The Supplication of the Male Pig

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Heather MacDougall steps from the limousine and pauses to don sunglasses. As intended she appears to be a wealthy starlet on vacation, projecting beauty, style and a degree of ennui. She surveys the village feigning disinterest, as would a Hollywood actress visiting a small town in the midst of a Nebraska corn field. The charm of the centuries old collection of structures does not escape her, yet she shows no reaction. Though not really an actress, she has a role to play.

Entering the office of Palma Realtors, a matronly woman approaching her sixtieth year greets her.

“Welcome to Majorca, Miss Dawkins,” the woman stands gushing with enthusiasm.

Heather MacDougall travels incognito, her blonde wig covering her raven hair, her makeup exaggerated to project the excess of stardom. The woman believes she is meeting Kate Dawkins, the highly successful but reclusive academy award winning actress. As with all Hollywood types, rumors of wealth abound. Mrs. Mendez, real estate agent and adoring fan, is too inspired to request credentials and expose the deception. After many years in the business, Mrs. Mendez realizes that all real estate transactions consummate with the exchange of cash or property. Any interaction until such closing, whether authentic or disingenuous, is part of the game.

“We have a boat which will take us to the island. It’s only minutes and the water should be calm.”

The women depart to the waiting limousine. The driver receives instructions and small talk ensues. Heather MacDougall is prepared to respond to impromptu questions concerning her faux movie career as Kate Dawkins. She is patient but in approaching a dock she transitions the conversation to the subject of her visit.

“Tell me about the island, Mrs. Mendez. The brochure was thorough concerning the monastery itself.”

“Isla Dragonera is less than half a mile from the main island of Majorca. Strong swimmers have been known to reach the shores in good weather. It’s actually a rock outcropping comprised of some four hundred acres... enough land for the monks to graze cows, sheep and goats, grow vegetables... and grapes of course. The monastery was built in the early fifteenth century utilizing stone on the island. It’s construction is said to have taken nearly one hundred years.”

The women step onto the motor launch and Mrs. Mendez nods to the captain. With the roar of the engine, conversation ends and Heather MacDougall concentrates on the scenery and the terrain. She notes indeed that a good swimmer could traverse the narrow channel separating Isla Dragonera from the main body of Majorca. She also notes that the silhouette of the Isla is striking, appearing to be a broad wall of stone popping from the Mediterranean. Steep cliffs rise from the sea. Perched on a plateau is the foreboding masonry of the monastery, its formidable walls projecting seclusion and confinement instead of religiosity.

The boat docks and the women negotiate hundreds of steps carved into the island’s volcanic stone. It is apparent that the rock removed became the foundation for the structure above, the monastery, though man made, seeming to be one with the geology of the island.

Heather MacDougall knows to make banal remarks concerning the scenery and the weather. After all, she plays the role of a tourist with possible interest in purchasing a home.

“Very mild here, Mrs. Mendez. And the view is exhilarating.”

The observation brings forth the rote of a real estate agent’s pitch.

“Rarely is the temperature below sixty degrees, particularly during the day, or above eighty five. You’ll note the view of the Mediterranean to be spectacular. And the Baron spent millions making the living quarters habitable by modern standards. What appears to be an abandoned castle on the outside is quite comfortable within. Well concealed solar panels provide electricity. And there are certain luxuries added.”

Heather MacDougall knows from closely perusing the brochure that the ‘Baron’ was the previous owner. Dying suddenly after expending great funds to refurbish and modernize the monastery, the enclave has been offered for sale for close to a year with little interest expressed. As with everything in real estate, location is paramount. Though picture perfect in terms of setting, the travails of traveling to Majorca then boating to Isla Dragonera obviates use as a weekend retreat for the wealthy. And who desires to live in such seclusion for longer periods?

The standard tour begins with Mrs. Mendez speaking ad infinitum and Heather mentally noting important points. A small digital camera also records various rooms, Heather randomly clicking away.

“The Baron finished modernizing fifteen bedrooms, each with full bath, a kitchen with all the amenities for the epicure, dining room, this ballroom, and of course the swimming pool.”

Exquisitely timing her sales pitch, the women step from the ballroom onto a veranda. A patio of ancient stone overlooks a luxurious and modern swimming pool. Masons painstakingly used the island’s stone for coping the pool’s edging, making the large twenty first century pool blend wondrously with the fifteenth century architecture. Across the pool there is a view of the crystal blue Mediterranean Sea some hundred feet below. Just to the left is Majorca. The setting is spectacular and Heather MacDougall comes to understand its attraction for the wealthy celebrity who desired isolation.

“It’s divine,” Heather exclaims in imitating the perceived reaction of a Hollywood actress.

Her reaction is partially genuine. Heather MacDougall was born to relative poverty. Growing up tough with a father who abused then abandoned, she attained ‘street smarts’ yet never denied herself an opportunity to obtain an education. A marriage of convenience at age eighteen brought a husband with good income but limited devotion and no true affection. Heather’s street smarts quickly caught on to his philandering. Still she evened the score by incurring sizable tuition bills, attaining a bachelor’s degree in psychology and later, finishing just before divorce papers were filed, a masters degree in micro biology. Somehow in the tumult, a daughter was borne, the only lasting and meaningful tribute after six years of marriage. Megan MacDougall is now eighteen, stunningly attractive but of limited intellectual curiosity. She inherited her father’s general disinterest in all things that challenge the mind. Barely graduating high school, Megan MacDougall continues in her endeavor to ‘find herself’. But as mother Heather fears, the search will result in finding herself pregnant.

Megan needs watching. That Heather learned years before in returning home unexpectedly and finding Megan naked, kneeling and fellating a local high school boy. Mother has kept daughter on a short leash ever since.

“You’ll want to see the wine cellar,” Mrs. Mendez announces in breaking Heather’s daydream.

The two women return to the veranda then step into the ballroom. A wall panel, disguising any opening, yields as Mrs. Mendez presses a hidden button. It opens to a dark entranceway with more stone steps. Mrs. Mendez flicks a light switch, partially illuminating the narrow stairway descending into the very rock of the island.

“No one knows how long it took the monks to curve this out. It’s really more of a cave than basement.”

The women step carefully. Heather, never one to unnecessarily exhibit fear, feels goose bumps form. Step after step, she follows Ms. Mendez into the bowels of the rock outcropping known as Isla Dragonera. Their journey ends with the flick of another light switch. A huge and dimly lit room greets Heather’s eyes. Empty casks lie about evidencing its use in the monks’ wine making. Various iron rings well secured into the rock walls evidence other activities.

“Nicely cool,” Heather comments clicking away with her camera.

“Yes, it is said the temperature never varies. This really is a cave, as you can see from the stone ceiling. The monastery is some fifty feet above.”

“Curious, the iron work embedded into the walls,” Heather observes.

Mrs. Mendez smiles.

“It’s been suggested that the island received certain visitors during the Spanish inquisition.”

Heather also smiles then notes plates of iron in the floor.

“Another room?” she inquires.

Mrs. Mendez pauses in thought, considering her words carefully. It is her job to attract interest in Isla Dragonera, not raise doubts or concerns. Still, she must reply.

“We believe it was curved out for drainage. But its size suggests other usage.”

Heather bends, releases a slide bolt and grasps a corner of one heavy iron plate. She can barely lift it, pulling upwards. Below is a deep pit. The camera clicks and flashes.

“It’s an oubliette, Mrs. Mendez. More evidence of the inquisition I would think.”

The real estate agent smiles sheepishly, her subterfuge failing. Most potential buyers would not care to own a home once used as a place of torture... or worse. Heather looks above to the rock ceiling.

“Yes, look at that iron piece. I would think the prisoner was lowered into the pit using a winch and a rope looped through that ring. Though narrow it’s quite deep. Once placed within and the opening covered there is no chance for escape. Aptly termed, the oubliette. From the French word oublier, ‘to forget’.”

Mrs. Mendez steps away desperately trying to avert attention from the discovery.

“You could store much wine here and it will keep forever, Ms. Dawkins,” regressing to her real estate agent’s pitch. Her hand gestures to bottle racks positioned against a far wall.

Heather ignores the diversion and steps off the opening, mentally marking the size while Mrs. Mendez moves to the racks attempting distraction. The camera lens is pointed downward and Heather clicks. The bright flash instantly records what the eye can barely see. When printed, the photo will be used to accurately determine the size and depth of the eerie pit. But even without measuring Heather knows it will hold a man. In already being some fifty feet below the main structure, to realize that the pit was burrowed another fifteen to twenty feet further down brings a shudder. So deep... so dark... so extremely isolated... yet so perfect!

The tour continues, the duo ascending to the ballroom, Heather snapping more photos to camouflage her specific interest in the ‘wine cellar’ and the oubliette.

“If you have interest in the property, Ms. Dawkins, you are best to express it. A gentleman from the United States was here a few weeks ago and I believe he will be making an offer. The Baron’s family is eager to relieved of the upkeep.”

Heather nods and smiles. She is well aware that an offer is forthcoming. It is exactly why she is here and surveying the island and the monastery.

“I’ll let you know.”