The Totems of Abydos

by John Norman

  Then the git keeper turned about and, the first of all, dug his tiny, sharp, polished scarp into the great shaggy body that lay on the platform. He crouched on the body, and thrust the tiny bit of meat he had cut free into his mouth. The male Pons then, those clothed and unclothed, swarmed upon the platform and, like flies, or small scavenging rodents, attacked the great carcass with their scarps. Some fed the pieces of meat they cut to others. Brenner was ill. The females, he noted, did not participate in this ritual, or feeding. They hung back. When one of them approached too closely, she was snapped at, and she fled back, to crouch down, to wait with the others. The females looked at one another, apprehensively, while the males fed.

  Brenner turned, as he could, to look at the jar. The eyes on the head in the jar were again open. It was regarding the feast. On its face was an expression of horror. Then it, again, closed its eyes.

  The eyes did open, said Brenner, wildly, to himself. I saw it.

  The mouths of the Pons at the carcass were red with blood. Some of the tiny creatures were half buried in the animal, gouging, feeding. The robes of those who had retained them were spattered with blood. The hair of those who had discarded their robes was similarly spattered. The feet of many, to the ankles, and the hands of many, to the wrists, were soaked with blood.

  Trickles of blood ran from the tiny scarps.

  Far off, it seemed, from somewhere back, perhaps within, or near, the palisade, Brenner heard the enraged howling of an animal. It reminded him of the sounds he had heard, so long ago, on the ship, from somewhere in its cargo area, before Rodriguez and he had come down to the surface of Abydos. Such beasts, he had understood, like many others, captured on various worlds, brought from various worlds, were transported to diverse destinations throughout the galaxy, such as menageries and zoological gardens, in which they constituted fearsome prizes. Too, as Brenner understood, it was not uncommon to bring them to worlds such as Megara and Sybaris, for use in the games. Brenner heard again the howling. He had never seen the beast in the ship. He had heard it tearing and raking at the steel walls of its confinement; he had heard it roaring, the sound reverberating throughout the ship; he had often heard, when he had lain buckled in his webbing, during his rest periods, its steady, restless, repetitious tread as it moved back and forth in its confinement, sometimes for hours at a time. Brenner did not think the thing he heard now was loose. It did not sound like that. It was probably caged. It could have been brought in, its cage suspended on chains from an air truck, from Company Station, where it might have been landed from a freighter in orbit, brought down in a lighter. Its delivery might have been arranged by Pons at Company Station, even months ago, or perhaps more recently, even by radio. The air truck, if it had brought such a thing in, might have been homing on a signal from the village.

  “I have eaten of the father!” screamed a Pon. “I am the father!”

  “No,” cried another, crouching on the carcass, “it is I who am the father!”

  Brenner saw a Pon lash out with his scarp and another Pon draw back, its shoulder bloody. It, too, crouched on the carcass, baring its teeth, lifting its scarp, at the other.

  “Peace, brothers!” cried the git keeper. “Peace, my brothers!”

  “I am the father!” cried another, back farther on the carcass.

  “No,” shrilled another. “I am the father!” One could only see its upper body, as its lower body was muchly concealed, it standing within the bodily cavity of the beast. It lifted up something red, and bloody, in one hand. It must be part of the heart, thought Brenner. In the other hand, it brandished a scarp.

  “I am!” screamed another.

  One of the Pons, its feet bloody, leaped from the platform and ran back toward the females. They shrank back before him, and crouched low. He seized one by the hand, and pulled her away from the others.

  “Stop!” cried a Pon from the platform.

  But then several of the other Pons, too, some seven or eight of them, as though they feared they might lose their chance, leaped from the platform. These were followed, almost immediately, by several others. The females shrieked, seeing them coming. The males made choices from amongstst them. Sometimes they tore away the white robes, and then made their choices. Some of the females they led away by the hand. Other females were drawn forcibly from the group, their right wrists helplessly in the grip of a male. Some others crept fearfully to indicated places, at so little as an imperious gesture. Some others were literally dragged from the group by an ankle, their robes about their upper bodies, or heads, their tiny fingers trying to catch at the floor of the temple, but gaining no purchase there. Several females, not yet selected, crowded together, crouching down. They were wide-eyed, looking about themselves in terror. They clung to one another. Some tried to hide amongst the others. But other males, circling this group, seized out several of them, too, sometimes reaching into the midst of them, to choose this one or that, one which might strike their fancy, pulling them away from the group. The males isolated their catches, and some had more than one. They then looked about, fearfully, defensively, baring their tiny teeth. There was an occasional dispute as to territory, perhaps as small as a square yard. Teeth were bared. Sometimes scarps were raised. More than one Pon was cut. More than once a female, sometimes more than one, changed hands. The females crouched down at the feet of the males. They stayed very close to the males who had selected them. Most kept their eyes down. Others, warned, did so. In these moments none looked into the eyes of the males. One female, Brenner noted, tried to creep to another male, but she was seen, and bitten at the back of the neck. Quickly she hurried back to her place, where the first had put her. Then the other male, he to whom she had dared to crawl, bared his teeth at the first. They circled one another. They both held scarps.

  “Peace, brothers!” called the git keeper from the platform. There were still several males on the carcass, feeding, looking up, then feeding again.

  “We are all the father!” screamed one of the Pons on the carcass, its mouth bloody.

  “We may all do as we please!” cried another.

  “We may all do as we wish!” screamed another.

  There was a cry of pain from Brenner’s right and, turning, he saw the Pon who had been challenged for the female, he from whom she had attempted to creep away, who had brought her back to her place, clutch at his throat. Blood ran between his fingers. His eyes were wide. He sank down, on the temple floor.

  The Pon who had struck him, he who had challenged for the female, himself bloodied, knelt down beside him. He put the scarp to one side.

  The female put back her head and uttered a long, keening wail.

  There was then silence.

  The Pons quietly separated from one another.

  “The father is dead!” called one of the Pons from the platform. This, however, was no cry of triumph, no utterance of exultation, but a lament.

  “We will mourn!” called another from the platform.

  “We will love,” said another.

  Brenner saw the females gather to one side.

  “The father will be angry!” called a Pon.

  “We will fear!” called a Pon.

  “We will dread!” called another.

  “We will mourn!”

  “We will love!”

  Those Pons who had discarded their robes drew them on again. The females, too, whose robes might have been removed from them, found them and donned them once more, even torn as they might be. Brenner noted a restoration of the distances.

  Basins of water were brought forth and Pons began to wash their hands, drying them on white towels.

  Brenner then heard, from somewhere, the voice of another Pon:

  We love you, father.

  Forgive us, father, for what we have done.

  This was then answered, or followed, by another voice:

  We are 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 have done!

  A third voice then called out:

  Forgive us, father.

  Love us!

  Cherish us!

  Protect us!

  “The father is dead!” wailed a Pon.

  “The father is dead,” called out the git keeper.

  “Long live the father!” cried a Pon.

  “Long live the father!” called out the git keeper.

  “Long live the father!” called out the Pons.

  Candles, which had been extinguished in the riotous moments following the demise of the totem, were rekindled. Many of the Pons then, in their robes, several of these garments spattered with blood, began, maintaining the distances, to file from the hall.

  Some Pons began, one by one, to extinguish the torches in the hall. The git keeper left the platform, by the rear stairs, and came about the platform, to where Brenner knelt, unable to rise, the netting wrapped about him, and secured.

  “Long live the father,” said the git keeper, looking at Brenner.

  “The father is dead!” said Brenner to the git keeper.

  “No,” said the git keeper.

  “He is dead!” screamed Brenner.

  “No,” said the git keeper.

  “I killed him!” said Brenner.

  “The father lives,” said the git keeper.

  “Where is he?” asked Brenner.

  “Here,” said the git keeper.

  “I do not see him,” said Brenner. “Where is he?”

  “Here,” said the git keeper.

  “Which one is the father?” asked Brenner, looking about.

  “He is here,” said the git keeper.

  “Who is the father?” said Brenner.

  “You are the father,” said the git keeper.

  “You are insane!” cried Brenner.

  He was then put on his side, and his knees were thrust up, before him, almost under his chin, and the net was closed, tightened and tied shut. Ropes were then attached to it.

  “Wait!” cried Brenner.

  The git keeper gestured that the several Pons in gray robes, those at the ropes, should not yet draw upon them.

  “I do not understand what is going on here!” begged Brenner.

  “You are the father,” said the git keeper.

  “That is absurd!” wept Brenner.

  “Our males,” said the git keeper, “have been unable to procreate for thousands of years. This began as a functional inadequacy correlated, as we now realize, with the repudiation of, the neglect of, and the eventual destruction of, natural relationships. We denied the biotruths of our species. We betrayed our form of life. Once we were a hardy race. Of that you see now only degenerate remnants, clinging to a life, and a bit of technology, in a wilderness.”

  Brenner shook his head. He looked up, wildly at the git keeper.

  “We once lived between angels and fish, where we belonged, but then it was decided by our ancestors, as they grew stupider and weaker, and the quality of their gene pool declined, and the strength of pernicious conditioning programs increased, that this was a mistake, and that we should not be what we were, but that we should be other than we were, that we should be not animals, but angels, that we should deny ourselves and pretend to be what we were not. Weakness soon wore mask of virtue. The least virile were favored for replication, when it was allowed. Worth was assessed in virtue of glandular inferiority. Value was determined by conformance to antibiological desiderata. Our males were forbidden to be males. Our females were forbidden to be females. We could not be ourselves. We must pretend to be other than ourselves. Suffice it to say that what began as a mere functional impotence, prescribed by society, lest our males revert to more primitive forms of life, eventually became, or was replaced by, through selections, a congenital impotence, and, later, over a thousand generations, through similar selections, a complete sterility. Our females, too, suffered. Most are barren, but, some remain capable of conception. Several of these, which ones you need not know, now carry your seed.”

  “My seed?” said Brenner.

  “It was taken during the feast of the harvesting of seed,” said the git keeper.

  Brenner looked up at him, wildly.

  “You are the father, you see,” said the git keeper.

  “You are an alien life form,” said Brenner. “We could not be crossfertile.”

  “We are,” said the git keeper. The trace of a smile seemed to play about that small mouth. “It is not, really, as strange as you think.”

  “It is impossible,” said Brenner.

  “This is how we survive,” said the git keeper, “and have survived, for thousands of generations. This is how we remain angels, you see, in effect, a travesty,, a joke in nature, in effect, bodiless creatures, glandless spirits, simple and loving, benignant and kindly, soft, benevolent, gentle, and such. To be sure, we must be protected by lions. Others must do our killing. Others must supply the seed for our females.”

  “That is why there are no other clans about, with other totems,” said Brenner. “That is why there are no children.”

  “Every thousand years,” said the git keeper, “there are children.”

  “You are so long lived?” said Brenner.

  “Not originally,” said the git keeper.

  “I do not understand,” said Brenner.

  “We have retained, in the sacred books,” said the git keeper, “some of the advances of our race.”

  “Do all the Pons know these things?” asked Brenner.

  “It is not needful for them all to know,” said the git keeper. “It is a heavy burden, and best borne by few.”

  Brenner moaned.

  The git keeper made a small motion, and the Pons about prepared to draw on the ropes.

  “Wait, I beg you!” said Brenner.

  Another gesture from the git keeper resulted in the ropes slackening.

  “I was brought here,” said Brenner. “All this has been planned. You had such things in mind, even from before we landed on Abydos!”

  “Of course,” said the git keeper.

  “Why?” asked Brenner.

  “That there be a father,” said the git keeper.

  “But why me, of all?”

  “You are fitted for the function,” said the git keeper.

  “Others might have served as well!”

  “Doubtless,” said the git keeper. “But your genetic materials are of special interest. They are atavistic, dating from a sterner, hardier time. Also, they represent, although you do not understand this, and might be horrified to learn it, an unusually interesting genotype, one which might not only survive, but might thrive, even flourish, in a natural world, or within a civilization which is an extension and outgrowth of nature, rather than a repudiation of her.”

  “No!” cried Brenner.

  “Would you be so disturbed to own land, to command men, to have women at your feet?” asked the git keeper.

  Brenner moaned.

  “It is no accident that you are here,” said the git keeper.

  “More so than you know,” said Brenner, bitterly. “The contents of the experimental vats, in one of which I was nurtured, were ordered destroyed, that such genes, putatively dangerous to the security of the regime on the home world, be removed from the gene pool. I was the only one saved, rescued by an attendant technician.”

  “Does that seem so mysterious to you, or such a coincidence?” asked the git keeper.

  “Yes!” said Brenner.

  “That it should be you, alone, of all the others, who was saved?”

  “Yes,” said Brenner, faltering.

  “Why?” asked the git keeper.

  “I do not know,” said Brenner.

  “Your genetic materials were selected, thousands of years ago, as being suited for our purposes,” said the git keeper. “Their location, condition, treatment, a
nd such, were carefully monitored.”

  “It was no accident then that I, alone, was spared?”

  “No,” said the git keeper.

  Brenner looked up at him, in consternation, through the heavy netting.

  “You have been prepared, so to speak, chosen, if you will, for our purposes,” said the git keeper.

  “I see,” said Brenner.

  “The technician was well rewarded,” said the git keeper.

  “Of course,” said Brenner, bitterly. No one, then, it seemed, had cared for him, or loved him. Only Rodriguez, in his rough, unpolished fashion, had seemed to care for him, if only begrudgingly. Tears sprang into Brenner’s eyes, as he thought of his friend.

  “There must be records kept,” said Brenner. “There must be traces of your work, here and there. Some must understand, or suspect, what you are doing!” To be sure, Brenner had wondered, long ago, about the sparsity of records, and reports, and such, pertaining to Pons. On the whole, saving for some obscure monographs, there were little more than fragments, often no more than notes in old texts, and, apparently, some references in company records.

  “Did you?” asked the git keeper.

  “No,” said Brenner.

  “The university will have records of our expedition.”

  “They have been misplaced,” said the git keeper.

  “The directress?”

  “Of course,” said the git keeper.

  “She was influenced?”

  “Yes,” said the git keeper.

  “It was no accident then that she brought the expedition to my attention, and such.”

  “No,” said the git keeper.

  “I might have refused to come,” said Brenner.

  “Other pressures would then have been brought to bear,” said the git keeper. “In one fashion or another you would have arrived here in autumn, before the feast of the harvesting of seed.”

  “What difference would it have made?” said Brenner.