The Flesh Eaters Read online

  Sawney Beane starts to run from the square, then stops and looks back, trying to recapture the events he has seen. After a moment, he turns and walks down High Street. The blacksmith’s shop is where Sawney Beane lives and works. It is a large space that is also the main living area of the house. The walls are rough planks of smoke-blackened wood, the cracks filled with mud and bits of rag. The floor is hard-tramped dirt strewn with straw. To one side, there is a crude forge and a workbench. Tools are hung on one wall and scattered everywhere about. In a back corner is the pile of straw which is Sawney Beane’s bed. Large double doors lead to the back of the house and a smaller door opens on High Street.

  Sawney Beane is piling logs against the wall. He works lethargically, not paying attention to what he is doing. Images from the spectacle in the square still flash behind his eyes, renewing the sensations he felt as he watched.

  The street door opens, and the blacksmith enters. Sawney Beane’s master is a large, powerful man with a barrel chest and massive stomach. His red face, stippled with broken veins in the nose and cheeks, gives evidence of an overfondness for drink.

  The Master is smiling as he enters, but at the sight of Sawney Beane his face darkens. Before he has even shut the door, he is yelling across the room.

  “So there you are, Sawney Beane, you worthless piece of filth! You mongrel bastard! You goat turd! Where the hell have you been?” He does not wait for a reply. “Watching the doings in the square, no doubt. There was work for you to do here! You aren’t worth, the food I give you, you lazy son of a constipated bitch! One of these days you’re going to find yourself the main attraction in Market Square...” He crosses the room and bends until his face is very close to Sawney Beane’s. “What do you have to say? Nothing, I suppose.”

  Sawney Beane continues to work, slowly, his face expressionless. At this lack of response, the Master grows even angrier.

  “No, you never say anything! Because you’re stupid and lazy and a crawling coward, Sawney Beane. You’d never dare, fight back because you know I’d destroy you. Get out of the way!” He pushes Sawney Beane to the ground and stands over him, hoping he will fight, but there is no resistance. He turns away in contempt. “Hah! You can’t even pile wood. Look at that.” With a mighty kick, he knocks over the woodpile. “Do it again, and do it right or you’ll get no food today.” He strides to the center of the room. “Meg! Meg! Come here right away!” There is no response. “Meg! Girl, you’d better get in here when I call!”

  Meg appears from the interior of the house, moving slowly, her face sullen. She is about fourteen years old, and though there is still some adolescent pudginess, her body is fully developed. Her dress is sack-like and of a rough material, but it is obvious that she is wearing nothing underneath it.

  Meg stands looking at her father, one hip thrown out, her head tilted and an expression of bored hostility on her face. “What do you want?” She shakes her long, sandy-brown hair away from her eyes.

  “I want you to come when I call you. What have you been doing?”

  “I been working,” Meg says, after an irritating delay.

  “Doing what?”

  “Working.”

  “Sitting on your fat ass next to the fire! Look at that.” The Master points to the table covered with dirty dishes. “Those have been there two days!” He sweeps the dishes to the floor with a clatter. “Clean them and then go out to the barn and feed the horse.”

  At last, Meg shows some emotion. “What do you think I am? I’m not your slave.”

  “I’m your father, and you’ll do what I tell you or else you’ll get a beating.” The Master takes a step toward her, then reconsiders. “You are a lazy slut, and you’d better change your ways, girl, or you’ll regret it. Now get to work!” He goes out the front door, into High Street.

  For a moment, Meg stands motionless, staring after him. Sawney Beane watches the girl, but she pays no attention to him.

  Meg begins to pick up the fallen dishes. When she bends, the top of her dress falls forward, revealing her full, dark-nippled breasts. She kneels, and her dress clings tightly to the curve of her buttocks. Sawney Beane feels the same warmth in his groin that he experienced earlier in the square.

  Meg dumps the dishes back on the table, then goes through the back door to the barn behind the smithy. Sawney Beane’s eyes follow her.

  The barn is a tumbledown affair that provides only marginal shelter for the one horse that is kept there. Meg slowly picks up handfuls of hay from a large pile and tosses them into the horse’s stall. Her blank expression gives no indication of her thoughts.

  Sawney Beane stands in the entrance to the barn. Meg’s back is turned and she does not see him. He watches her for a while. Each time she bends over, her dress rides high up her legs, revealing most of her firm, fleshly thighs.

  Sawney Beane walks quietly across the barn and stands next to her. Bending, she sees his feet, but is not startled. She straightens up and faces him. They stare at each other without speaking. Sawney Beane’s eyes narrow. Meg’s eyes are quizzical.

  He puts his hands firmly on her shoulders and presses her down into the pile of hay. She is a little taller and heavier than he is, but his thin frame possesses a wiry strength. He drops to his knees between her legs, keeping his eyes locked with hers. Then he grabs the bottom of her dress and pulls it up over her breasts, which are dappled with pale freckles. He opens the codpiece of his breeches, presses himself against her, and forces a quick entrance. Meg does not struggle, nor does she respond. Her face remains expressionless as Sawney Beane moves on top of her.

  It is over quickly. Sawney Beane stands, adjusts his codpiece, and leaves the barn without looking back. Meg lies still for a moment, then gets up and resumes her work, as though nothing at all had occurred. This has been, however, her first sexual experience.

  That evening, Sawney Beane sits on his pile of straw in the corner of the smithy, staring with his usual dull expression at the glowing embers in the forge.

  Meg enters from the house carrying a bowl of porridge. She too wears her usual sullen mask. She holds the bowl out to Sawney Beane. At first he does not notice. She gestures again with the bowl, and this time he takes it. They do not look at one another. There is no coyness or embarrassment in this, just a simple lack of awareness. Their encounter in the barn has never happened. Meg goes back into the house.

  The porridge is lumpy, gray in color, but Sawney Beane eats greedily, shoveling the stuff into his mouth with a filthy hand. He scrapes the bowl clean, licks his fingers and then the bowl.

  Now he settles down on his straw to sleep. After a moment, a two-inch cockroach crawls out of the straw and begins to climb his arm. When it reaches his elbow, he makes a grab and catches it. He watches the insect squirm between his thumb and forefinger, then snaps it in half with a loud crack. He smiles, settles again into the straw, and closes his eyes.

  Just as he is drifting into sleep, an image enters his mind. It may be fantasy or it may be the only memory he possesses of a childhood about which he has no conscious recollection. The image gives him a feeling of pleasure; it often accompanies his entrance into sleep.

  A forest, during the winter. Snow weighs down the branches of the trees and lies in deep drifts on the ground. A thick mist is everywhere. A man and a boy are hiding behind a large tree. All is very still. Out of the mist, walking delicately through the snow, a big stag appears. He sniffs the air, then freezes. Suddenly he starts to run, but before the stag can get up speed, a giant wolf springs from the trees and leaps onto his back. The wolf tears open his throat. The stag falls; the snow is stained red. Behind their tree, the man whispers to the boy, “Look, Sawney, look. That’s the gray wolf of the forest. He’s the greatest hunter there is. Look. Look at him.”

  As the wolfs triumphant howl echoes through the forest, Sawney Beane sinks into darker, deeper dreams.

  In front of the smithy, Sawney Beane is half-heartedly sweeping rubbish into High Street. Close by, a gro
up of boys is playing a game of catch with a lopsided leather ball. They are boisterous and happy, calling loudly for the ball and laughing when someone makes a mistake.

  Sawney Beane looks at the children without comprehension. He has no interest in their game; it is just another of the inexplicable, alien things with which he is surrounded. The ball rolls toward him, stopping at his feet, and he picks it up. The boys gesture that he should throw it back, but he only stares at them. An older boy walks over and puts his hands out for the ball. His expression still blank, Sawney Beane tucks the ball under his own arm. The other boys crowd around, but he does not seem to notice them, not even the one who kneels behind him. A boy hits Sawney Beane’s shoulders, pushing him back over the kneeling one and into the mud. The other boys swarm on top of their victim, punching and kicking. They take their ball and run down the road, laughing.

  Sawney Beane stands and looks after them, displaying no reaction to his beating.

  A very small boy walks by, eating a large piece of bread. After a quick look around to see if anyone is watching, Sawney Beane grabs the bread. The child is about to cry out, but Sawney Beane takes him by the throat and fixes him with an intense, piercing gaze. The eyes, more than the hand at his throat, terrify the child and he swallows his scream. Sawney Beane releases the boy and watches him run away. As he chews the bread, a small smile twists his mouth.

  In one of the foul alleyways that run off Market Square, Sawney Beane sits with his back against a damp stone wall. Close to his hand is an ant hole; hundreds of ants scurry back and forth. Their activity is purposeful and orderly, designed to promote the harmony of the colony, but Sawney Beane sees only black specks in random motion.

  The bells of the cathedral chime, calling the town to mass. From all directions people move across the square, climb the steps, and vanish into the dark obscurity of the cathedral. This activity has no more significance for Sawney Beane than does that of the ants. He does not know what these people are doing or why, and he has no more knowledge of the cathedral’s interior than of the ant colony’s tunnels.

  When the last person has entered the cathedral, Sawney Beane leaves the alley and climbs the steps. During the mass, he stands at the cathedral door, staring into the gloom. The ceremony has no meaning for him; the solemnity of the ritual makes no impression. It is just another one of the things that they do.

  The service concludes, and Sawney Beane runs from the doorway. He waits until everyone has gone, then returns and enters the cathedral.

  His eyes become accustomed to the dimness and he begins to see clearly. The immense height of the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling, the hugeness of the enclosed space, unlike anything he has ever experienced, oppresses him. The hundreds of candles create shadows that seem to stretch upward forever. His impulse is to flee, but he masters it.

  He walks slowly forward, passes an alcove in the wall, and is startled to see a large figure staring down at him, a hand outstretched. He is about to run, thinking he has been discovered, but looks more closely and sees that the figure is only wood and plaster and paint. Puzzled, he moves on. He passes several other figures, barely glancing at them, and then one holds his attention. It is St. Sebastian, life-size, carved and painted in exceptionally realistic detail. The saint’s arms are held out; there is suffering on his face. The almost naked body is pierced with arrows and blood runs from the wounds, forming a red network down the entire figure. The drops of blood seem to have substance; they glisten in the candlelight.

  Sawney Beane is transfixed, by this image of suffering and torture. His mouth falls open, his tongue moistens his lips, his eyes brighten.

  He raises his hand and his fingers touch a red puncture, but instead of soft flesh and warm blood, he feels only unyielding wood and cold enamel. He looks at his fingertips, smells them. Anticipating a pleasurable stimulus, he is confused when there is nothing.

  Suddenly, he hears footsteps. He turns and runs down the center aisle and out of the cathedral, startling an approaching priest. The priest crosses himself hastily to ward off the vague feeling that something evil has passed close by.

  Behind the smithy, the Master and Sawney Beane are at work. The Master is pounding an iron bar on an anvil, accompanying each blow with a curse. Sawney Beane is hauling buckets of water from the well to a large barrel. He pays little heed to what he is doing, and water splashes constantly from the bucket. Deep puddles cover most of the yard.

  With each spill, the Master curses a little louder and brings his hammer down a little harder. It has not been a good day. One of the wealthier merchants of the town has snubbed him in the street. Another merchant has refused to sell him necessary supplies without payment in advance. His daughter has again been insolent, has refused to acknowledge his superiority. And now he has to watch that moron Sawney Beane create a swamp in his backyard.

  A horse and rider enter the yard, the horse limping slightly. The rider is an extremely fat man but, from the look of his clothes, of considerable wealth. He is clad in the finest material, covered with rich embroidery; he wears a magnificent fur cloak.

  “Good day to you, your lordship,” the Master says in his most deferential manner. “Can I be of service?”

  The fat man wrinkles his nose in distaste for the filth and disorder in the yard. “I trust so, Master Smith. I did not come here for the pleasant view your yard provides, or for the dubious pleasure of your company, but because my horse has thrown a shoe.”

  Your horse should have thrown more than that carrying a tub of guts like you around, the Master thinks, but he smiles and turns to get his tools.

  The nobleman calls him back. “Would you have your man give me a hand so that I may dismount—that’s my good fellow.”

  “Sawney Beane, you lazy cur!” the Master shouts. “Get over here and give his lordship a hand.” Sawney Beane only stares at him. “You fool! Get over here and help the gentleman.”

  Sawney Beane shambles over to the horse. He stands in a large puddle, the muddy water well above his ankles.

  “Well, go on, you fool! Put your hands up. Careful! Hold your hands steady.”

  Sawney Beane cups his hands to hold the rider’s foot as he dismounts. But as the great bulk settles, he slips in the mud and lets go of the foot. The fat man falls flat on his back in the puddle, where he rolls from side to side, sputtering like a beached walrus.

  The Master’s face turns several shades of purple. “Your lordship! Sawney Beane! You half-brained mooncalf, you piece of dog shit. Look what you’ve done! I’ll give you a beating you’ll never forget!”

  The Master grabs his hammer and heaves it with all his force as Sawney Beane scampers away. The hammer misses its target and continues through the open door of the barn, where it strikes the Master’s own horse in the head, instantly killing it.

  “Damn him!” the Master shouts. “I’ll make him wish he’d never been born, don’t you worry about that!”

  Still on his back in the mud, the fat man speaks coldly. “You had best worry about how you will pay for the damage you have done. My bailiff will see you shortly, you witless oaf! Now help me to my feet.”

  With considerable effort, groveling and blustering, the Master succeeds in extricating the nobleman from the mud.

  “I’m terribly sorry, your lordship. That blackguard will pay for this, you just wait! Now, I’ll just get to your horse.”

  “I’d rather my horse limped all the way to London than spend an additional moment here. You have done enough for one day!”

  The Master watches the fat man lead his horse away, then bellows a tremendous series of curses. In a blind rage, he seizes the anvil, raises it overhead, and throws it across the yard. Instantly, he regrets his action, but it is too late. The anvil sails through the air, smashes through the boards covering the well, splashes into the water, and sinks to the bottom.

  “Look what you’ve done now, Sawney Beane!” the Master yells. “Come back here! Come back!”

  Sawney Beane is
sitting behind the barn on a pile of rubbish. If he hears his name being called, his face gives no indication of it. He is concentrating on a small gray mouse that he has captured. He lets the mouse run up his arm several times. He is about to let it go when a cat appears around the corner of the barn.

  It is an old ginger torn who bears the scars of many battles. One eye and half an ear—and large patches of fur—are gone, but he is still the master of his territory. Sawney Beane clicks his tongue to call the cat, who approaches slowly. Sawney Beane places the mouse between the cat’s front paws.

  He watches intently as the cat toys with the mouse, letting it almost get away, catching it again, cuffing it about until eventually the mouse’s legs are broken. At last the cat devours the mouse, head first, chewing it with his back teeth as the tail hangs from his mouth.

  Sawney Beane is fascinated by the game and the inevitable kill. He responds to the display of instinct. He sees the wolf bringing down the stag; he senses other things as well, things that are not quite clear to him, but that feel good. His expression is that of someone lost in a pleasant dream.

  II

  It is evening in the smithy, two days later. Sawney Beane is seated in his corner, eating from his bowl of porridge. Across the room, the Master is seated at the table with Andrews, a neighbor. Andrews is very different physically from the huge, crude blacksmith. As a youth he was slender, but the years have added a girdle of fat to his waist and hips. Andrews has very full lips, a gap-toothed smile, and bulging, watery eyes. He is something of a weakling, and hopes that keeping company with the hearty blacksmith will make others think him the same sort.