The Flesh Eaters (8 page)

Five children are grouped around Sawney Beane, who is conducting one of his frequent sessions of instruction.

“Remember these rules. You must obey them. If you do not, you will be punished. You must never be seen. Never leave the cave except to hunt. Always stay hidden from outsiders. Never show yourself except to attack.” He turns to the oldest child. “When do you leave the cave?”

“Never leave the cave except to hunt.”

“And when do you leave the cave to hunt?”

The child is unsure of the answer. “When it is safe?”

Displeased, Sawney Beane slowly repeats the question.

The child is desperate; he knows the consequence of answering incorrectly. Relief washed over his face as he remembers. “Only when you tell us to hunt.”

Sawney Beane nods. “Only when I tell you to hunt. You can only do what I tell you to do. And you must do what I tell you to do.” He turns to another child. “How do we kill?”

“We take the things by surprise. We kill quickly.” The answer comes as if by rote.

“That is right. Surprise them. Kill quickly. Never give them a chance to fight. We attack only when we are certain we will succeed. When we show ourselves, no one must ever escape. Our safety depends on that.”

“How do we surprise them?” the second child asks.

Sawney Beane nods approval of this question. “The things are stupid. They are curious. When they see something strange, they go to look at it. They forget everything. Then you jump out and make their blood run. They only know you are there after the knife goes in. Then their faces look like this.” Contemptuously, he mimics the surprise and fear of the victims, and the children laugh. “It is very funny when they know they are dead. Then they are afraid. Then the things fear us. That is good. We drink their blood because we are the hunters.”

One of the youngest children has not been paying attention. He has been playing with gem-encrusted jewelry and bright gold coins, holding them up so that they catch the candlelight. Now, as he tosses them from hand to hand, they make a tinkling sound. Sawney Beane notices, and he slaps the child hard. The child is knocked down, but he does not cry. He knows that tears would only result in further punishment.

Angrily, Sawney Beane throws the gold coins into the darkness outside their circle. His voice hisses. “That is shit. That is nothing. They are important to the things. That is what makes them stupid. That is why we can kill them. That is why we are the hunters.”

He looks around the circle. “Who are the hunters?” In unison, the children chant proudly, “We are the hunters.” Sawney Beane nods.

The second oldest child speaks: “Tell us about the great wolf of the forest.”

Sawney Beane frowns, but the other children, encouraged by the boldness of their brother, clamor for him to tell the story. Sawney Beane is not displeased by the request, but feigns the boredom that comes from having told a story many, many times. The children fall silent. They know the story by heart, but every time they hear it, they feel the same pride and satisfaction.

“My father was the great wolf of the forest. He was a great hunter. Everything in the forest feared him. He would walk the forest in silence. When he came upon a cow or a sheep or a thing, he would attack. He would smell its fear and kill it. He would eat its heart. He was the strongest, the fiercest, the most dangerous creature. The things could not kill the great wolf because their fear was too great. Because he was too cunning. We must be strong like the great wolf of the forest. We must be cunning like the great wolf of the forest. We are the hunters!”

Quietly, almost whispering, the children repeat the last phrase, then sit in silence.

After a considerable time, the oldest child speaks in a small voice. “When will we be able to hunt?” The other children are surprised at this daring question, but the boy continues, before Sawney Beane can reply. “We know the rules. We have seen you hunt. It is time we became hunters. We can do it. Let us hunt with you.”

The other children add their pleas, but Sawney Beane quiets them with an angry glance. He looks around the circle, staring intently into the eyes of each child. He speaks quietly.

“You shall hunt.”

James Weaver is on his way to Edinburgh to join his brother in trade. After life on a farm in the rugged hills of Moorfoot, he is looking forward to the town.

It is a pleasant spring day, and he sings to himself as he walks along. Rounding a bend, he sees a young boy standing in the center of the road. The boy is poorly dressed, very dirty, and very pale, as though suffering from some disease. There is something vaguely unsettling about the child—perhaps his eyes—but Weaver is used to seeing strange people on the road.

The boy cries out to Weaver. “Help! Oh, please, help me! Please help me! Hurry!”

It seems the boy’s father has been hurt, but Weaver has some difficulty understanding just what the problem is. He finally gets the boy calmed down enough to explain.

“We were in the forest. Just over there. Suddenly my father cried out and fell down. He doesn’t answer, and I can’t move him. I’m scared. Please help me!”

Weaver has no hesitation in agreeing to help the boy. “All right, son. Don’t you worry. I’ll see what I can do. Just where is he?”

The boy points to the trees, then starts to run down a narrow path. He stops and looks back, pleading with Weaver to hurry. Weaver follows him into the woods. The boy seems to know where they are going, but the farther they go, the darker and gloomier it becomes.

Weaver grows nervous. “How much farther is it? I don’t like this.”

“Just up ahead. Oh, please, let’s hurry!”

They reach a small open space in the dark woods. A man lies facedown in the clearing, his body curiously twisted. Weaver looks at him with concern.

“Are you all right? Your son brought me to help. What has happened?”

No reply. Weaver stands over the man and repeats his question. The man does not move. Weaver bends down and touches his shoulder. There is no response.

Weaver reaches under the man’s shoulders and rolls him over. It takes a moment before he realizes that he is looking at a partially decayed corpse. The skin is gray, with green patches; the flesh is eaten away to reveal part of the jaw bone. There are no eyes, only black sockets; the lips are gone, and the yellow teeth grin hideously. Weaver screams in terror. As he recoils, Sawney Beane drops down on him out of the trees and deftly slits his throat. Weaver clutches at his neck and staggers from side to side.

Sawney Beane gives the knife to the boy. “Take him! Take him! Be like the wolf.”

The boy begins to slash and stab at Weaver. At first his movements are hesitant, but as his father shouts encouragement, he gains assurance and thrusts with greater force. He feels the knife cutting deep into the thing’s flesh. That sensation has been described to him many times, and now it thrills him.

Weaver falls to the ground.

Sawney Beane cries out, “That’s right! Stick him! Kill him! Strike deep! Hard! Harder! Stick him!”

The boy leaps on the dead man and continues to stab him. Sawney Beane watches, then nods. “Good. That is enough. You have done well.”

The boy stands up. His breath comes in deep gasps, and his face is flushed with pride.

“You get the reward of the hunter,” Sawney Beane says. “Drink his blood. Taste the life of the thing.”

The boy drops down on the body. He places his mouth on the gash in the throat, tastes the blood tentatively, then begins to suck it up greedily. Watching, Sawney Beane experiences a kind of pride. He senses that a significant event has occurred today.

The boy turns to his father, seeking approval. Sawney Beane remembers something from the very beginning. He stoops over the body and puts his fingers in the throat wound until they are covered in blood. Solemnly, he uses his bloody fingers to draw a line down the center of the boy’s forehead. He then draws horizontal lines over each eyebrow and diagonal lines on each cheek.

“You are now a hunter.” Sawney Beane’s eyes burn as he looks at his son. “You are now First Hunter.”

For the first time, the boy has a name. He grins, very proud of himself.

Sawney Beane raises his eyes to the surrounding trees. “Come out now,” he calls, and the other children leave the hiding places from which they have observed everything. “He has done well. He is now a hunter. Soon you will all become hunters.”

The children regard their brother with a new respect. He is now a hunter. They long for the time when they too will be hunters.

After dismembering the body of James Weaver, Sawney Beane attaches a rope to the torso and drags it through the woods. Two of the children carry one of Weavers legs between them, another has an arm. First Hunter walks apart, carrying only a brown-stained knife. His head is held high. He is no longer a child.

II

The family continues to grow; there is a new child almost every year. While there are several infant deaths, most of the children thrive surprisingly well in the fetid environment of the cave. A life that might cause an outsider to sicken and die quickly does no harm to the family. They are tough, healthier than most of the population of the kingdom.

As the family grows, domestic routines change and develop. All the children have tasks to perform. The older children become responsible for training the younger ones.

Meg rarely hunts now; she is content to exert command over the growing army of offspring. Inactivity and almost constant pregnancy have caused her to put on weight, but her bulk gives added authority to her matriarchal role. Life in the cave revolves around her, as though she were the giant white queen of an ant colony.

The family’s unceasing forays for prey have gained them a tremendous store of supplies, which are kept piled in lopsided mountains around the edge of the cavern. The quantity and variety of these goods would be the envy of the wealthiest nobility, but the value of their possessions has no significance for the family. The goods are merely by-products of the hunt; some are used, but most are not.

The growing size of the family and the increasing rewards of the hunt have necessitated changes in the way food is stored. The casual methods of the earlier days are no longer appropriate. Now hooks and spikes have been driven into the wall of the cave; from these, thighs, legs, arms, and shoulder joints are hung. Occasionally there drips a whole bloody torso. Against one wall are huge barrels, filled with prickling brine, in which more limbs and internal organs are preserved. Meg was a poor and resentful housekeeper in her dimly recollected past life, but she learned certain lessons that now make her a careful mistress of the cave’s only valuable resource.

Two small boys struggle with buckets of water far too heavy for them. With the greatest effort, they have managed to carry them without spilling from the stream outside the cave, through the twisted, water-filled passage to the living area. They do not complain because this is their assigned duty. As they near the large barrel that contains the cave’s water supply, a younger sister sticks out her foot, tripping one of the boys. He stares in disbelief as his bucket of water pours onto the ground.

Sawney Beane has observed the incident. He walks over to the fallen boy, cuffs him on the head and points back down the cave, indicating that he is to bring another bucket of water. The boy protests that it was not his fault, but the sternness of Sawney Beane’s expression silences him. Picking up his bucket, he runs out.

A girl sweeps the cave with a broom made of branches and leaves. Along with the rubbish and dirt that she sweeps into the stream are several gold coins and a shiny ring. She regards these items as more bits of trash to be discarded.

Meg watches as two older girls prepare a barrel of brine. They pour in water and add salt and several kinds of dried herbs. When the mixture is ready, Meg dips her finger in the barrel to taste it. She indicates that more salt is required. The girls add more, then look to Meg, who nods. Now the girls lift a partially-dismembered body onto a makeshift trestle table. Under Meg’s supervision, they gut the body and cut the flesh away from the bones. Some pieces are dropped into the barrel, others are put off to one side to be dried and hung. The stomach and intestines are thrown to the ground to be swept away.

Meg walks over to inspect some hanging meat. She finds a piece that is starting to rot and signals to a child standing close by. The child takes a knife, cuts off the spoiled part, and throws it away. Meg makes a mental note that the remainder of the meat should be eaten soon.

A toddler squats in the center of the living area, urinating, enjoying the sound of the splashing. An older child picks up the infant and carries it to the edge of the water, showing it that it should go there.

Meg is punishing a young child, beating it with a thick leather strap. Since she rarely hunts now, punishment provides her with considerable satisfaction. Her huge breasts and buttocks quiver beneath the thin material of her dress as she brings the strap down, and each time the child cries out, her nipples tingle. She does not beat the older children because they have learned not to cry, which lessens her pleasure. The other children gain considerable satisfaction from the screams of the child being punished. They have learned early to enjoy the pain and fear of others.