Flesh

by Philip José Farmer

  “Let’s go to bed,” she whispered.

  “Where? Now?”

  “To my room, silly. And now, of course.”

  “But, Robin, we’ve not been married. Or was I so drunk I didn’t notice?”

  “No, the marriage will take place in the temple next weekend. But what does that have to do with our going to bed?”

  “Nothing,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Other times, other mores. Lead on, Macduff.”

  She giggled and said, “What are you muttering about?”

  “What would you do if I backed out before we got married?”

  “You’re joking, of course?”

  “Of course. But you must realize, Robin darling, that I don’t know much about Deecee customs. I’m just curious.”

  “Why, Id do nothing. But it would be a deadly insult to my father and brother. They’d have to kill you.”

  “I just wanted to know.”

  The following week was a very busy one. In addition to the normal preparations for the wedding ceremony, Churchill had to decide what frat he was going to join. It was unthinkable that Robin would marry a man without a totem.

  “I would suggest,” Whitrow said, “my own totem, the Lion. But it would be better for you to be in a frat directly concerned with your work and one which is blessed by the tutelary spirit of the animal with which you will be dealing.”

  “You mean one of the fish frats or the porpoise frat?”

  “What? No, I do not! I mean the Pig totem. It would not be wise to be breeding hogs and at the same time have as your totem the Lion, a beast which preys on pigs.”

  “But,” Churchill protested, “what do I have to do with pigs?”

  It was Whitrow’s turn to be surprised. “Then you’ve not discussed it with Robin? No wonder. She’s had so little time to talk. Although you two have been alone every night from midnight until morning. But then I suppose you’re too busy tumbling each other. Oh, to be young again! Well, my boy, the situation is this. I inherited some farms from my father, who was also no slouch when it came to making money. I need you to run these farms for me for several reasons.

  “One, I don’t trust the present manager. I think he’s cheating me. Prove to me that he is, and I’ll have him hung.

  “Two, the Karelians have been making raids on my farms, stealing the best of my stock and the good-looking women. They haven’t burned the houses and barns down or left the help to starve, since they don’t want to kill the golden goose. You will stop the raids.

  “Three, I understand that you’re a geneticist. Therefore, you should be able to improve my stock.

  “Four, when I return to the bosom of the Great White Mother, you will inherit some of the farms. The merchant fleet goes to my sons.”

  Churchill rose. “I’ll have to talk to Robin about this.”

  “Do that son. But you’ll find she agrees with me.”

  Whitrow was right. Robin did not want her husband to be a sea-captain. She couldn’t stand being separated from him so frequently.

  Churchill protested that she could go with him on his voyages.

  Robin replied that that wasn’t so. The wives of seamen could not accompany them. They got in the way, they were extra expense, and, worst of all, they brought bad luck to the ship. Even when the ships carried paying women passengers, the ship had to be given an especially strong blessing by a priest in order to avert ill-fortune.

  Churchill retaliated with the argument that, if she loved him, she’d put up with his long absences.

  Robin retorted that if he really loved her, he wouldn’t want to leave her for any length of time. Besides, what about the children? It was well known that children raised in a family where the father was weak or was often absent had a tendency to grow up psychically twisted. Children needed a strong father who was always available for love or discipline.

  Churchill took ten minutes to reflect.

  If he went back on his promise to marry her, he would have to fight Whitrow and his son. Somebody would be killed, and he had a conviction that eventually it would be he. Even if he could stand his ground against her father and brother and killed them, he’d have to fight the next of kin, who were very numerous.

  Of course, he could force Robin to reject him. But he did not want to lose her.

  Finally, he said, “All right, darling. I’ll be a pig-raiser. I only ask one thing. I want to take one last sea voyage before settling down. Can we take a ship to Norfolk and then travel overland to the farms?”

  Robin wiped away her tears, smiled, and kissed him, and said she would indeed be a hardhearted bitch if she denied him that.

  Churchill left to tell his crewmates that they must buy passage on the ship that he and Robin would be taking. He’d arrange it so they had money enough for the tickets. After the ship was out of sight of land, they must seize it. They would then sail across the Atlantic and points east. It was too bad they hadn’t had a chance to learn seamanship. They must learn as they sailed.

  “Won’t your wife be angry?” Yastzhembski said.

  “More than that,” Churchill said. “But if she really loves me, she’ll go with me. If she doesn’t, we’ll put her and the crew ashore before we set out.”

  As it turned out, the crew of the Terra never got a chance to seize the vessel. The second day of their voyage, they were attacked by Karelian pirates.

  11

  When Stagg entered the campus of Vassar, he heard the same song, or variation thereof, he always heard when being presented the keys to the city, or, in this case, an honorary doctorate. Now, however, there was no large crowd to sing the welcome. A choir of freshmen, novitiates, greeted him. The older women, the priestesses and professors, arrayed in scarlet or blue, stood in a half-moon behind the white-clad choir, massed to form a delta. While the novitiates sang, the others nodded in approval at the quality of the performance or pounded the butts of their caducei on the ground in joy at sight of Stagg.

  The Pants-Elf war party took the Vassar College for Oracular Priestesses completely by surprise. Somehow, the raiders had gotten the information that the Sunhero was to attend a private ceremony at midnight on the campus of Vassar. They knew that the people of Poughkeepsie had been warned to stay away. The only male on the college grounds was Stagg, and the priestesses numbered perhaps a hundred.

  The war party burst out of the darkness and into the torchlight. The women were too busy chanting and observing Stagg and a young novitiate to notice the raiders. Not until the Pants-Elf gave a concerted scream and began cutting off the heads of those on the outside circle did the priestesses know they were attacked.

  Stagg had no memory of what happened immediately after that. He raised his head just in time to see a man jump at him and swing the flat of a broadsword at his head.

  He woke to find himself hanging like a slain deer from a pole carried on the shoulders of two men. His arms and legs were numb, the circulation cut off by rawhide strips binding them to the pole. His head felt as if it would burst; it ached not only from the blow but from the excess of blood which had drained into it because of its down-hanging position.

  The moon was up and full. By its bright light he could see the bare legs and chest of the man behind him. Twisting his head, he could make out the gleam of moon on deeply tanned skins of men and on the white robes of a priestess.

  Abruptly, he was lowered heavily on the hard ground.

  “Old Horney is awake,” a deep male voice said.

  “Can’t we cut the big bastard loose so he can walk?” another voice said. “I’m worn out carrying his useless hulk. That pole’s cut an inch-deep groove in my shoulder.”

  “Okay,” a third voice said, one that obviously belonged to a leader. “Cut him loose. But tie his hands behind his back, and tie a noose around his neck. If he tries to make a getaway, we can choke him. And be careful. He looks strong as a bull moose!”

  “Oh, so strong, so superbly built!” a fourth voice said, higher-pitched than the
others. “What a lover-boy!”

  “You trying to make me jealous?” one of the men said. “Because if you are, dove, you’re doing a good job. But don’t push me. I’ll cut out your liver and feed it to your mother.”

  “Don’t you dare to say anything about my mother, you hairy thing!” the high-pitched voice said. “I’m beginning not to like you very much!”

  “In the name of Columbia, our Blessed Mother! Cut out that lovers’ quarreling. I’m sick of it. We’re on a war party, not lounging around a totem hall. Go ahead, cut him loose. But watch him.”

  “I couldn’t possibly watch him,” the high-pitched voice said breathlessly.

  “You trying to put his horns on my forehead?” said the man who had threatened to cut his friend’s liver out. “Try it, and I’ll gouge your face so another man will never look at you again.”

  “For the last time I said shut up!” the leader said, gratingly. “Next time, I slit the throat of the first man who provides the reason. Understood? Okay! Let’s get going. We’ve a hell of a long way to go before we get out of enemy territory, and it won’t be long before they have the bloodhounds on our trail.”

  Stagg was able to follow the conversation fairly well. The language was akin to Deecee, probably closer than German was to Dutch. He had heard it spoken before, in Camden. A group of Pants-Elf prisoners, taken on a raid, had had their throats cut during a ceremony in his honor. Some of them had been very brave men, jibing obscenely at Stagg until the knife severed their windpipes.

  Just now Stagg wished that every man in Pants-Elf had had his throat cut. His legs and arms were beginning to hurt terribly. He wanted to cry out, but he knew that the Pants-Elf would probably knock him out again to keep him quiet. He also did not want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they had hurt him.

  The raiders tied his hands behind his back, placed a noose around his neck and promised to put a knife into his back if he made any suspicious moves. Then they shoved him ahead.

  At first, Stagg was not capable of trotting. After a while, as the blood reached its normal circulation and the pains went away, he was able to keep up with the others. It was a good thing, he thought. Every time he stumbled, he felt the noose tighten around his neck and his breath choked off.

  They were going downhill in sparsely wooded territory. The raiders numbered about forty, strung out in a double file. They carried broadswords, assegais, clubs, bows and arrows. They wore no armor at all, probably to increase their mobility. They did not wear their hair long, like the men of Deecee, but cut it very short and close to the scalp. Their faces presented an odd appearance, since they all had broad dark mustaches. These were the first men with hair on their faces that he had seen since landing on Earth.

  They left the wooded area and approached the bank of the Hudson River. He got a closer and brighter view of the Pants-Elf and saw that the mustaches had been painted or tattooed on.

  Moreover, each of them had tattooed across his bare chest, in large letters, the word Mother.

  There were seven prisoners: himself, five priestesses, and—his heart skipped a beat—Mary Casey. They, too, had their hands tied behind their backs. Stagg tried to edge over to Mary Casey to whisper to her, but the rope around his neck pulled him back.

  The party halted. Some of the men began clearing away a pile of brush. In a short time they exposed a number of large canoes piled in a hollow in the ground. These were carried to the river’s edge.

  The prisoners were forced to step into the canoes, one prisoner to a canoe, and the fleet paddled toward the other shore.

  When the other shore was reached, the canoes were pushed out into the river for the current to carry away. The party set out at a trot through the woods. Occasionally, one of the prisoners stumbled and fell on her knees or face. The Pants-Elf kicked them and threatened to slit their throats on the spot if they didn’t quit behaving like awkward cows.

  Once, Mary Casey fell. A man kicked her in the ribs, and she writhed in agony. Stagg growled with fury and said, “If I ever get loose, Pants-Elf, I’ll tear your arms off and wrap them around your neck!”

  The man laughed and said, “Do that, dearie. It’d be a pleasure to be manhandled by the likes of you.”

  “For mother’s sake, clam up!” the leader snarled. “Is this a war party or a courting?”

  There was little said the rest of the night. They trotted a while and then walked a while. By dawn they had covered many miles, though not so many as the crow flies. The path wound through many hills.

  Just after the eastern horizon began to pale, the leader called a halt. “We’ll hole up and sleep until noon. Then, if the neighborhood looks deserted enough, we’ll push on. We can make better time in the daylight, even if there is more chance of being seen.”

  They found a semicave formed by the overhang of a cliff. Here each man spread his single blanket on the hard earth and stretched out on it. In a few minutes all were asleep, except the four guards posted to keep an eye on the prisoners and any approaching Deecee.

  Stagg was the other exception. He called softly to one of the guards. “Hey, I can’t sleep! I’m hungry!”

  “You’ll eat when the rest of us do,” said the guard. “That is, if you get anything to eat.”

  “You don’t understand,” Stagg said. “I don’t have the normal requirements for food. If I don’t eat every four hours, and twice as much as everybody else, my body starts to eat itself. It’s these horns that do it. They affect my body so I have to eat like a bull moose to keep alive.”

  “I’ll get you some hay,” the guard said, and he snickered.

  Somebody behind Stagg whispered, “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll get you something to eat. I couldn’t let a monstrously handsome man like you starve to death. That would be a waste!”

  There was a stirring behind him as somebody opened a knapsack. The guards looked curiously and then began grinning.

  “Looks like you made a hit with Abner,” said one. “But his buddy, Luke, isn’t going to like it one bit when he wakes up.”

  Another said, “Good thing it’s not Abner who’s hungry. Then he could eat you. Haw, haw!”

  The owner of the whisper walked into Stagg’s view. It was the little man who had openly admired Stagg the previous night. He held a half loaf of bread, two huge slices of ham, and a canteen.

  “Here, sit up, baby. Mother will feed big Horneycums.”

  The guards laughed, though not loudly. Stagg turned red, but he was too hungry to refuse food. He could feel the fire raging within him, flesh devouring flesh.

  The little man was a youth about twenty, short and very slim-hipped. Unlike the other Pants-Elf, his hair had not been cut close to the scalp. It was wheat-brown and very curly. His face would have been called “cute” by a woman, though the painted mustache gave him a bizarre appearance. His large brown eyes were fringed by very long dark lashes. His teeth were so white they looked false, and his tongue was very red, probably because of some gum-like substance he was chewing.

  Stagg hated to owe a debt to a being like Abner, but his mouth seemed to open automatically and gulp the food.

  “There,” Abner said, fondling Stagg’s antlers and then running his long, slim fingers through Stagg’s hair. “Does Horneycums feel better now? What about a big kiss to show big Horneycums’ thanks?”

  “Horneycums will kick hell out of you if you come any closer,” Stagg said.

  Abner’s big eyes became even larger. He stepped back, his lower lip swelling with resentment.

  “Is that any way to treat a buddy after he’s kept you from starving to death?” he asked in a very hurt tone.

  “Admittedly not,” Stagg said. “But I just wanted you to know that if you try what I think you have in mind, you’ll get killed.”

  Abner smiled and fluttered his long lashes. “Oh, you’ll get over that absurd prejudice, baby. Besides, I’ve heard that you horned men are oversexed and once you’re aroused you stop for nothing. What’re you g
oing to do if there are no women available?”

  His lip curled in a sneer when he spoke of women. “Women” was a free translation of the word he used, a word that in Stagg’s time had been used in a very derogatory, anatomical sense. Later, Stagg found that the Pants-Elf males always used that word among themselves, though in the presence of their females, they referred to them as “angels.”

  “Let the future take care of itself,” Stagg said, and he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  It seemed to him only a minute later when he was awakened, but the sun was at its zenith. He blinked and sat up and looked around for Mary Casey. She had her hands untied, and was eating, while a man with a sword stood guard beside her.

  The leader’s name was Raf. He was a big man with broad shoulders and slim waistline and a strikingly handsome but cold face and blond hair. His blue eyes were very pale and very cold.

  “That Mary Casey tells me you aren’t a Deecee,” he said. “She says you came down from the skies in a fiery metal ship, and that you left Earth over eight hundred years ago to explore the stars. Is she a liar?”

  Stagg outlined his story, watching Raf closely while he told it. He was hoping that Raf would decide not to give him the usual treatment a Pants-Elf gave a Deecee who was in his power.

  “Say, you’re quite a dish,” Raf enthusiastically said, though his pale blue eyes were as icy as before. “And those horns are crazy. They give you a real masculine look. I hear that when you Horned Kings are in heat, you’ve the staying power of fifty bucks.”

  “That is a well-known fact,” Stagg replied smoothly. “What Id like to know is, what’s going to happen to us?”

  “We’ll decide that after we get out of Deecee territory and get across the Delaware River. We’ve two days’ hard marching ahead of us, though we’ll be fairly safe once we get over the Shawangunk Mountains. Beyond the Shawangunk is a noman’s land, where the only people we’ll meet are raiding parties, friendly or hostile.”

  “What about untying me?” Stagg said. “I can’t go back to Deecee, and Id just as soon throw in my lot with you.”