The Flesh Eaters (3 page)

A forest, during the winter. Snow weighs down the branches of the trees and lies in deep drifts on the ground. A thick mist is everywhere. A man and a boy are hiding behind a large tree. All is very still. Out of the mist, walking delicately through the snow, a big stag appears. He sniffs the air, then freezes. Suddenly he starts to run, but before the stag can get up speed, a giant wolf springs from the trees and leaps onto his back. The wolf tears open his throat. The stag falls; the snow is stained red. Behind their tree, the man whispers to the boy, “Look, Sawney, look. That’s the gray wolf of the forest. He’s the greatest hunter there is. Look. Look at him.”

As the wolfs triumphant howl echoes through the forest, Sawney Beane sinks into darker, deeper dreams.

In front of the smithy, Sawney Beane is half-heartedly sweeping rubbish into High Street. Close by, a group of boys is playing a game of catch with a lopsided leather ball. They are boisterous and happy, calling loudly for the ball and laughing when someone makes a mistake.

Sawney Beane looks at the children without comprehension. He has no interest in their game; it is just another of the inexplicable, alien things with which he is surrounded. The ball rolls toward him, stopping at his feet, and he picks it up. The boys gesture that he should throw it back, but he only stares at them. An older boy walks over and puts his hands out for the ball. His expression still blank, Sawney Beane tucks the ball under his own arm. The other boys crowd around, but he does not seem to notice them, not even the one who kneels behind him. A boy hits Sawney Beane’s shoulders, pushing him back over the kneeling one and into the mud. The other boys swarm on top of their victim, punching and kicking. They take their ball and run down the road, laughing.

Sawney Beane stands and looks after them, displaying no reaction to his beating.

A very small boy walks by, eating a large piece of bread. After a quick look around to see if anyone is watching, Sawney Beane grabs the bread. The child is about to cry out, but Sawney Beane takes him by the throat and fixes him with an intense, piercing gaze. The eyes, more than the hand at his throat, terrify the child and he swallows his scream. Sawney Beane releases the boy and watches him run away. As he chews the bread, a small smile twists his mouth.

In one of the foul alleyways that run off Market Square, Sawney Beane sits with his back against a damp stone wall. Close to his hand is an ant hole; hundreds of ants scurry back and forth. Their activity is purposeful and orderly, designed to promote the harmony of the colony, but Sawney Beane sees only black specks in random motion.

The bells of the cathedral chime, calling the town to mass. From all directions people move across the square, climb the steps, and vanish into the dark obscurity of the cathedral. This activity has no more significance for Sawney Beane than does that of the ants. He does not know what these people are doing or why, and he has no more knowledge of the cathedral’s interior than of the ant colony’s tunnels.

When the last person has entered the cathedral, Sawney Beane leaves the alley and climbs the steps. During the mass, he stands at the cathedral door, staring into the gloom. The ceremony has no meaning for him; the solemnity of the ritual makes no impression. It is just another one of the things that
they
do.

The service concludes, and Sawney Beane runs from the doorway. He waits until everyone has gone, then returns and enters the cathedral.

His eyes become accustomed to the dimness and he begins to see clearly. The immense height of the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling, the hugeness of the enclosed space, unlike anything he has ever experienced, oppresses him. The hundreds of candles create shadows that seem to stretch upward forever. His impulse is to flee, but he masters it.

He walks slowly forward, passes an alcove in the wall, and is startled to see a large figure staring down at him, a hand outstretched. He is about to run, thinking he has been discovered, but looks more closely and sees that the figure is only wood and plaster and paint. Puzzled, he moves on. He passes several other figures, barely glancing at them, and then one holds his attention. It is St. Sebastian, life-size, carved and painted in exceptionally realistic detail. The saint’s arms are held out; there is suffering on his face. The almost naked body is pierced with arrows and blood runs from the wounds, forming a red network down the entire figure. The drops of blood seem to have substance; they glisten in the candlelight.

Sawney Beane is transfixed, by this image of suffering and torture. His mouth falls open, his tongue moistens his lips, his eyes brighten.

He raises his hand and his fingers touch a red puncture, but instead of soft flesh and warm blood, he feels only unyielding wood and cold enamel. He looks at his fingertips, smells them. Anticipating a pleasurable stimulus, he is confused when there is nothing.

Suddenly, he hears footsteps. He turns and runs down the center aisle and out of the cathedral, startling an approaching priest. The priest crosses himself hastily to ward off the vague feeling that something evil has passed close by.

Behind the smithy, the Master and Sawney Beane are at work. The Master is pounding an iron bar on an anvil, accompanying each blow with a curse. Sawney Beane is hauling buckets of water from the well to a large barrel. He pays little heed to what he is doing, and water splashes constantly from the bucket. Deep puddles cover most of the yard.

With each spill, the Master curses a little louder and brings his hammer down a little harder. It has not been a good day. One of the wealthier merchants of the town has snubbed him in the street. Another merchant has refused to sell him necessary supplies without payment in advance. His daughter has again been insolent, has refused to acknowledge his superiority. And now he has to watch that moron Sawney Beane create a swamp in his backyard.

A horse and rider enter the yard, the horse limping slightly. The rider is an extremely fat man but, from the look of his clothes, of considerable wealth. He is clad in the finest material, covered with rich embroidery; he wears a magnificent fur cloak.

“Good day to you, your lordship,” the Master says in his most deferential manner. “Can I be of service?”

The fat man wrinkles his nose in distaste for the filth and disorder in the yard. “I trust so, Master Smith. I did not come here for the pleasant view your yard provides, or for the dubious pleasure of your company, but because my horse has thrown a shoe.”

Your horse should have thrown more than that carrying a tub of guts like you around, the Master thinks, but he smiles and turns to get his tools.

The nobleman calls him back. “Would you have your man give me a hand so that I may dismount—that’s my good fellow.”

“Sawney Beane, you lazy cur!” the Master shouts. “Get over here and give his lordship a hand.” Sawney Beane only stares at him. “You fool! Get over here and help the gentleman.”

Sawney Beane shambles over to the horse. He stands in a large puddle, the muddy water well above his ankles.

“Well, go on, you fool! Put your hands up. Careful! Hold your hands steady.”

Sawney Beane cups his hands to hold the rider’s foot as he dismounts. But as the great bulk settles, he slips in the mud and lets go of the foot. The fat man falls flat on his back in the puddle, where he rolls from side to side, sputtering like a beached walrus.

The Master’s face turns several shades of purple. “Your lordship! Sawney Beane! You half-brained mooncalf, you piece of dog shit. Look what you’ve done! I’ll give you a beating you’ll never forget!”

The Master grabs his hammer and heaves it with all his force as Sawney Beane scampers away. The hammer misses its target and continues through the open door of the barn, where it strikes the Master’s own horse in the head, instantly killing it.
      
      

“Damn him!” the Master shouts. “I’ll make him wish he’d never been born, don’t you worry about that!”

Still on his back in the mud, the fat man speaks coldly. “You had best worry about how you will pay for the damage you have done. My bailiff will see you shortly, you witless oaf! Now help me to my feet.”

With considerable effort, groveling and blustering, the Master succeeds in extricating the nobleman from the mud.

“I’m terribly sorry, your lordship. That blackguard will pay for this, you just wait! Now, I’ll just get to your horse.”

“I’d rather my horse limped all the way to London than spend an additional moment here. You have done enough for one day!”

The Master watches the fat man lead his horse away, then bellows a tremendous series of curses. In a blind rage, he seizes the anvil, raises it overhead, and throws it across the yard. Instantly, he regrets his action, but it is too late. The anvil sails through the air, smashes through the boards covering the well, splashes into the water, and sinks to the bottom.

“Look what you’ve done now, Sawney Beane!” the Master yells. “Come back here! Come back!”

Sawney Beane is sitting behind the barn on a pile of rubbish. If he hears his name being called, his face gives no indication of it. He is concentrating on a small gray mouse that he has captured. He lets the mouse run up his arm several times. He is about to let it go when a cat appears around the corner of the barn.

It is an old ginger torn who bears the scars of many battles. One eye and half an ear—and large patches of fur—are gone, but he is still the master of his territory. Sawney Beane clicks his tongue to call the cat, who approaches slowly. Sawney Beane places the mouse between the cat’s front paws.

He watches intently as the cat toys with the mouse, letting it almost get away, catching it again, cuffing it about until eventually the mouse’s legs are broken. At last the cat devours the mouse, head first, chewing it with his back teeth as the tail hangs from his mouth.

Sawney Beane is fascinated by the game and the inevitable kill. He responds to the display of instinct. He sees the wolf bringing down the stag; he senses other things as well, things that are not quite clear to him, but that feel good. His expression is that of someone lost in a pleasant dream.

II

It is evening in the smithy, two days later. Sawney Beane is seated in his corner, eating from his bowl of porridge. Across the room, the Master is seated at the table with Andrews, a neighbor. Andrews is very different physically from the huge, crude blacksmith. As a youth he was slender, but the years have added a girdle of fat to his waist and hips. Andrews has very full lips, a gap-toothed smile, and bulging, watery eyes. He is something of a weakling, and hopes that keeping company with the hearty blacksmith will make others think him the same sort.

During the past hour, the two men have eaten the better part of a large roast leg of mutton, and had enough wine to render themselves quite drunk. They are still going at it, eating and drinking, laughing boisterously, their faces flushed and sweating. Grease covers their mouths and chins. Sawney Beane, eating his gritty porridge, watches them shovel chunks of meat into their gaping mouths. The men pay no attention to him, concerned only with their food and the lewd stories they are telling.

“... and then she says”—the Master pauses to swallow—”she says, ‘If you don’t know where to put it, better cover it, or it might freeze and break off.’“ He laughs loudly, cuts a large slice of meat, and puts it on Andrews’s plate. “Here! And drink up. You’re falling behind.”

Andrews makes a gesture of surrender. “I don’t think I can eat any more.”

“You disappoint me. What kind of man are you? Are all your appetites so small? Hah!”

“My appetites are as healthy as yours.” Andrews raises his cup. “My compliments. You set a good table.”

“Aye. Meat, drink, and women! Without that, a man’s just a poor, feeble creature, like that-useless Sawney Beane over there. He hates me, but he’d never dare rebel. Without me, he’d be sleeping in the rain and eating grass like a cow. As for me—well, he’s so lame that he provides amusement. Here, watch this! We’ll have some fun with him. Here, Hob! Come here, boy!”

His dog, a scruffy mongrel with matted hair and small yellow eyes, comes over and waits expectantly. The Master cuts a large piece of meat and throws it to the dog, who eagerly devours it. Sawney Beane watches hungrily, as if tempted to fight for the meat. The Master is well aware of this.

“Good Hob! You want some more?” He cuts another piece of meat and holds it up. “Want it? Speak for it. Speak!” The dog gives a long, mournful howl. “Good Hob! There you are.”

He throws the meat halfway between Hob and Sawney Beane, who almost jumps for it.

The Master pokes Andrews with his elbow. “We’ve forgotten something. We’ve eaten our fill, and the dog has had his. Do you suppose poor Sawney Beane might want some as well?”

“I don’t know. If he’s as feeble a creature as you say, I doubt that he’d be able to chew it.

“Aye, you’re probably right. But maybe he can be a good dog? Can you do tricks, Sawney Beane?” The Master holds out a bit of meat. “All full of juice and fat. Hob wants it. Can you be as good a dog as Hob? If you want it, you’ll have to play the dog. Walk on all fours! Walk on all fours, you lazy cur!”

Sawney Beane’s desire for the meat is stronger than whatever it is that tells him not to participate. He creeps across the floor on his hands and knees.