The Flesh Eaters (13 page)

“Wait. It’s still saddled. Perhaps he threw his rider and ran off. We should take him with us. We might find the rider.”

Geoffrey shrugs. “Leave it alone, brother.”

“But Geoffrey, it is our Christian duty. You know the story of the Good Samaritan.”

“And you know the story of the cat who lost his tail by poking into things that did not concern him.”

“The owner may be grateful and give us a reward.”

“He may also give us a kick in the ass,” Geoffrey says impatiently. “You should learn to tend to your own affairs.”

“That’s not a very Christian attitude.”

“But it is a good practice in the world we live in.” Geoffrey cannot help being moved by Donald’s unhappy looks. “Oh, don’t look like that! I will offer you a compromise. We’ll take the horse with us to the turning. If we find his rider, fine. If not, we leave him there. Do you agree?”

Donald smiles as he puts an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “You’re not so harsh as you pretend. What shall we do with our reward?”

“Buy you some education in the ways of the world. Take your horse, good Samaritan, and let’s go.”

Donald takes up the horse’s reins and the brothers continue down the road.

The search party is riding very slowly. The farther they go from the town, the more desolate the surroundings become. The unhappy Sheriff slumps in his saddle. His deputy rides up next to him, looking cheerful, which does not improve the Sheriff’s humor.

“What are we looking for, Sheriff?”

“If you could be smart—which I very much doubt—you’d join me in hoping it is nothing.”

“Shouldn’t we be looking for its tracks? It must be very large, and would have to leave signs.”

“Tracks? What are you talking about, you fool?”

“The monster.”

“The monster?” The Sheriff sits up in his saddle and looks around in panic.

“Aye. In town they are saying there must be some giant monster on the road who swallows up travelers and spits them out. Do you believe that?”

“I believe you are a giant fool! That’s what I believe.”

“Then there is no monster?”

“My God, man! Do not be disappointed.” The Sheriff rides away from the deputy, talking to himself. “What kind of fools do I have with me? Bandits were not bad enough? Now they have me chasing monsters. Still, they might be right, and I have no wish to prove them so. No matter what those bastards in town want, I’ll not ride down the throat of some dragon to please them.”

He looks into the dark woods that line the road. Turning, he calls to the other men. “Come on! The faster we go, the quicker we’ll be out of here.”

Screened by the bushes along the road, Sawney Beane and the family are relaxed. Some lie on the ground, dozing. Others play a kind of mumblety-peg, throwing their knives into the ground. A small boy and girl are wrestling, with much biting, gouging, and hair pulling.

Ordinarily, after a successful kill, the family would return to the cave, but since Sawney Beane resumed control of the hunt, he has relaxed the rules. If another thing comes along, they will attack; if not, they will enjoy some additional time outside. Sawney Beane is not entirely pleased by this decision, but he senses that it might help to ease some of the tensions that are developing.

On the hill overlooking the road are two lookouts, a young boy and his twin sister, who scan the road in both directions. The boy sees something far in the distance—the clouds of dust that indicate a large party. He sounds the warning whistle and starts down the hill, but the girl stops him. She wants to stay and watch, and her brother reluctantly agrees.

The family is immediately alerted by the whistle. Sawney Beane gives an answering signal, then motions to the others. Everyone scampers through the bushes and down the cliff face to the cave.

The twin lookouts study the search party with considerable fascination. Never have they seen so many things so close. They see the party come upon Donald and Geoffrey, still leading the stray horse, and then recognize the horse as the one that escaped.

On the road, the brothers nod at the Sheriff. They are startled when he orders the party to halt, and then makes the same command to them.

“Are you speaking to us?” Geoffrey asks.

“Of course I am, you fool! Who are you?”

“Who are you to ask?”

“Damned impertinence! I am the Sheriff of Midlothian. Now who are you?”

“We might be the King and Queen of Sheba, for all that it is your affair.” Geoffrey does not suffer fools gladly.

“Easy, brother,” Donald says. “We are Donald and Geoffrey Calder, Sheriff, Why do you ask?”

“I will ask the questions, and you will answer them if you know what is good for you. Where do you live, and where are you going?”

“We live back there, and we are going there.” Geoffrey points back, then forward along the road.

Several members of the party snicker, and the Sheriff’s face turns red.

“We live at a small farm about five miles back,” Donald puts in hastily. “We are going to visit friends beyond the turning.”

The Sheriff considers this information, as though it were a riddle he could not answer. When the brothers begin to fidget, he asks suddenly, “Is that your horse?”

They answer simultaneously, Donald saying no, Geoffrey saying yes. They look at each other, confused.

The Sheriff beams as if he had just been handed a steaming Christmas pudding.

“Aye and nay. How interesting.” Still smiling, he points to Donald and shouts, “You! Which is it?”

“We found the horse back the road a bit. He seemed to have thrown his rider. We were taking it with us in the hope that we might return it.”

“Return it? How thoughtful of you.” The Sheriff’s voice is heavy with sarcasm. “Then why did you say the horse was yours?”

“To avoid just such an inquisition as this,” Geoffrey responds promptly. “May we pass now?”

“In a moment.” The Sheriff directs his deputy to search the horse’s saddlebag.

From the hill overlooking the road, the twins watch with fascination, but little comprehension. All this jabber-jabber is confusing.

In the saddlebag, the deputy finds a small leather pouch and opens it. He gasps. “Gold! It looks like fifteen or twenty florins.”

The Sheriff asks to see the pouch. He looks at the money, then absentmindedly puts it in the pocket of his tunic.

The deputy discovers some papers which he reads with difficulty. “They seem to belong to Squire Sloan from Lammermuir.”

Geoffrey is worried now and annoyed, but he keeps his voice under control. “We have told you. We merely found this horse and wanted to return it.”

“I know you have told me that. But, you see, we’ve been on this road for many miles, and we have seen no Squire Sloan, or anyone else. Do you know why?... Because you have killed him and hidden his body!”

The brothers vehemently deny the accusation, and the Sheriff waits until their protests subside.

“You have his horse and his money! I need no further proof!”

“This is absurd.” Geoffrey is very angry— and very scared.

“Is it? What about Master Goodwin of Berwick?”

“Who?” the brothers ask together.

“So you don’t even know his name. He is the one you vilely murdered and dismembered. You threw his body in the sea. Unfortunately for you, part of it washed ashore, and you now have the Bloodhound of Midlothian on your trail.”

The deputy looks confused at this astonishing statement, and the Sheriff mutters angrily, “That’s me, you fool.”

Turning back to the brothers, he shouts, “You made Master Goodwin food for fishes. Now,
you
will be food for crows.”

Donald is almost sobbing. “We know nothing of this. We have done no wrong. This is a mistake.”

“There has been a mistake, all right, but on your part. What about Andrews the joiner? And Master Edwards and his wife? Where did you put their bodies?”

“We’ve never seen them!” Geoffrey screams. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is mad! Let us go!”

“You will go straight to Hell with the other murderers and bandits of your breed!” The Sheriff signals to the other men. “Seize them and bind them!”

Though Donald and Geoffrey struggle and protest their innocence, they are bound with ropes. The Sheriff now threatens to gag them as well unless they are quiet.

On the hill, the boy twin leans forward to get a better view. He loses his footing and slips several feet, causing small rocks and dirt to fall. The twins freeze, afraid of being discovered.

Several men look up from the road toward the sound. “What was that? Should we investigate?” asks one.

The noise has badly frightened the Sheriff. “No! No, you fool! It was nothing! There’s nothing there! Let’s get out of here! We must take our prisoners back to town. We’ve been lucky to have solved our problems so easily. Let’s not abuse our good fortune.”

The party rides off, dragging the brothers with them.

The twins relax, marveling at the bewildering ways of things. So much jabber-jabber— and no sticking, no blood. Things are certainly strange creatures.

The search party arrives back in town with its prisoners, who are dirty and tired from their hard journey, and in very low spirits. The Sheriff had hoped for a large gathering to witness his triumphant return, but only Masters Cutter and Biggar observe the party’s approach.

The Sheriff proudly announces, “These are the villains who are responsible for the murders and disappearances.”

“They don’t look especially dangerous to me,” Cutter says in his dry, rasping voice.

At this moment even Cutter cannot upset the Sheriff and he responds heartily. “Appearances can be deceptive. Anyway, you can take my word for it that these are the ones. Why, I caught them just after they killed a Squire Sloan of Lammermuir.”

“You saw them do this?” Biggar’s eyes grow wide.

“Not exactly. They are far too clever for that, but just the same, there is no doubt they did it. They still had the Squire’s horse and purse with them. They are the devil’s own, all right.”

Cutter makes a skeptical noise in his throat, but Biggar seems to accept the Sheriff’s statements.

“Did they put up a struggle?”

“Well, they might have, and who knows what would have happened then? But I was too smart, and we took them with no trouble.”

Cutter shakes his head, somewhat dubious, but the Sheriff is too pleased with himself to notice.

“I do not mind confessing that I was somewhat worried when we left here, not knowing who or what we might find. But I had my duty to do, and I did it.”

This expression of noble self-sacrifice makes Cutter slightly nauseous, but he knows there is no point in responding.

“This should put an end to all those disappearances and such, and we can all rest easier now,” the Sheriff concludes firmly.

“That we can! Remarkable, truly remarkable!” Biggar has been completely won over. “I will admit, Sheriff, that I had my doubts whether you would accomplish anything. I am pleased to be proved wrong, and I congratulate you.”

Cutter looks on with disgust as Biggar and the Sheriff beam at each other, then walks away without a word. Biggar stares after him, perplexed, then asks the Sheriff if the villains have confessed.

“Not yet, but you can be sure they will.” The Sheriff rubs his hands together, displaying his Christmas pudding smile. “Oh, aye! They will confess. I will see to that.” He orders the guards to take the prisoners away.

Geoffrey turns to Donald. “Are you content now? This is what comes of involving yourself in things that do not concern you.”

Donald tries to smile. “Do not fear, brother. You must have faith. We’re innocent, and I am confident that all this will soon be remedied.”

A short while later, Geoffrey’s screams of agony echo within the stone walls of a dungeon cell. The piercing shrieks cause the Sheriff’s face to darken with rage. “Confess!” he yells. “Confess! Damn you!”

Geoffrey Calder is chained upright to a rack. His bare chest shows the marks of a cruel beating. One of his hands is in a press with a wooden handle, which a guard manipulates. When the handle is turned, Geoffrey’s fingers are crushed until the bones splinter.

On the other side of the cell, torches in wall niches illuminate the form of Donald Calder draped over a barrel, his wrists chained to his ankles. His back is covered with large blue-black bruises and bloody gashes, in some places as deep as his ribs. His blackened eyes are swollen shut. Jagged stumps are all that are left of his teeth. He is barely conscious—beyond caring, beyond hoping, unaware of his brother’s screams.”

The Sheriff nods to the guard, and the press is again tightened. Geoffrey screams insanely. The guard releases the pressure. The Sheriff speaks in a low voice to the sobbing victim.

“Confess... confess and we will stop this. It will be over. Confess.”

Geoffrey struggles to raise his head. His lips move. “In... no... cent,” he gasps.