The Flesh Eaters (11 page)

He watches his children come toward him on the beach with their large burden, laughing and cavorting. There is no pleasure in his expression. First Hunter leads the pack, and the sight of Sawney Beane makes him nervous. As they near the cave, he begins to pick at the red lumps on his face.

Though First Hunter is aware that Sawney Beane is in a dark mood, he tries to appear confident as he points out the size of the thing and talks of the many meals it will provide. His father’s gaze remains stony. First Hunter talks on nervously, telling how funny the chase was, how the thing didn’t know they were there, how they followed behind it. As he tells this, one of the smaller boys stuffs the friar’s shoulder bag under his shirt to produce a big stomach. He imitates the friar’s rolling gait, and several children walk behind him on tiptoe, making exaggerated gestures. Sawney Beane’s expression remains hard and unchanging.

First Hunter picks and squeezes his pimples as he tries desperately to get some positive response from his father. He tells of the thing’s fear, of the comical run along the road, the great trap with the rope, how the earth shook when the thing fell. It is no use, and First Hunter’s voice falters under the unyielding gaze. He concludes by mumbling that they showed the thing that they are the hunters.

Sawney Beane’s eyes narrow, and his stare fixes the children for a long moment. By the time he speaks, they are all shifting about uneasily.

“You are not the hunters. You are only to hunt when I tell you to hunt. I am the Master, and you were not to hunt today.”

One of the children says, “But look at the size of it!”

“We have no need for it,” Sawney Beane says in his low voice. “We have plenty. It will only rot.”

Girl Hunter has less fear of her father than the others and will not let the matter drop. “We thought you would be pleased.”

You have gone against the rules. That makes danger for us. If you do it again, there will be danger for you—from me.” The children are silent now. “From now on you will only hunt with me.” There are groans, but they are silenced by Sawney Beane’s glare. “Take the thing inside. It is fresh and we will keep it. But you will take the pieces of meat from your last hunt and carry them down the beach. At the point where the current runs, throw them into the sea.”

This is a most insulting form of punishment. To throw away what they have killed in effect denies they are hunters.

It is too much for First Hunter. “But why?” he whines.

He shrinks back as his father steps toward him and speaks through clenched teeth. “Because I tell you to! That is reason enough. And you will obey me.”

The children take the friar’s body into the cave.

The children walk along the rocky beach, some dragging blood-darkened sacks behind them. Others have an arm or a leg slung over their shoulders. The older children are subdued as a result of Sawney Beane’s displeasure, but the younger ones are enjoying their excursion on the beach.

First Hunter walks with Girl Hunter, complaining bitterly about the humiliation he has endured. “We should not be doing this. We are hunters. We are as good as he is. And hunters hunt... not this.”

Girl Hunter touches his arm. “We will hunt. But you must obey him. He
is
the Master.” The boy’s lips form a sneer, and she shakes her head. “He is the Master—he is the gray wolf. But you are First Hunter, and you do many things.”

Still touching his arm, she moves her other hand lightly to his crotch. She smiles when she feels his codpiece bulge. A growling noise comes from deep in his throat, and he reaches for her, but she backs away.

“You must obey him. It is best for all of us. We must follow the rules if we are to stay strong.”

“I know, but—”

“Do not think of it. Look.” She points to the younger children.

They are playing a crude kind of tag, each attempting to hit the others with the arm or leg he is carrying. Since they are too small to do each other any harm, they present a comic picture of effort and frustration.

Laughing, First Hunter walks over and gestures for them to stop. A child sneaks up behind him and belts him across his back with a rotting arm. First Hunter roars in mock anger and chases after his attacker. With great delight, the other children join in, and the beach rings with shouts and laughter.

Moments later, First Hunter looks up and is stunned to see a figure observing them from the road high above the beach. He freezes and tells the other children to be quiet. One by one, they see him staring at the road and obey.

“What is it?” Girl Hunter asks.

‘There is someone up there watching us.”

“What do we do?”

First Hunter is frightened and confused. He scratches at his pimpled face.

“We are not to let anyone see us.” One of the most important rules has been violated, and even Girl Hunter’s icy composure is shaken.

The man on the road is Master Charles Decker, a jolly, prosperous-looking fellow on a well-appointed horse. He has spent a pleasant few minutes watching some children play on the beach. Since Decker is slightly nearsighted, and the light is poor, he cannot make out what they are playing with. Now he sees the children stop and look up at the road. Thinking that they are embarrassed at being seen, he waves and shouts for them to carry on, then turns his horse and rides off down the road.

The children watch him ride away, scared and silent. Girl Hunter is the first to speak. “Let’s go after him.”

First Hunter is unable to move. His lips open and close soundlessly.

“I said let’s go after him.”

Second Hunter steps forward, shaking his head. “We cannot catch him.”

“Then what do we do?” Stonethrower asks.

First Hunter is glad that someone has asked the question; since he is supposed to be the leader, he could not. Second Hunter will know. Second Hunter must know.

“Nothing,” says Second Hunter. “We finish our task and return. Never say what happened here. It never happened. Do you understand? It never happened. If anyone talks, he will be punished.”

First Hunter is relieved to have been shown the way. Now, to regain control, he seizes on the last words, snarling to mask his fright. “If anyone speaks of this, I will kill him! Do you doubt me?”

The faces of the others show that they take him seriously, and this restores his confidence. “Quickly! Let us finish with this.”

At the end of the spit of land that stretches out into the sea, the children throw their bloody burdens into the water and watch them sink beneath the surging waves. No one speaks. The sky clouds over and it grows dark.

III

The town’s leading citizens are gathered around a large plank table in the Sheriff’s chambers. It is a serious matter they are discussing, but few of them have much hope for a successful outcome of their talk. They know that the Sheriff is lazy, not very smart except when it comes to avoiding difficulties, cowardly, and inordinately fond of his own voice, which is not especially pleasing.

The Sheriff is a heavyset, slightly stoop-shouldered man. His eyes are small and close to his short, broad nose. His brow is permanently creased from being perpetually confounded. His heavy lower jaw sticks out farther than the upper one; the effect is that of a bulldog resigned to his stupidity. Like the animal he resembles, the Sheriff grimly hangs on to his one principle: avoid acting at all times, but especially when risk is involved. The townspeople have long tried to avoid consulting the Sheriff, hoping that he will disappear as a result of his own uselessness.

It is an outsider to the community who has brought about this meeting. Master Goodwin, of Berwick, is a wealthy young man—polite, sincere, well spoken. He believes that it is rational for men to work together to solve problems that affect them all. Now, after only a short conversation with the Sheriff, this belief is beginning to weaken.

“It seems to me, Sheriff, that you have a problem here.” There is frustration in Goodwin’s voice. He feels as though he has been hurling himself unsuccessfully against an invisible but nevertheless solid wall.

“I don’t know that I would call it a problem exactly.” The Sheriff leans forward, resting his arms on the table as he tries to remain in control of the situation. This interfering young pup —Goodman or Godwin, or whatever his name is—is becoming a nuisance.

For the sixth time, Goodwin attempts to get through. “Over six weeks ago, my father set out for Edinburgh to attend to some business. It is not even a two-day ride, yet he never arrived. And no one here has seen or heard of him since.”

“That still does not—”

“I have investigated,” Goodwin continues quickly. “The innkeeper at Dunbridge saw my father, but no one since then has seen him. That would seem to indicate that he disappeared somewhere between there and here.”

“Not necessarily. He—”

“Since arriving here, I have heard that there has been quite a plague of mysterious disappearances over the last few years.”

The Sheriff begins to feel slightly uncomfortable, but he is an old hand at deflecting problems like this. “I would not say a plague of disappearances. One or two, perhaps—a small handful—but surely not a plague. No, plague is definitely not correct.”

“But he’s right, Sheriff. There have been quite a few.” The speaker is Ashton, one of those most tolerant of the Sheriff.

“Why, even in this town I know of ten or twelve who have vanished without a trace,” a man named Biggar joins in.

“Aye,” says a scrawny old fellow called Cutter. “There was Andrews the joiner. And Edwards and his wife. There was Master Black, and—”

The Sheriff is not surprised to hear from Cutter. The old bastard has had it in for him for a long time.

“There is no need to recite the Book of Chronicles,” he says petulantly.

“—and, aye, Ian Barr.”

“But that was more than ten years ago. I wasn’t even Sheriff then.”

“No one is blaming you for Barr’s disappearance,” says Ashton.

“I should hope not.”

“Or for any of the others,” Ashton continues, “but certainly there seems to be a situation here that should be investigated.”

“I agree,” says Biggar. “In addition to those from this town who have vanished, I’ve heard of other travelers who never reached their destinations. Who knows how many others we might not have heard about? Something must be done.”

“If the roads are not safe, trade will decline. And that will be bad for everyone,” proclaims Master Charles Decker.

The Sheriff thinks: Even old, fat, rich Decker has to put his oar in.

“Especially me,” Decker adds, and joins in the laughter. “But you will all be affected. This is a serious problem and something must be done. Bandits and outlaws cannot be permitted to flourish on our highways.”

“We do not know that there are bandits and outlaws.” The Sheriff’s words are greeted with derisive hoots, but he continues: “All right! All right! So there
are
bandits and outlaws. There are bandits and outlaws all over. The kingdom is going to Hell! The King has been held prisoner in London for nearly twenty years. The Regent is more interested in filling his purse than in seeing that there is law and order. There are so many highwaymen that they probably have to rob each other to survive. What would you have me do?”

That should slow them down, the Sheriff thinks as he takes a deep breath, but Cutter’s next words, spoken quietly, shock him.

“You might attempt to catch some of them. After all, that
is
your job.”

“Oh, ho! So you’d have me ride into the hills and return with a cartload of bandits and outlaws?”

Cutter smiles pleasantly. “Is that not what you are supposed to do?”

“If you raised an army, we might be able to do something, but I’m only the Sheriff.”

“I understand all that,” says Ashton. “But still...”

And so it goes. The discussion gets farther and farther away from the issue, which is what the Sheriff has intended all along. Cutter smiles, acknowledging the Sheriff’s successful skirmishing.

Even as these men are considering the plight of the kingdom, a small boy plays on Edinburgh beach. He tries to skip stones on the water as he has seen the older boys do. Sea shells catch his eye, and he marvels at the colors and textures and shapes of them. He runs from one spot to another, studying the things he finds in the sand.

The sun comes out from behind a cloud, and its light reflects off something shiny in the sand. The boy goes to investigate. Kneeling, he sees the top of a large gold signet ring. He tries to pick it up, but it is stuck. He tugs harder and pulls up the hand to which the ring is attached. The hand is partially decayed. Its fingers are pasty, enormously swollen from being in the water. The boy is more curious than frightened at his discovery. He flips the fingers several times, marveling at their strange spongy texture. His discovery is too exciting to keep to himself, and he runs back along the beach to find his father.

The father, a fisherman, is irritated at being taken away from mending his nets. He scolds as he walks back down the beach with his son.