The Flesh Eaters (22 page)

“But my other responsibilities—”

“—are nothing to your monarch’s wishes. You will accompany us. I trust that you are pleased to do so.”

“Oh, aye, Your Majesty. It is a dream come true.” The Sheriff sounds as if he had been told that he had contracted the plague.

In the cave, the family is bewildered, uneasy. The rules by which they live have been broken—they have allowed a victim to survive; they have been discovered.

The younger ones squabble about how they should have attacked and killed even though they were outnumbered. They discuss what to do now—do they leave? do they stay? do they hunt? Arguing, they curse and scream, not so much in real anger, but to disguise their fear.

Only Sawney Beane is calm. Perhaps because he is the one who made the rules, they are not as important for him as they are for the others. Or perhaps Sawney Beane is less affected by things outside himself; the others are products of the tribe, but he is its creator. He sits silently, listening as the discussion moves back and forth. Only when Second Hunter urges that the family flee the cave, does Sawney Beane speak.

“Nothing. We do nothing. They cannot find us. They have seen us, but they do not know where we are. No one leaves the cave. No one moves. They cannot find us. We are safe.”

“I hope so,” mutters one of the older boys.

“Do not hope,” Sawney Beane speaks with angry contempt. “Hope is for the weak. We are strong. We are the hunters. Wolves are not attacked by the sheep. The sheep are afraid of us and we eat their hearts.” He leaps at the boy, knocks him down, and presses the blade of his knife against the boy’s throat.

“Do I smell fear?” he whispers. “I am the gray wolf of the forest. Do I smell fear?”

With a great effort, the boy forces himself to relax. Sawney Beane laughs and releases him.

“Do not worry. We will be all right. Think of what we have done. How can they come after us? Who was my father? Who was my father?”

One of the small grandchildren speaks up proudly. “The gray wolf of the forest.”

“Who am I?” Sawney Beane asks.

More voices respond. “The gray wolf of the forest!”

“Who are you?”

“We are the hunters,” the voices chorus.

“That is right. You are the hunters.” Sawney Beane slowly begins the chant.

“Stick... stock... stuck.

You’ve run out of luck.

Kill... kill... kill.

We will eat our fill.”

Still chanting, Sawney Beane goes to each member of the family, one after another. Staring intently into each pair of eyes, he passes on his strength and certainty, willing them all to join in the chant. As they do, the tempo increases. Uneasiness vanishes as they are swept up in the comforting ritual of the chant. They are the hunters.

The family sits in a small, dim circle of candlelight in the huge darkness of the cave. The chant drones on, a pulsing, indistinct rhythm. The candles gutter and go out. The mouth of the cave is a slit that admits a trace of moonlight. The sea beats against the shore. Clouds eclipse the moon. A night bird shrieks.

The blare of a trumpet signals that all is ready. Word of the cannibal family has spread quickly, and a large number of townspeople have gathered at the gate of the castle to witness the departure of the army.

Four hundred men in full battle dress, wearing the King’s colors, are in formation outside the castle walls. With them are trumpeters, banner carriers and assorted pages, runners, and attendants. Off to one side are wagons and pack horses laden with supplies for the expedition. The Master of the King’s Hounds is here too, struggling to control the wolfhounds and giant mastiffs.

Aird is with the mounted officers in front of the massed soldiers; he will act as guide for the party. The Bishop and the Sheriff ride near him, both slumping miserably in their saddles.

The King, on a magnificent white stallion, inspects the army, well aware that he presents a most regal image. He is quite satisfied with the way things are going, and the evident unhappiness of the Bishop and the Sheriff does nothing to spoil his pleasure. When he reaches his place at the head of the procession he surveys the crowd solemnly for a moment, then speaks.

“You have all heard about the foul and terrible creatures that inhabit the Coast Road, preying upon innocent travelers. Man-eaters—devouring their poor victims like beasts of the forest! It is our holy duty to defend our society against such abominations. And so this army will march into the very center of the darkness, to seek out and destroy the nest of vipers in our fair garden...”

Ashton is enjoying the spectacle as much as anyone in the crowd. Cutter, who stands next to him, tends to spoil things like this, but he assumes that even Cutter must be impressed now.

“This is more like it!” he whispers. “I’m confident that the King will solve our problem. What do you think of this latest story?”

“We have had outlaws, highwaymen, sea monsters, dragons, innkeepers, witches, and necromancers. A cannibal family should be right at home in such company,” Cutter says in his rasping voice.

Ashton is startled. “Then you think this is merely another story without substance? Surely the King would not be involved unless it were otherwise.”

Cutter shrugs. “I no longer have opinions on the subject. They tell us that the Greeks lived during the Golden Age. If that is so, this must be the age of horse manure. At least we have the spokesman for such an age.”

Ashton looks with horror at him, then edges slowly away. Has Cutter become a dangerous lunatic? Ashton is so upset that he misses all but the conclusion of the King’s oration.

“... and so with your prayers and good wishes, we venture forth. We will not return until these fiends—these monsters! these man-eaters!—have been forever vanquished. This is my solemn promise!”

The crowd cheers. The Sheriff and the Bishop look, if possible, even more distressed.

The trumpeters blow an invigorating fanfare. With tremendous dignity, the King leads the army down the road.

Aird has led the army to the place where the attack on Tom and his wife occurred. The King stands with him, along with a Captain, the Sheriff, and the Bishop.

The Sheriff, trying to stifle his uneasiness, looks around with a skeptical expression. “I do not think there is anything here. We should move on and search elsewhere.”

The King laughs contemptuously. “If a family of cannibals has been around here for two decades, it is unlikely that they have set up housekeeping by the roadside. One would not expect to find them standing around sharpening their teeth. Captain, have your men divide into parties and search the woods.” The Captain departs, accompanied by Aird.

“Bishop, I think that perhaps some refreshment is in order,” says the King.

“A most welcome suggestion, my lord.”

The Sheriff, hoping to be included in the invitation, clears his throat several times. At last the King notices him.

“Ah, Sheriff, I’m sorry. I forgot all about you.”

The Sheriff, relieved, signifies that it is of no consequence. This is more like it, he thinks. A spot of food from the royal stores is just what he needs to settle his stomach.

“I think your place is with the search party, Sheriff. You are dismissed.”

The King goes off with the Bishop. The Sheriff stares after them, his stomach churning, until the King stops and looks back. The Sheriff runs after the soldiers.

The King and the Bishop are in a small pavilion, seated on camp stools. Between them is a table on which lie the remains of a feast of cold roast meat, fowl, bread, fruit, and several kinds of sweets.

The Captain, Aird, and the Sheriff enter. The Captain reports that the woods have been searched for a considerable distance, but that nothing has been discovered, nor were there any signs that they could follow.

“Just what I predicted,” the Sheriff says, eyeing the remains of the meal. “This is obviously a wild-goose chase and we should look somewhere else. No one would inhabit this Godforsaken place.”

The King thinks of a cutting reply to this inanity, but it would be like using his fine sword to dig potatoes.

Aird steps forward with a suggestion. “When we came upon them, many of them ran into the woods on the sea side of the road. Perhaps we should look down there.”

“That’s ridiculous,” the Sheriff says petulantly. “There’s just a cliff that runs down to the sea. There is hardly even any beach down there. An absolute waste of time.”

“We have a great deal of time,” the King says, “and there is merit to that suggestion. Captain, have your men form up on the beach. We will join them there. Some exercise will be welcome after that meal, eh Bishop?”

“Whatever you say, my lord,” the Bishop says unhappily, thinking that a nice nap would be far more congenial.

Half an hour later, the army moves along the narrow beach, many of the men looking up to study the rocky hillside. The King and the Captain walk together, engaged in conversation of a military nature. The Sheriff and the Bishop are lost in their own thoughts. The Bishop’s feet hurt, and the Sheriff is muttering under his breath.
      

A young soldier, very excited, runs up to the King, holding out a piece of cloth that he has found caught on a thorn bush. The Sheriff, coming up, remarks sourly that the cloth could mean almost anything. The King asks if any tracks have been found, and the young soldier says that the ground is too rocky. Nevertheless, the search goes on now with renewed enthusiasm.

A considerable distance along the beach is covered, but no new traces are found. The King begins to wonder if the Sheriff was right in thinking that no one could live down here. Perhaps the creatures, after being discovered, have cleared off. He considers calling off the search.

On the beach, a number of soldiers walk by the entrance to the cave; they see it, but give it no importance. It is narrow, dark, filled with water—so bleak looking that they do not consider searching whatever lies within. But minutes later the King, overhearing a soldier mention the opening, orders that the cave in the cliff face be considered further.

The Sheriff is opposed to anything that will prolong the party’s presence in this cold and gloomy area. “Nothing could be in there! We’re looking for men, not moles or river rats, and men couldn’t live in a place like that! Why, we hardly even noticed the opening.”

The King considers this and sighs. “Perhaps you’re right—nothing could live in that hole. Captain, I think we’d better return to the road and continue the search up there.”

“Very well, Your Majesty.”

“What’s the matter with those dogs?” the King says suddenly.

Several of the dogs are barking furiously, straining hard on their leashes toward the cave.

“I don’t know,” the Captain says. “They seem to smell something.”

“Probably just some animal that lives in there,” the Sheriff puts in hastily.

The dogs break free of the handler and go rushing into the cave. The sounds of their barking and splashing grow fainter, then disappear entirely. All eyes are fixed on the cave entrance. Soon the barking and splashing are heard again, and the dogs come rushing out of the cave, frolicking in high spirits. They stop, look around—and then, for no good reason at all, run directly to the Sheriff.

The Sheriff is afraid of dogs, especially big, ugly ones that are soaking wet. He runs, cursing, but the dogs chase playfully after him, barking and leaping. They put their wet forepaws on his chest and shoulders, and he falls to the ground. He cries for help, certain he will be torn limb from limb by the savage brutes, but the dogs merely shake themselves off. The Sheriff is drenched in the process, and the laughter of the King and his soldiers does not lessen his discomfort.

One of the dogs licks at the Sheriff’s face with an enormous rough tongue, causing him to whimper and close his eyes. Another dog carefully places something he has been carrying on the Sheriff’s chest as an offering of friendship. The dogs then go back to their handler, but still the fallen man does not move.

“They have gone, Sheriff,” the King calls. “They must think you are a friend. One of them even brought you something.”

“Just some piece of garbage,” the Sheriff says, not looking at it.

Then he looks, and sees that what is on his chest is a horribly decayed human hand. With a shriek of terror he heaves it away.

The others examine the grim object lying on the rocky beach. They are no longer laughing; their faces are solemn, dismayed.

“Perhaps there is something in that cave after all,” the King says quietly. He orders that candles and torches be brought.

The almost total darkness is relieved only by the halos of light formed by the candles and torches. The men move cautiously, unable to see where they are going, fearful of what they will find. The cold, scummy water chills their feet,
the fetid atmosphere affects their breathing. There are splashing sounds and occasionally someone speaks, more to reassure himself than anything else.

“How much farther can this go on?”