The Totems of Abydos
Page 47
Its pupils, like vertical slits, regarded him.
No, thought Brenner, it is not dead.
Suddenly the Pons behind Brenner, those who had conducted him hither, and those who had opened the various doors, and had then followed him, began to chant:
We will kill.
We will dread.
We will fear.
We will kill.
We will mourn.
We will love.
We will love.
This chant was then taken up by the other Pons. This chant was not done loudly, rather, almost in whispers. It was soft, repetitious, insistent.
Brenner took a step down the aisle toward the platform. He grasped the pointed stick he had brought with him. The stick seemed futile to him. He did not know that he could drive it to the heart of such a beast. He might not be able to reach the heart. He was not even certain of the location of the heart of such an animal.
“We will kill, we will kill,” whispered Pons.
“We will mourn, we will love,” whispered others.
This is madness, thought Brenner. I cannot kill this thing. It is too large. It is too terrible. In the arenas of Megara, Rodriguez had told him that a hundred men with spears were pitted against one such beast.
But it must be killed. It had tasted flesh.
It was old. Perhaps that was why it had seized Rodriguez. It could not find fleeter game.
It must be killed, Brenner thought.
“We will kill, we will kill,” whispered Pons.
“We will mourn, we will love,” whispered others.
What is it doing here, Brenner asked himself. Why is it here? Why is it just sitting there?
He approached the beast more closely. He was now some seven yards from it.
“We will kill, we will kill,” whispered Pons.
“We will mourn, we will love,” whispered others.
How did it get in here, Brenner asked himself. How did it find its way in? Why doesn’t it move?
Then, at the foot of the platform, on the floor, where he had not seen it before, his attention so taken with the torches, the Pons, the beast, he saw some objects, gathered together.
Brenner cried out with sorrow.
They were limbs, broken and torn, and a part of a torso, an arm here, a foot there.
The floor was dark with stains beneath them.
Brenner, tears in his eyes, looked up with fury at the beast.
The Pons had doubtless done the best they could. How they had managed to collect, and at what risk, even so many of the remains was remarkable. There was no mistaking parts of the body of his friend, those that were here. He recognized a scar on an arm, the watch on a wrist. The head was gone.
The Pons, in their love, and loyalty, had gathered these things together, and brought them here, and, to the extent that they were capable of such things, had put them here, in state. But above them, on its platform, like a god, was the beast, the totem itself.
“Kill, kill,” whispered the Pons.
Of course, thought Brenner. They cannot harm the totem themselves, even if they had the capability of doing so. It is the totem. It is I who must do this. But who better than I, whose friend has been taken from him by this fiend? Who else would I, in suitable vengeance, permit to perform this act? But how can I kill such a thing?
“I hate you!” cried Brenner, in tears, at the beast.
It looked down upon him, but did not move.
It could leave this place, thought Brenner. There is nothing, really, to hold it here. It could kill us all, breaking us with the blows of its paws, tearing us in two with those jaws.
Brenner looked at the makeshift spear, the pointed stick, he held. A hundred men, Rodriguez had told him, were pitted against such beasts in the arenas of Megara.
He would have to climb to the platform, even to reach the beast.
Then, from somewhere behind him, Brenner heard the voice of a Pon:
We love you, father.
Forgive us, father, for what we will do.
This was answered, or followed, by another Pon:
We will be contrite!
Show us forbearance!
Be kind to us!
Cherish us!
Protect us!
We will refrain from touching the soft ones!
We beg your forgiveness, father, for what we will do.
A third voice then called out:
Forgive us, father.
Love us!
Cherish us!
Protect us!
After a time another voice, high-pitched, called out:
Oh, I could get me in.
I could lay them waste.
But I will not do so,
for they are my children.
I am the father.
Brenner then looked down, to his right. The git keeper was there. Gently, the git keeper removed the makeshift spear from Brenner’s hands. Then he turned about and, from a pillow, carried by another Pon, removed the shining brass tube. It had been opened. The rifle was freed. He put it in Brenner’s hands. Brenner looked down at it, stunned. The weapon was ready. He was sure of it. He could even see the particular alignment of switches. He was sure, as he now examined it, that they were what he had once seen when Rodriguez had armed the rifle. Somehow, he was sure they would be. The safety, too, doubtless, had been released. Brenner slid back the bolt a little, looking in the breach, then let the bolt move back, automatically. One of the charges, cylinderlike, was in place, its red-capped end forward. The trigger, within its guard, was in evidence, the guard having descended from the barrel. At this distance, standing below the platform, looking up, Brenner could not miss.
The beast was cleaning itself, licking at the fur on its left shoulder.
Brenner grasped the weapon firmly.
The beast looked down at Brenner. It stopped grooming itself.
Brenner lifted the weapon.
The beast’s long tail lashed a little, moving back and forth, and then was still.
Thanks to the gods of ten worlds, thought Brenner, echoing a phrase of Rodriguez’, that it does not understand this thing, that it does not understand what it can do, that it does not know the danger in which it stands.
With this, I can kill it.
He steadied the weapon, aiming it carefully upward, at the center of the beast’s chest.
The beast then, oddly, as it sat there, not really moving much, lifted, and straightened, its body. In that moment it seemed quite vital. It now held its body as might have an animal in its youth or prime. It did not seem old then. It was almost as though it has pride, thought Brenner.
Then he pressed the trigger.
The path from the muzzle of the weapon to its target was quite short, only a few feet.
A sudden, black, startling, seared, cavelike hole appeared, as if by magic, in the beast’s chest. This hole seemed ringed in the first instant in a blastlike blaze of fire and light, roaring, incandescent, and torrential. Rocks were gouged out of the ceiling, and showered down behind the platform.
Brenner looked up at the beast. It had not yet fallen. It seemed very still. It was slumped down a bit but, on the whole, retained its sitting position. Perhaps it does not even know, or understand, that it has been hit, thought Brenner. The strike had been made quickly, in a sudden, brief stream of fire, almost a flash of light. It may not understand what has occurred, thought Brenner. It seemed to sit there, the hole smoking, the hair about it burnt away, in its chest. The opening had been made so quickly, so cleanly, that it seemed possible, for a wild instant, to Brenner, that the charge, in its heat, might have cauterized the very wound it made. But then, a moment later, its fur was drenched with blood.
Fall, die, die, thought Brenner. Die, he thought, die!
For a moment he was afraid of it, that it might move toward him. Even in its moments of death such a thing could be terrible.
But it did not move toward him.
It was no longer dangerous.
The beast lowered its head. It half rose. Its legs seemed uncertain beneath it.
It must fall, thought Brenner. It must die! Are you so hard to kill, mighty beast? Are you so unwilling to die? Do you cling to life with such force, with such tenacity?
Blood then came from about the jaws of the beast. It licked it, running its tongue about its jaws.
Its belly was now almost on the platform.
It looked at Brenner.
“Who are you?” suddenly cried Brenner. “What are you?”
“I am the father,” it said.
“He is dead!” squealed a Pon.
“He is dead! He is dead!” cried others.
Suddenly, then, from all about Brenner, there were howls, and leapings about, and shrieks of glee. The Pons, in their white robes, and those in the gray robes, were suddenly intermixed, jostling one another, striking and pulling at one another. Yes, thought Brenner, those raucous, pleased sounds, they must be laughter, or triumph. But how chilling, how maniacal, now seemed what might once have been a mere ventilation of emotion or tension. Brenner saw several Pons tearing off their robes. Some Pons were leaping about now, naked, making menacing sounds, presumably imitative of those of the totem beast. Others were making such sounds, but were moving about, too, in a sort of dance, imitating the movements of the totem beast, its prowlings, it climbings, its charges, even its stretchings and yawns. Many others, dancing about, whirling in their robes, in frenzy, brandished the tiny, polished, wicked scarps in their hands. Brenner would not have cared to walk too close to one.
Brenner felt sick.
The beast was dead. It lay now in its blood on the platform. The blood ran from the platform, and over the floor. In such a thing was much blood. The beast was dead. Brenner had killed it. It was dead, the beast, the ancestor, the primal father, the father, the totem.
Brenner saw one of the male Pons seize a female and pull off her robes. Others, males and females, shrieked with delight. Brenner wondered if this were because the female was not popular, or because she was, to a Pon, attractive, or, perhaps, that it was merely that she was a female, and at hand. The female tried to pull away but the male gave her a sharp bite on the back of the neck and, immediately, with a cry of pain, she crouched down at his feet, whimpering, in a cowering posture. When he turned away from her, she hurried to follow him. He treated another female in the same way, but this one, perhaps more intelligent, or not desiring to be so painfully served as had been her sister, instantly performed the submission behavior. And then the two of them crept after the male, sometimes baring their tiny teeth at one another. Then another male came and seized one of them by the hand and pulled her toward him. She shrieked. The original male and the new male, thrusting the female to one side, then began to circle one another, baring their small teeth. The females, the two of them now, together, cowered to one side. The two males, suddenly, as with one accord, with shrill, angry shrieks, flung themselves at one another, and, with hands and feet, and teeth, fought, grappling, rolling about, twisting, tearing, and biting. Other such altercations, too, began to break out. One fight was apparently over the possession of a given scarp. Brenner heard a cry, and saw a hand drawn back, suddenly bright with blood. He moaned. He sank down on his knees, before the platform. Before him, on the floor, were parts of his friend. Above, on the platform, the beast was dead. Its blood, spilled on the platform, ran to the floor. Brenner’s knees were soaked with it. He could see, about himself, tiny, bloody footprints, those of riotous Pons who had walked in it, run in it, or danced in it. All about him rang a bedlam, a madness, of shrieks, exultant and wild. At the periphery of his vision was a whirling flurry of robes, of brandished polished scarps, flashing, reflecting torchlight, and, here and there, of tiny, naked, hairy, spiderlike bodies, with receding foreheads, with small, closely set eyes. Brenner put down his head then, and covered his ears, and closed his eyes. It is festival, he thought. It is carnival, it is holiday. They are glad the father is dead. They wanted him dead. Now they have what they wanted. Brenner shuddered. Had the beast spoken to him? How could that be? He must, somehow, have imagined that. He stood up, shaking, and looked at the beast, dead, on the platform. It could not have spoken. Such things did not speak. Such things could not speak.
Sick, he decided he must leave the place. He turned about, and cried out, with horror.
A few feet from him, on a pedestal, where the floor became level, near the base of the aisle, was a transparent, lidded vat, or large jar, into which various tubes led. In the vat, facing forward, its eyes closed, was the head of Rodriguez.
Brenner spun about, to avoid seeing the object. It must be some form of burial, he thought. Doubtless the Pons are kindly. Their intentions are doubtless benign. They think I must appreciate this! I should not express horror, or disapproval. I would not wish to hurt their feelings. But he sank down again, now to his hands and knees, and threw up, to the side.
The beast could not have spoken.
When Brenner opened his eyes he looked again on the parts of his friend before him.
I must not be impolite to the Pons, he thought. I must not hurt their feelings.
But the Pons seemed to be paying him no attention. Their glee, their cries, their dancing, continued unabated.
As Brenner looked upon the pieces of flesh before him, he wondered what must be the horror of finding oneself the victim of such an attack, or would it be over so quickly that one would not realize what had happened? But if one did realize, Brenner thought, how horrifying that must be, the sudden blow of the paw, the raking of the claws, like hooks, the biting, the marks of the teeth, the being grasped in such jaws, perhaps the pain of being held down, and toyed with, bitten here and there, licked, clawed, until one could move no longer, squirm no longer, and then the thing might feed. But Brenner, as he forced himself to look at the limbs before him, did not detect the signs of such an attack. There seemed no claw marks, no marks of teeth. The limbs did not seem to have been torn, as in feeding, from the body.
Suddenly Brenner felt very cold.
The beast had not killed Rodriguez. Something else had killed him.
They could not kill the totem themselves, he said to himself. It had to be done by another.
“Emilio!” wept Brenner. “Emilio!”
Another must be brought to kill the beast, he thought, another! And another had done it, another!
The shrieks of Pons continued about him. He heard cries, too, amongst them, of anger, of dissension.
He rose up, tottering, he must flee, he must get away from this place, anything.
He turned about again. He did not want to look at the head, mounted in the jar, on the pedestal. But he did, of course, look, and then, once more, he cried out with horror. The eyes in the head were now open.
Brenner spun about, again, and then, slowly, in horror, sank to his knees once more, before the platform. He did not know if the head had seen him. Does it know it has been cut off, wondered Brenner.
The dancing and exultant shrieks of the Pons continued.
Brenner looked about, on the floor, to where he had dropped the rifle. It was gone. The pointed stick, too, was gone, of course. It had been taken from him, gently, by the git keeper.
It sees, thought Brenner. It sees! It knows it has been cut off. He turned about, on his knees, to again look at the head. Once more the eyes were closed.
The beast did not speak, thought Brenner.
The eyes could not have opened, thought Brenner.
I have gone mad, he thought.
He looked again to the remains before him. Then he looked again, upward, to the platform.
He was seized with a wild fear, and tensed to leap up, and flee from this place.
It was then that the nets, several, and weighted, fell about him. He could not rise. He could scarcely see through the toils. Ropes were secured, well fastening the nets. Pons clustered about him. He strugg
led, but his struggles were unavailing. He was now before the platform, on his knees. He could scarcely move his arms or legs. He knelt there, then, caught in the toils, enmeshed, secured. He was totally helpless, trapped as effectively as might have been an animal.
“You killed Emilio!” he screamed to the git keeper.
The small creature, its tiny hands hidden in the sleeves of its robes, did not respond to him.
“You are evil!” cried Brenner.
“I do not understand that expression,” said the git keeper.
“Are you all mad, all evil?” wept Brenner.
The git keeper looked at him, puzzled. There had been a pause in the revels.
“Who decides such things?” asked the git keeper. “Is it the lion who is evil, or the fleet one whose selfishness would deny the king its meal?”
“Such things are only as they are!” said Brenner.
“And thus, so, too, are we,” said the git keeper.
“Your kindness, your benignity, your lovingness, your innocence, is a mockery,” said Brenner.
“No,” said the git keeper, “but it has its price.”
“Why cannot you be more like Archimedes,” said Brenner, “who was truly innocent, and kind, and loving.”
“Archimedes could not have lived without us,” said the git keeper.
“Be as was Archimedes,” said Brenner.
“Archimedes, or he whom you chose to call such,” said the git keeper, “was retarded.”
Then the git keeper turned to the Pons. He raised a scarp. “We are free, my brothers!” he cried out. “The father is dead!”
This announcement was met with glee from the assembled Pons. Brenner struggled in the net, but could not free himself. He was utterly helpless.
The git keeper then went behind the platform and, on steps there, climbed to its surface, and then came forward, toward its front edge, where he stood beside the slain beast.
“Come, my brothers,” called the git keeper. “Let us take onto ourselves the power, the majesty, of the father. He was cruel. He was the tyrant. But now the tyrant is dead. Now we are free, my brothers! We may now do as we wish. We will all become as was the father! We will take his flesh into ourselves, that it become our own flesh. We will drink his blood, that it become our own blood. We will make his substance ours! We will become, through him, him!”