The Flesh Eaters (15 page)

Meg removes the gold rings from the victim’s fingers. His money purse is emptied. The rings and coins are carried to a large chest, already overflowing with these things, and dumped in. The family has more wealth than all but the very richest men in the kingdom, but they see this stuff as merely a worthless residue of the hunt.

Meg looks into the victim’s sacks and bales. They contain flour, potatoes, salt, apples, sheepskins and other goods. After Meg has examined each lot, she gives it to a girl who takes it over to a pile containing similar items. Only the foodstuffs are valued by the family. They are not fond of raw fruits and vegetables, but do eat them.

The body is now ready to be dealt with.

The girls take up large cleavers and knives and sharpen them against rocks, making an ugly rasping sound. Meg watches carefully as they dismember the body, occasionally correcting a girl who cuts in the wrong place, and closely examining the various parts as they are removed. She directs that some parts be placed in the pickling barrels; others are skinned, rubbed with salt, and wrapped in heavy cloth. The limbs are hung from hooks on the wall, next to moldering pieces already there.

The family becomes increasingly impatient. As Meg said, they have had nothing fresh for a long time and have been forced to eat both the pickled and the hung meat. Eager now to get their teeth into raw, resilient flesh, they lick their lips and shift from one foot to the other. The younger children are almost frantic; they crouch together, their eyes wide, their mouths open. When most of the carcass has been dealt with, Sawney Beane picks up a forearm from which the skin and hair have been scraped and tosses it toward them. They scramble for it, growling.

Now Sawney Beane cuts large slabs of meat from the corpse’s shoulder for himself and Meg, then looks around at the others, grinning as they tense expectantly. He nods, and they descend on the carcass. There is a priority: the oldest go first, cutting portions for themselves before surrendering the body to the rest.

Sawney Beane and Meg sit on their platform at the side of the cavern. Alternately using their teeth and their knives, they eat with considerable enjoyment, as do the children grouped below them. Sawney Beane radiates pride. He points out to Meg a small child who eats with particular gusto.

“We have grown,” Sawney Beane says softly. “We are large now. We are strong. We are the hunters. The things fear us. We kill them. It still feels good. The knife goes in. They stink with fear. It is good... it is good.”

“It is not good, Sheriff! No matter what you say, things are not good!”

The leading citizens of the town are again in conference with the Sheriff. If he had seen them coming, he would have hidden in the potato cellar.

“I don’t think that’s fair,” he says, shaking his bulldog head so that his jowls quiver. “Not at all fair. I have caught and executed many villains and lawbreakers. I strike terror in the hearts of all bandits and outlaws.”

“And even more in the hearts of innocent men who have the misfortune to cross your path,” Master Cutter mutters.

“What was that?” The Sheriff scowls.

“I said we are fortunate to have your services,” Cutter says. He thinks: Why do I bother? This man is about as sensitive as a carrot.

“I’m glad you feel that way, Master Cutter. I want only to administer law and justice, no matter what sacrifice it requires on my part.”

“Or on that of your victims,” Cutter mumbles.

“It is not an easy road I walk, but if I say so myself, I have done a damn good job of it.”

“No one is criticizing the job you are doing,” Biggar says with a sigh.

“I should hope not. We execute more criminals here than in any part of the kingdom.”

“You have an enviable record.” Biggar stifles an impulse to throttle the Sheriff. “But as we were saying, the mysterious disappearances continue. Human parts still wash ashore and cause great fear among the people.”

Ashton picks up from Biggar. ‘The countryside offers evidence of this. Fewer travelers appear on the roads. Several inns have been forced to close because of the diminished custom.”

“All this affects our own tradesmen,” adds Charles Decker, keeping to the subject closest to his heart. “Some of them are moving south or west. In truth, the situation is not a good one.”

“I am not responsible for people leaving the town,” the Sheriff manages to get in. “What would you have me do, arrest them as they are going?”

“That’s a good idea. I know of no reason why our own townspeople should be spared your iron hand,” Cutter says in the dry tone that so irritates the Sheriff.

“This is no cause for humor,” Ashton says. “This is a serious problem, Master Cutter.”

“I am aware of that. But between whoever or whatever it is that is responsible for the disappearances, and our esteemed Sheriff who executes anyone found walking on the wrong side of the road—”

“I only uphold the law!” the Sheriff bristles.

“—it is no wonder that the countryside is becoming depopulated.”

“Well, what do you suggest?” Biggar says shortly.

“I have no suggestion—unfortunately.” Cutter pauses, then continues with a shrug. “All I know is that the Sheriff goes out on one of his periodic forays. He returns with some bedraggled bastard in tow, who is supposed to be the greatest outlaw of the age. The poor sod is duly convicted and executed, and then we wait for word of the next disappearance or the next limb to wash up on our beach. And then the routine repeats itself.”

The Sheriff sputters with rage.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! Please.” Ashton attempts to smooth things over. “I am sure that Master Cutter does not mean anything derogatory.”

Cutter gives him a look of such disgust that Ashton almost forgets what he wants to say. It is several seconds before he continues lamely, “Well... it is only because he is concerned about the situation. As we all are. Now, Sheriff, perhaps a new approach is in order. Do you have any ideas?”

The Sheriff tries to look properly judicious. “As a matter of fact I do. I have given a great deal of thought to this problem, and I think that I cannot do anything about it”

Amazement shows on the faces around the table. Cutter gives a barking laugh. “We are in agreement there.”

The Sheriff glares at him, but continues. “I will pursue and persecute any and all outlaws, murderers, and bandits. But I can only deal with men. I do not think that
men
are responsible for this problem.”

“Those that you have already executed will be pleased to learn that,” Cutter says dryly.

“They were all scoundrels anyway and deserving of their punishment!”

Ashton, the conciliator, asks the Sheriff to explain his curious statement.

“I mean, simply,” the Sheriff declares, “that a monster or demon is responsible.”

Cutter laughs at this, and the others join in.

The Sheriff waits for the laughter to settle, then musters up his dignity. “You may laugh, but I am certain that is the answer.”

Ashton shakes his head. “How did you arrive at this... startling... conclusion?”

“For years we have looked for the culprits without success—on all the roads, in all the hills, through every forest. But still people disappear, and parts of them come back from the sea.” The Sheriff raises his hand in an expressive gesture. “The answer is clear. Some sort of sea demon is doing this.”

Cutter laughs again, but he is alone in his amusement.

“Yes.” Biggar nods gravely. “There is a village up north rumored to have suffered greatly from just such a monster.”

“I have heard of this also,” Charles Decker says carefully.

The Sheriff smiles. “I’m glad you see. Now, I am as brave as the next man, and I will do whatever is necessary, but I cannot fight a demon. In short, there is nothing more that I can do.”

A huge smile fills Cutter’s face. “So that’s it. Now I understand the reason behind this absurd theory.”

“Master Cutter, I am not so certain that it is absurd,” Biggar says pompously. “The sea is a vast and mysterious place, full of strange and terrible creatures. It does not seem absurd to me that a demon might be responsible.”

“But what can we do about it if this is true?” Charles Decker asks.

Cutter sneers. “Why not offer up sacrifices like a bunch of half-wit heathens?”

“Cutter, I hardly think this is the time to—”

“No, hear me out. This might be the solution.” Cutter seems to speak now with absolute seriousness. “Instead of executing outlaws, the Sheriff could arrest them and throw them into the sea. The monster would catch them. His appetite would be sated, and he would leave us alone. Rather a tidy solution, I think.”

“There may be merit in what you say,” Decker says.

“It’s a bit unorthodox, but it is possible,” Ashton agrees.

Cutter’s eyes twinkle. “And if we run low on bandits, we might draw lots to determine who is privileged to become the creature’s next dinner. Or perhaps we might select first-born children. The possibilities are limitless.”

There are exclamations from all the other men. “Really!... Ridiculous!... This is not an appropriate subject for humor!”

“Then do not be such asses! Monsters, indeed! God preserve me from fools!” Cutter raises his eyes toward heaven.

“Your attitude is most distressing,” Biggar says with what he hopes is dignity. “If you cannot treat this subject seriously, pray be silent.” He turns to the beaming Sheriff. “You have considered this. What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to be within my jurisdiction.”

“What did they do in this village you spoke of?” Ashton asks Biggar.

“I believe the priest exorcised the demon from the sea.”

“Was it effective?”

“I don’t know. I never heard the outcome.”

“Nor I,” says Decker. “But it’s worth considering. What do you think, Sheriff?”

“I think it is an excellent idea. Aye, excellent! The problem is certainly not within the realm of man. Aye, let’s turn it over to a man of God. Excellent idea!”

Ashton and Biggar agree. Reluctantly, they ask Cutter his opinion.

“I think it will extend the life of the next poor drover or hedger or herder that the Sheriff might come across. Therefore, it is a good plan.”

“Then we are decided,” Biggar says. “We shall form a delegation to approach the Bishop. Master Cutter, will you accompany us?”

“I think not. I will go home and prepare my oldest son for roasting in the event you decide to follow my suggestion. How do you suppose the creature likes his meat? Well done? Or still bloody?”

It is a gray day, with a bleak and ominous sky. The Bishop of Edinburgh, in clerical robes, stands at the edge of a cliff looking out over the sea. The waves, striking the rocks below, splash almost to the top of the cliff. The Sheriff and a number of townspeople observe from a short distance away.

Holding a crucifix and a vial of holy water, the Bishop speaks in Latin. “Demon of the Sea, I command you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Give up your watery abode and cease your depredations upon this community. I speak with the voice of God the Father, who is all powerful and who created the land and the seas and all the creatures therein. Demon, hear me! Return to the deep and foul abyss from whence you came, and trouble man no more. In the name of the Father, I command you to depart. In the name of the Son, I command you to depart. In the name of the Holy Spirit, I command you to depart.”

The sea splashes up from the rocks below, higher and higher. It seems to spit at the Bishop.

At the same time, another ceremony is taking place.

The family stands on the rocky beach not far from the entrance to the cave. Sawney Beane and Meg are off to one side, observing the proceedings with parental pride. The younger members of the family have formed a circle, and each brandishes a human thigh bone like a club. In the center of the circle, one child stands alone—the “victim.” He wears luxurious garments that are much too large for him and many heavy necklaces. Large gold rings adorn his fingers; bags of coins are tied to his belt.

The family dances around the victim, keeping time with a chant :

“Stick... stock... stuck.

You’ve run out of luck.

Kill... kill... kill.

We will eat our fill.”

When they have completed the chant, they step forward, brandishing their clubs as though about to strike. Now the victim takes a handful of gold coins from one of his purses and throws them at his attackers, who respond to this feeble gesture by throwing back their heads and howling derisively in chilling imitation of the great wolf. Then they step back, reform their circle, and dance and chant again. With each performance of the ritual, they move faster and come a little closer to the victim with their clubs. They begin to approach the frenzy of the hunt and the kill. The victim senses that they are straying from the symbolic to the actual, and he grows truly frightened.

The chant becomes a demonic howl, and suddenly the chanters rush toward the victim, their eyes gleaming, their teeth bared, their clubs raised high. The victim screams in terror and falls to the ground, covering his head with his arms, certain that he will be bludgeoned to death.