes, bathed in the morning light. A large city sprawled on its coast and climbed into the hills that surrounded it.

“I’ve worked here for seven years,” Zorka said. “And it still feels foreign.”

You have no idea how much, Morana wanted to say, but she kept her mouth shut.

— # —

The house was indeed in the hills and, yes, it was a villa. Neoclassical and lovely, sitting in the middle of a park with gravelled paths, surrounded by a wall. Morana buzzed the intercom.

“Yes? Who is it?” a female voice said in Italian.

“I’m the new caregiver.”

“Come in.”

The park gate clicked open. Morana entered, walking slowly. The gravel was treacherous, moving by itself. This land didn’t like her.

“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”

He stood under a magnolia tree, leaning on a shovel, smoking a cigarette. He wore the lithe, dark-skinned body of a gardener, but his wolfish smile betrayed his divine nature.

“Aita.” She nodded. “Greetings to you.”

“You’re far from your territory, girl.” His smile grew so wide that his face was all teeth now.

“And you’re all but forgotten,” Morana retorted. “So show some respect.”

“Yeah.” His smile retreated. “Care for a fag?”

“Later. They expect me in the house.”

“Oh, they expect you.” He blew a perfect smoke ring. “Be careful, girl, the predators are gathering.”

“Including yourself, right? Got a body just to greet me? Or to steal something that’s mine?” Her sharp words barely covered the anxiety she felt.

“Don’t fret girl.” He waved her words off. “I’m here for the show.”

She walked away, followed by his laughter.

The front door was Slavonian oak, three centimetres thick, polished and warm. She touched it: an old ally in a foreign land. There was an urn-shaped brass door knocker: she knocked. A minute passed, then two. She knocked again.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” The woman who opened the door was definitely not a hired help. Between thirty-five and forty, with a wavy, dark bob and diamond studs in her ears. Minimal make-up, perfect skin, exquisitely tailored navy dress. She looked expensive. “You’re the new caregiver?”

“Yes. My name is Morana.”

“Ilaria. Pleased to meet you.” She didn’t offer her hand. “Come in. It’s been a tough few days. The last woman left without notice and Giorgio and I have work and families and Nonna can be so…” She rubbed her temples. “Do you want to come up and meet her?”

Morana threw a quick glance around the spotless marble lobby with its crystal chandelier and spiral staircase. She was neither hungry nor thirsty and the fatigue her body felt would not be eased by sitting down. “Why not?” she replied.

As they climbed the stairs, Ilaria said, “She sometimes forgets Italian these days and speaks only in Croatian. Giorgio and I don’t understand it, but if she says something important, please let us know.”

“Of course.”

“Her mind wanders. Sometimes she thinks it’s 1943 and she’s a young girl. Humour her.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve printed up a list of your tasks, it’s on the kitchen table. Your room is next to hers. You’ll be alone tonight, but I’ll drop by tomorrow morning to see how it’s going.”

“I understand.”

Raised voices echoed in the corridor upstairs. “And if you dare to put a cross on my headstone, I’ll come back and haunt you, you hypocritical clown,” a woman shouted. “Red star, remember. Red. Star.”

A door slammed and a man rushed down the corridor towards them. He had the same dark, wavy hair and fine complexion as Ilaria. White shirt, red silk tie, bespoke gray suit.

“I’m done for today,” he said. “They expect me at the bank, you deal with Her Majesty.” Without sparing a look for Morana, he ran down the stairs.

“That was Giorgio, my brother.” Ilaria frowned. “He’s impatient and Nonna uses it against him. No matter what she says, you must remain calm.”

Morana nodded. The voice she heard had sounded neither confused nor frail.

“Come, I’ll introduce you.” Ilaria knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. “Nonna, the new caregiver has arrived.”

“I don’t want a caregiver. Stop dragging these strange women into my house.”

“Don’t be rude, Nonna, please. She’s here, she wants to meet you.” Ilaria motioned Morana to follow her into the room.

At the first moment, she was blinded by the light pouring through the tall windows. When her eyes adjusted, she saw silk wallpaper, pale green with golden leaves, and oriental carpet. Far on the other side of the room, there was a four-poster bed, dark walnut, and in it a tiny pale figure.

“Why are you here?” the old woman asked. “Do you need money? I’ll give you money to go away.”

“She doesn’t mean it,” Ilaria whispered. “Talk to her and she’ll become civil soon enough.” With a short nod, Ilaria slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Morana waited.

“Well, are you going to stand there all day? Come closer, my eyes are not what they used to be. Where are you from?”

“Rijeka,” Morana said, because that was where the woman she was wearing was from.

“Another migrant?” The old lady switched to Croatian. “Sjedni.” She patted the edge of her bed and Morana sat down.

The woman must have been at least ninety. She was gaunt and fragile like a dry leaf, with snow-white hair and liver spots on her hands. But the eyes that stared at Morana were clear and deep blue. She took her time, studying Morana’s face, her cheap acrylic blouse, her callused hands, her graying hair and tired eyes. “I know you,” she said at last.

Morana frowned. She had no recollection of the woman she wore ever being here.

“Oh, you looked different then.” The woman’s voice was guarded and cold.

“I don’t understand,” Morana said, though she understood perfectly.

“Don’t lie to me.” The woman moved away from Morana, sinking deeper into her pillows. “The winter of ’43, Partisan hospital in Petrova gora. I had typhoid fever and thought I was hallucinating when I saw a nurse come in the middle of the night for my friend Klara. I tried to ask what was going on and why she was disturbing my wounded friend, but I could neither move nor speak. It became very cold, I remember, Klara’s breath turned into vapour. In the morning, I learnt she had died.” The old woman wiped a tear with a bony finger. “That nurse, she looked like you. Well…not looked, that’s not the right word. She felt like you.”

The winter of ’43 was a long time ago, but time meant nothing to Morana. “Yes.” She nodded. “I remember Klara. A young woman with dark plaits. She had a bullet lodged in her abdomen, they couldn’t get it out. She was in a lot of pain and I brought her relief. She was glad to go with me.”

“No.” The old woman was crying in earnest now. “She was my friend, and you took her away.”

“It was her time. I just helped her cross to the other side.” Morana produced a clean handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to the old woman, but she pushed her hand away.

“You’re Death.”

“I’m a Death, one of many. My name is Morana.”

“Morana, the Goddess of Death.” The old woman wiped her tears with the back of her hand. She smelt faintly of lavender and old age. “Well, Morana, the Goddess of Death, my name is Olga. This is my home and I don’t want you here. I’m not ready to die.”

Morana sighed. “Few people are. But I came especially for you, because you’re important. There’s still a bit of time for you to prepare—”

“I want you to leave.”

“If I leave, those worse than me will come.” What did Aita say? The predators are gathering. “And you won’t go where you deserve.“

There was a knock on the door.

“Nonna, the doctor has come to see you.” Ilaria walked in, followed by a tall, improbably handsome man.

Morana’s breath caught in her throat while she stared at his pale, angular face, his lush, wavy black hair, his violet eyes, his wide mouth stretched into a sardonic smile. Mortal beauty never impressed Morana—though it amused her that he chose the most gorgeous shell he could find, the vain bastard—but the triumphant radiance of a powerful god on his own turf knocked her off her feet.

“Dottore Oscuro will give your medicine now,” Ilaria said.

Pluto caught Morana’s eye and winked. She felt a rush of cold rage, an urge to knock him down with an icy blast of wind, but there were mortals present, so she behaved.

“He’s not my doctor,” Olga said, pulling her sheets up with trembling hands. “I don’t want him. Where’s Rossi?”

“My colleague retired and I took over his patients, signora. I explained it all to you the last time I was here.”

“Nonna can be forgetful.” Ilaria was beaming at the ruler of the Underworld, melting into a lovestruck puddle on the Persian carpet. “But I’m sure she will—“

“No, you’ve never been here before. You’re lying. And Rossi would have told me he was retiring, he’d been my doctor for thirty years. Ilaria, I want this man out of my room, now.” Trembling with agitation, Olga tried to get up and would have fallen if Morana hadn’t caught her. The old woman waved her hands in a feeble attempt to push her away.

“Stop it, stop it.” Ilaria rushed across the room and grabbed her grandmother’s shoulders. “You’re being unreasonable again. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Let me go,” Olga cried, her flailing hand hitting Ilaria in the face “I’m not your prisoner, you cruel little girl.”

As they struggled, Morana saw Pluto opening his doctor’s bag. He took out a small vial and a syringe. “Hold her arm,” he said.

“No!” the old woman wailed.

“No,” Morana echoed her words, letting go of her, retreating. “You can’t sedate her, she’s not—”

“Shut up! Shut up, both of you,” Ilaria barked, pinning her grandmother down.

Pluto approached and grabbed Olga’s spindly arm. The needle sank into her spare flesh.

“No, please, he’s trying to poison me. Ilaria—” The old woman tried to get up for the last time, but the sedative worked quickly and a few heartbeats later her body went limp.

“Good. She’ll sleep for a couple of hours now.” He smiled at the three dishevelled women on the bed, perfectly cool.

“You.” Ilaria turned to Morana, her eyes flashing, her perfect bob tousled. “Never, ever contradict me again.”

Morana bit her tongue, looking at Pluto, who suddenly seemed to take up all the space in the large room.

“Leave us alone,” Ilaria told her.

Morana had no other choice but to leave the room. She took a quick tour around the house, but all the rooms upstairs were empty, and the kitchen downstairs looked like the command bridge of a spaceship. She opened the door of a huge American fridge freezer to feel its cool breath, but the amount of food in it was overwhelming so she shut it quickly.

She’d have to fight for Olga.

The front door purred friendly at her as she slipped outside. The sun was sinking behind the tall cypresses that lined the western wall of the park. It would be night soon and Pluto would grow even stronger. Morana had chosen the most inconspicuous disguise to cross the border, but now it felt like a frail husk.

Aita was pruning the wiry shrubs that lined the driveway.

“I’d like that cigarette now, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” He opened his pack and produced a lighter.

“Thanks.” She inhaled deeply, enjoying the nicotine rush. No remorse: the body she was wearing was already dead.

“I saw him arrive. The pompous prick,” Aita said, lighting his own cigarette. “Romans. They still think they own this place. Mine, mine, mine! Like greedy kids.” He blew a perfect smoke ring. “He kicked you out?”

“Temporarily.”

Aita’s handsome face broke into another charming smile with too many teeth. “What are you doing here anyway, girl?”

“The same as you, I imagine.”

“No, no. I might be mostly forgotten, but this is my land as much as his. You’ll still find my statues buried in the ground, my image on ancient Etruscan tombs. But you? You’re far from home.”

“So is she.” Morana waved her hand in the general direction of the villa. “She’s of my people. Pureblood, though she doesn’t know it. A warrior. Ancestors traced back to the tribes who brought me and my brothers and sisters to the Adriatic coast. Can’t leave her here. Can’t leave her to him.”

The sky was purple, the light of the day almost gone. Ilaria stepped out of the house. “Oh, there you are,” she said when she spotted them. “Morana, the doctor is still with Nonna, she’s sleeping. I must run home. Give her something light to eat when she wakes up.”

“I will.”

Ilaria rushed towards her little Fiat without a backward glance, as if she were eager to run away from that house.

“It’s just us now,” Aita said.

“Will you help me?”

“Why should I?” He was playing hard to get, though they both knew he was out of the game. He neither had the right to the old woman nor was he strong enough to beat Pluto.

“I’ll let you have the Italian tourists,” she grinned. “You’ll be the first to know when they drop on my turf. I don’t need their quarrelsome little souls.”

“Fine.” He chuckled. They shook hands, and when they touched they weren’t a slim, dark-skinned youth and a tired middle-aged woman, but two vaguely human shaped flashes of light.

Morana took one step towards the house and stumbled. The ground refused to stand still, it rose in waves of earth and gravel. A sharp noise, like a branch breaking, exploded in the air and a crack rushed towards them across the driveway.

“Run!” Aita grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the house.

A chasm opened behind them, fire and heat and the stink of sulphur gushing out. The ground beneath their feet fell away and they jumped, two small figures surrounded by smoke, landing heavily on the marble stairs. Morana reached for the front door desperately, while Aita hung on to her. The Slavonian oak remained firm, radiating power and warmth.

“Son of a bitch,” Aita said, struggling to stand up. The sky above them turned black, the park was gone. The villa floated like a tiny island above the fires of the Underworld.

“Smoke and mirrors,” she said. “He’s showing off.”

The door was locked. Morana pressed her ear against its smooth surface and closed her eyes. It was humming with memories. A tiny acorn deep in the black earth, feeling the warmth of its first spring, growing greedily, up and up. Then a young sapling, fighting for air and sunshine amongst the old trees, its slim branches dancing in the wind, growing through countless springs and summers. Then a majestic oak, the king of the forest, cut down, but still filled with memories, strong and hard and eternal.

“Open for me,” Morana whispered and the door that remembered being an oak obeyed.

Aita rushed into the hallway. The checkered floor was a trap, the black tiles nothing but darkness. His foot fell through and she grabbed his jacket at the last moment, pulling him out. “Son of a—”

“He’s just trying to slow us down,” she said. “And he’s succeeding.”

“How much time we have?”

“Until eight, maybe a few minutes more.”

Balancing on the white tiles, they both looked towards a grandfather clock. Less than half an hour. They hopped towards the stairs. She half expected them to turn into a slippery slide or move and try to chop her feet off, but the carpeted wood remained still. They climbed carefully, aware that it was too easy.

“Did he run out of tricks?” Aita whispered.

“Hush!” She listened. And yes, there it was, a soft growl far above them. A quiet patter. Breathing. “Look up.”

They both stared into the darkness on top of the stairs.

“Come on, Losna, help us,” he muttered under his breath and in response, a ray of pale moonlight illuminated the stairs, revealing a huge dark shape with a pair of gleaming eyes fixed on them. It growled and two more pairs of gleaming eyes appeared.

“Hello, Cerberus.” Morana’s voice shook. She could not risk damaging this body. “Um…good dog?”

The growl turned into a deep rumble with a clear note of menace. Beside her, Aita bared his teeth and replied with a grumble that raised the hairs on her neck. There was a sharp sound of fabric ripping and Aita’s gardening uniform fell away in shreds. Where a slim youth stood a moment ago, now a huge grey wolf crouched. Cerberus howled. Aita sprang forward and slammed into him. Teeth and claws flashed as two entwined bodies in a deadly grip rolled down the stairs, barely missing her.

She ran up.

The corridor was free of traps, the door to Olga’s room ajar. She stopped abruptly before them and pushed them open. “No more tricks, Pluto,” she said.

He answered with a deep laughter. He was sitting beside Olga’s bed, holding her limp arm. In his other hand, Morana noticed with horror, was a fresh syringe.

“You can’t—” Her voice broke. She took a painful breath, sulphur singed her lungs. “You mustn’t interfere, it’s against the rules.”

“What rules?” sniggered the god who had once stolen a girl from her mother and raped her in the darkness. The syringe moved. Without thinking, Morana fired a bolt of ice towards it. The clear liquid froze in an instant, the glass shattered. Pluto sat stunned for a second, gaping at the remains in his hand.

“You can’t have her, her flesh and bones worship me,” Morana said, the cold fury spilling out of the boundaries of the body she wore. She was a deadly breath of winter now, a frost that killed everything it touched.

“Who are you anyway?” He stood up in a magnificent cloud of black with purple sparks. “A dirty little idol made of wood and leather some barefooted barbarians dragged from the north. I have temples. I have marble statues and mosaics and frescoes. I have epic poems in my honour.”

“You’re a pale copy of your Greek brother.”

He roared and lunged at her, a raging mountain of darkness and fire. She spread her arms, calling up a blizzard. They met with a hiss, flames extinguished by snow, clear wind poisoned by sulphur. She was old and strong, but he was on his land. Her icy, windswept plains were far away, while his black basalt and boiling volcanoes were near, feeding him, giving him strength to subdue her.

He grew, a shadow that reached the ceiling. Her arms were still up, but her shield was cracking, her knees buckling. He could not kill her, but he could drive her out of her body, turn her into a breath of winter and banish her from here forever.

She resisted, filled with rightful fury, but he was strong, so strong.

“You have no right,” she screamed.

He laughed and blew a gust of hot, poisonous gas towards her. Her shield melted, she started to choke, tears running down her cheeks.

A thunderous explosion shook the room.

Morana thought it was another of his tricks, but the black cloud retreated. Pluto stood in the middle of the room, confined to his human form again, clutching his chest. Black blood gushed between his fingers. He raised his face towards her, his eyes wide, uncomprehending. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, just more blood. He swayed, took a step towards her and fell face down on the carpet.

“There goes my lovely Isfahan,” Olga said. She stood behind him, a pistol in her hand.

“You…you shot him.” Morana stumbled to her feet.

“I sure did.” She was shivering. “Will it help?”

“Yes, he’ll never get back here in time.” Morana jumped over Pluto’s body and caught the old woman in her arms, leading her back to bed. “But where did you get the pistol?”

“This little thing?” She turned it so that Morana could see it. The pistol was not little, it was black, heavy and ugly. “I never part from it. Luger P08, taken from a dead German in ’43. Saved my life several times. I marched into Trieste with it. Look.” Olga pointed her finger at the chest of drawers with a dozen silver-framed photographs on it. “That girl in uniform, that’s me.”

Morana looked. A blonde soldier, smiling at the camera. A star on her cap, a pistol on her hip. A young, dark-haired man stood beside her, a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth, one arm leisurely wrapped around the girl, another around an MG34.

“A love story?” Morana asked.

“Oh yes.” She smiled. “He died sixteen years ago. Will I see him again?”

“That can be arranged.” Morana walked back to the bed. “Now put that pistol away and let me tuck you in.”

Downstairs, the old grandfather clock chimed eight.

“It’s time,” Morana said.

The old woman pierced her with a sharp blue stare. “I could shoot you too, you know.”

“Yes, you could. But there’s another god downstairs. If you shot him, there’d be another and another… There’s more gods than bullets. And you’d die anyway. We don’t bring death, we just witness it.”

Olga nodded and returned the pistol to her bedside cabinet. “Tell me one more thing. You went to all this trouble just to come for me.” She motioned towards the carnage. “Why?”

“You have the soul of a warrior. It’s worth fighting for.”

“Oh.” Olga smiled. “Thank you. I wonder how you manage, there must be so many people…”

“I am everywhere. And everywhen. Close your eyes now,” Morana whispered. “And go to sleep.”

— # —

When it was done, Morana opened her eyes. The quiet room smelled faintly of sulphur and blood. Olga’s body lay on the bed, her expression peaceful, her eyes closed as if she were asleep.

Morana stood up and walked to the door. The other body did not look so peaceful. Who knew what had really happened to doctor Oscuro? His death would remain a mystery, a murder case with no explanation. There was nothing Morana could do about it, her time was running out.

She descended the stairs and was relieved to see no trace of Cerberus. Aita sat naked in the hallway, a little worse for wear, smoking a cigarette.

“The old lady shot Pluto with her old gun.”

“Serves him right.” He chuckled and offered her a cigarette. “Want another one?”

“No, I have a bus to catch.”

— # —

The hum of the engine made her sleepy and, thankfully, there was no chatty neighbour to keep her awake. The night bus to Rijeka was almost empty.

She had to return the body to the hospital morgue before someone noticed it was missing. And then…there was more work to do, as always. Death never slept. Figuratively speaking.

Morana rested her head against the cold window and closed her eyes. In a faraway land, a blizzard howled across a vast white landscape under a gray, frozen sky.

© 2021 Jelena Dunato

From: Issue 6

About the Author

Jelena Dunato is an art historian, curator, speculative fiction writer and lover of all things ancient. She grew up in Croatia on a steady diet of adventure stories and then wandered the world for a decade, building a career in the arts and writing stories that lay buried in the depths of her laptop until she gathered the courage to publish them. Jelena lives on an island in the Adriatic with her husband, daughter, and cat. You can find her at jelenadunato.com and on Twitter @jelenawrites.