The Flesh Eaters (2 page)

As before, the prisoner is dragged over to the Executioner and forced to kneel. The Executioner takes a poker from the fire. Galbey cries out, pleading for him not to do it; he strains to move his head back, but he is firmly held. The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes in terror is the red tip of the approaching poker. He feels the warmth of it radiating on his cheek; then an intense stab of pain snoots into his brain. It feels as though the iron has gone into the center of his skull; he can only scream and keep screaming in an attempt to cover up the incredible pain. He does not notice the approach of the Executioner with a second poker, does not feel the warmth as it nears his face. Then the second poker is pressed into his other eye. The new pain washes over and combines with the existing pain, flashing red, then yellow, then white hot before Galbey mercifully sinks into black unconsciousness. The guards release him, and he falls forward. He is dragged to the side of the square where his wife and child, both crying hysterically, fall on his motionless body.

Galbey’s screams seem to echo and hang over Market Square. A few in the crowd stir uneasily, then leave, their faces white. A woman holds up a small boy to see Galbey; she tells the child that the same thing will happen to him if he is not good.

Sawney Beane’s breathing has become more rapid. His eyes dart around the square. His lips are partially open. A drop of spittle runs from the corner of his mouth. His skinny body twitches from time to time, as though he were a marionette manipulated by an absent-minded puppeteer.

The Magistrate looks around the crowd, smiling to himself. “The prisoner Robert Duncan is to be brought forward.”

The third man, the one who has been dragged behind the cart, has collapsed against the back of it. Barely conscious, he is completely unaware of what has been going on. The guards untie his hands, pull him to his feet, and drag him before the Magistrate. When they release him, he crumples to his knees, then falls forward, landing face down in the mud. A few muffled giggles are heard in the crowd, but the Magistrate frowns at the offenders and they fall silent. The guards pull Robert Duncan upright

The Magistrate speaks. “Robert Duncan, under questioning and ordeal you have confessed to acts of treason against the Crown. There is only one punishment for this most serious of all crimes. You will be quartered and beheaded. You will be buried in an unmarked grave in unconsecrated ground. Your name will e remembered as that of a most foul villain and reprehensible traitor. All your property and estates will be confiscated by the Crown. In the name of His Majesty King James I of Scotland, and the King’s representatives, let the execution be carried out.”

Duncan is still slumped, unconscious. The guards drag him over to the Executioner, who as set up a heavy wooden frame.

The crowd murmurs in anticipation.

Duncan is attached to the frame, his arms and legs spread wide. Metal bands fasten his wrists and ankles, a heavy chain goes around his chest. When the prisoner is secure, the Executioner steps back to let the crowd have a last look at the traitor. A chorus of jeers and curses assails the naked, unconscious figure; bits of mud and garbage are thrown. Something hits Duncan in the head, and his eyes flutter open for an instant, but they do not focus.

The guards lower the frame until it is almost flat on the ground. The Executioner picks up a large battle-ax. The ax head is so heavy, and the edge has been honed to such sharpness, that it will cut with almost no effort. The Executioner shows the ax to the crowd and receives shouts of approval. He walks over to Duncan and slaps him several times. The prisoner’s eyes open.

The Executioner raises the ax overhead to the full extension of his arms. With great force and precise aim, he brings the weapon down on the middle of Duncan’s right thigh. Faster than the spectators can see, the blade cuts through the epidermis, the derma, the layer of fatty tissue, the muscles of the quadriceps femoris, the femur, the sartorius muscle, the femoral artery and vein, the adductor muscles at the back of the leg, the biceps femoris, the hamstring muscles, and through the adipose layer, the derma, and the epidermis at the back of the leg. The lower leg falls away, but it is still held to the frame by the band at the ankle. A tremendous surge of bright, oxygenated blood gushes out and soaks the muddy ground. Darker venous blood oozes sluggishly from the severed limb.

Duncan emits a weak groan, but it is not heard over the cries of the crowd. The Executioner pulls the ax free from the wood of the frame. He walks to the other side, lifts the blade high overhead again, then brings it down to sever Duncan’s left leg. Duncan emits a sharp cry, and his head slumps to the side. The Executioner slaps him, but there is no response. He takes a bucket of water and throws it over Duncan. Still no response. He puts his ear over Duncan’s heart, then turns toward the Magistrate.

“The prisoner is dead.”

A groan of disappointment rises from the crowd. The Magistrate’s expression remains unchanged. “Complete the execution as ordered.”

The Executioner continues, but the procedure now lacks a certain interest. The crowd watches silently as the corpse’s arms are severed. There is a small reaction when the head is cut off and rolls for several yards along the ground.

The guards pick up the wooden frame and place it in the cart. The Executioner puts the severed head in a sack and tosses it on top of the frame. The cart is drawn away. The crowd disperses.

Soon Market Square is empty except for Sawney Beane and the unconscious form of the branded Ian Jennings. Sawney Beane is in a state of high excitement. He feels a tingling throughout his body, a pleasant warmth in his groin. He walks over to where Duncan was, executed and looks at the wet spots of blood on the ground. He kneels and touches these spots, then brings his lingers up to his nose. He inhales deeply, barely able to contain his excitement, and hugs himself as a shiver of sensation runs through him. Then his excitement bursts out, and he runs across the square in long, leaping strides to where Ian Jennings lies. He stands over the branded beggar, staring down at him. Jennings sees him and raises his hand, imploring assistance. His face expressionless, Sawney Beane suddenly kicks Jennings hard in the stomach. Jennings whimpers in pain. Sawney Beane checks to make sure that the square is empty. It is. He kicks Jennings again.

Sawney Beane starts to run from the square, then stops and looks back, trying to recapture the events he has seen. After a moment, he turns and walks down High Street. The blacksmith’s shop is where Sawney Beane lives and works. It is a large space that is also the main living area of the house. The walls are rough planks of smoke-blackened wood, the cracks filled with mud and bits of rag. The floor is hard-tramped dirt strewn with straw. To one side, there is a crude forge and a workbench. Tools are hung on one wall and scattered everywhere about. In a back corner is the pile of straw which is Sawney Beane’s bed. Large double doors lead to the back of the house and a smaller door opens on High Street.

Sawney Beane is piling logs against the wall. He works lethargically, not paying attention to what he is doing. Images from the spectacle in the square still flash behind his eyes, renewing the sensations he felt as he watched.

The street door opens, and the blacksmith enters. Sawney Beane’s master is a large, powerful man with a barrel chest and massive stomach. His red face, stippled with broken veins in the nose and cheeks, gives evidence of an overfondness for drink.

The Master is smiling as he enters, but at the sight of Sawney Beane his face darkens. Before he has even shut the door, he is yelling across the room.

“So there you are, Sawney Beane, you worthless piece of filth! You mongrel bastard! You goat turd! Where the hell have you been?” He does not wait for a reply. “Watching the doings in the square, no doubt. There was work for you to do here! You aren’t worth, the food I give you, you lazy son of a constipated bitch! One of these days you’re going to find yourself the main attraction in Market Square...” He crosses the room and bends until his face is very close to Sawney Beane’s. “What do you have to say? Nothing, I suppose.”

Sawney Beane continues to work, slowly, his face expressionless. At this lack of response, the Master grows even angrier.

“No, you never say anything! Because you’re stupid and lazy and a crawling coward, Sawney Beane. You’d never dare, fight back because you know I’d destroy you. Get out of the way!” He pushes Sawney Beane to the ground and stands over him, hoping he will fight, but there is no resistance. He turns away in contempt. “Hah! You can’t even pile wood. Look at that.” With a mighty kick, he knocks over the woodpile. “Do it again, and do it right or you’ll get no food today.” He strides to the center of the room. “Meg! Meg! Come here right away!” There is no response. “Meg! Girl, you’d better get in here when I call!”

Meg appears from the interior of the house, moving slowly, her face sullen. She is about fourteen years old, and though there is still some adolescent pudginess, her body is fully developed. Her dress is sack-like and of a rough material, but it is obvious that she is wearing nothing underneath it.

Meg stands looking at her father, one hip thrown out, her head tilted and an expression of bored hostility on her face. “What do you want?” She shakes her long, sandy-brown hair away from her eyes.

“I want you to come when I call you. What have you been doing?”

“I been working,” Meg says, after an irritating delay.

“Doing what?”

“Working.”

“Sitting on your fat ass next to the fire! Look at that.” The Master points to the table covered with dirty dishes. “Those have been there two days!” He sweeps the dishes to the floor with a clatter. “Clean them and then go out to the barn and feed the horse.”

At last, Meg shows some emotion. “What do you think I am? I’m not your slave.”

“I’m your father, and you’ll do what I tell you or else you’ll get a beating.” The Master takes a step toward her, then reconsiders. “You are a lazy slut, and you’d better change your ways, girl, or you’ll regret it. Now get to work!” He goes out the front door, into High Street.

For a moment, Meg stands motionless, staring after him. Sawney Beane watches the girl, but she pays no attention to him.

Meg begins to pick up the fallen dishes. When she bends, the top of her dress falls forward, revealing her full, dark-nippled breasts. She kneels, and her dress clings tightly to the curve of her buttocks. Sawney Beane feels the same warmth in his groin that he experienced earlier in the square.

Meg dumps the dishes back on the table, then goes through the back door to the barn behind the smithy. Sawney Beane’s eyes follow her.

The barn is a tumbledown affair that provides only marginal shelter for the one horse that is kept there. Meg slowly picks up handfuls of hay from a large pile and tosses them into the horse’s stall. Her blank expression gives no indication of her thoughts.

Sawney Beane stands in the entrance to the barn. Meg’s back is turned and she does not see him. He watches her for a while. Each time she bends over, her dress rides high up her legs, revealing most of her firm, fleshly thighs.

Sawney Beane walks quietly across the barn and stands next to her. Bending, she sees his feet, but is not startled. She straightens up and faces him. They stare at each other without speaking. Sawney Beane’s eyes narrow. Meg’s eyes are quizzical.

He puts his hands firmly on her shoulders and presses her down into the pile of hay. She is a little taller and heavier than he is, but his thin frame possesses a wiry strength. He drops to his knees between her legs, keeping his eyes locked with hers. Then he grabs the bottom of her dress and pulls it up over her breasts, which are dappled with pale freckles. He opens the codpiece of his breeches, presses himself against her, and forces a quick entrance. Meg does not struggle, nor does she respond. Her face remains expressionless as Sawney Beane moves on top of her.

It is over quickly. Sawney Beane stands, adjusts his codpiece, and leaves the barn without looking back. Meg lies still for a moment, then gets up and resumes her work, as though nothing at all had occurred. This has been, however, her first sexual experience.

That evening, Sawney Beane sits on his pile of straw in the corner of the smithy, staring with his usual dull expression at the glowing embers in the forge.

Meg enters from the house carrying a bowl of porridge. She too wears her usual sullen mask. She holds the bowl out to Sawney Beane. At first he does not notice. She gestures again with the bowl, and this time he takes it. They do not look at one another. There is no coyness or embarrassment in this, just a simple lack of awareness. Their encounter in the barn has never happened. Meg goes back into the house.

The porridge is lumpy, gray in color, but Sawney Beane eats greedily, shoveling the stuff into his mouth with a filthy hand. He scrapes the bowl clean, licks his fingers and then the bowl.

Now he settles down on his straw to sleep. After a moment, a two-inch cockroach crawls out of the straw and begins to climb his arm. When it reaches his elbow, he makes a grab and catches it. He watches the insect squirm between his thumb and forefinger, then snaps it in half with a loud crack. He smiles, settles again into the straw, and closes his eyes.

Just as he is drifting into sleep, an image enters his mind. It may be fantasy or it may be the only memory he possesses of a childhood about which he has no conscious recollection. The image gives him a feeling of pleasure; it often accompanies his entrance into sleep.