The Flesh Eaters

by L. A. Morse

  They stand on a hill and look down at the town. The buildings are indistinct against a dark background.

  “Look at it,” Sawney Beane says. “We will never return here.”

  “Yes.” Meg touches his arm.

  “I am the Master now.” He speaks quietly, but the authority is unmistakable. “I am free. There is nothing in that place that a man needs.”

  As the eastern horizon starts to lighten, they turn away from the town. They will not see it again for more than twenty years.

  On the road, they maintain a good pace and meet no one. By midmorning they have covered a considerable distance. Sawney Beane seems impervious to fatigue. Meg, however, begins to falter. He walks ahead, then waits impatiently for her to catch up and urges her to move faster. Meg protests that she is too tired to go on.

  They leave the road and struggle through the bushes until they find a small clearing. Meg collapses gratefully to the ground. Sawney Beane lies down next to her.

  “I’m hungry,” she says. “We should have brought some food with us.”

  “I thought you were tired. Go to sleep.”

  Meg is about to respond, but recognizes the command in his voice. With a sigh, she closes her eyes and goes to sleep almost immediately. Sawney Beane lies on his back. His eyes are open in a fixed stare; his forehead is wrinkled in concentration. After a while his brow clears and his mouth forms a smile.

  Master Andrews walks somewhat unsteadily down High Street. He is a bit shaky this morning from too much rough wine, and from the abuse his wife heaped on him when he returned last night and resumed as soon as he awoke.

  Feeling a need for a dose of the blacksmith’s hearty masculinity, Andrews heads for the smithy. Also, the possibility of seeing Meg again is not in the least unpleasant. The thought of her makes his jaws ache; he would like to squeeze and suck and bite that firm young flesh. As he nears the shop, he is surprised to see the dog sitting outside the door, barking impatiently. At Andrews’s approach, the dog becomes more excited and scratches at the door. Andrews pushes the door open, and the dog runs in ahead of him.

  It seems strangely silent in the shop and his shouted greetings bring no response. The fire has gone out in the forge, and he goes around to investigate. At first he does not take in what he is seeing. When the realization hits him, he sinks to his knees. Vomit gushes out of his mouth. His stomach continues to heave long after it is empty, and it is several minutes before he is able to stand up. He keeps his eyes averted from the corpse, which looks more like something discarded by a butcher than a human body. The form that used to be the blacksmith is almost completely covered in brown dried blood. Flies have settled on the gaping wounds, some of which still glisten and ooze.

  Choking back another spasm, Andrews runs from the smithy, screaming “Murder!” for all of High Street to hear.

  It is with considerable distaste that the Magistrate glances at the mutilated corpse. His close connection with officially sanctioned brutality, torture, mutilation, and execution have done nothing to render him immune to the sight of this fantastic savagery. His initial response is similar to Andrews, but he knows it will compromise the dignity of his position if he heaves up his breakfast in view of the curious who fill the doorway of the smithy. As it is, his appetite will probably suffer—and on the day that his wife is serving his favorite sausages.

  The crimes with which the Magistrate generally deals are straightforward, the culprits obvious, and punishment swift. This murder seems no exception. The Magistrate learns that Andrews was present in the smithy the previous evening, that he and the blacksmith ate, drank, and made merry, that nothing unusual occurred, and that the blacksmith was alive when Andrews left. Further questioning reveals that the blacksmith’s daughter and his servant are no longer about, and cannot be found. The Magistrate naturally assumes that their absence indicates responsibility for the crime.

  However, Andrews, the image of Meg’s lovely tit still dancing before his eyes, refuses to believe that she had anything to do with it. He still feels her nipple tingling in his palm—how could she be guilty? Realizing that this might not be a particularly convincing argument for her innocence, Andrews launches a diatribe against Sawney Beane. He gives a glowing account of the Master’s Christian charity, decency, and benevolence toward his servant, and of how Sawney Beane repaid all this with laziness, ingratitude, and malevolence.

  The Magistrate listens with mounting impatience, not only because he thinks it nonsense—he has a good idea of the blacksmith’s real character—but because he discovers that he is suddenly hungry, that he can almost hear the sausages sizzling in the pan.

  Andrews speculates that Meg has been abducted by Sawney Beane, who will perform upon her various unspeakable acts. Andrews has in mind the same acts that he himself has fantasized perpetrating on Meg’s lush, young body.

  The Magistrate’s stomach rumbles. He announces that a search party will leave to look for the culprits when he has completed his dinner.

  A short while later, the Magistrate having been refreshed, a party of about ten men on horses rides from the town. Among them is Andrews, who relishes the double distinction of being the victim’s friend and the discoverer of the crime. It is all he can do to keep from smiling when he notices people pointing at him as he passes by. Then, seeing his wife scowling darkly from the doorway of their house, he puts his head down and urges his horse to a trot.

  In the clearing, Sawney Beane is still lying on his back, staring upward. Meg is curled up at his side. She rolls over and opens her eyes. He is immediately aware that she is awake.

  “You are rested now,” he says. “We must go.”

  “Give me a minute. Did you sleep?”

  “I do not need it now. Hurry up. We must go.”

  Meg tries to postpone further activity. “Where are we going?”

  “We will find a place that is safe.”

  “But how will we live?”

  “We will live. We are free. We need nothing but ourselves. Do you believe that? Or do you wish yourself back in... that place?” He spits out the last two words contemptuously.

  “I do not wish to be back there,” Meg says, shaking her head. She speaks slowly, struggling to find the right words. “Do you know, while I was asleep I dreamed of what we did last night. Again, I felt the knife go into his flesh. I saw the blood rush out. In my dream I even tasted his blood again.” She smiles. “It was a pleasant dream.... Last night was the first time I felt I was alive.”

  Sawney Beane nods in understanding. “I know. Before that everything was... was... far away, like in a dream. Last night—the knife and the blood—it was right there... close. It was real. I am now awake.... We shall do it again.”

  “Aye.... Aye.”

  Suddenly it has become very clear to Sawney Beane. Where there was doubt, there is now certainty. He smiles. “That is how we shall live.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We will become hunters. We will be like the great wolves of the forest. Only we will not attack cows and sheep and deer. We will hunt men.”

  “We will become robbers?”

  “Robbers? Robbers!” He explodes in frustration that she does not understand. “What do they have that we should want? What good is their money? To spend in towns. We will never again enter a town.... Does the wolf kill the sheep for the wool, or the cow for the milk?”

  Eventually his meaning becomes clear to her, but still she hesitates. “You mean... that... we will...”

  “Aye, eat them! Feed upon them. You are not scared?” Sawney Beane has never felt like this before, and his certainty gives him fluency. The words rush out. “Think of the knife going in. Think of the warm, rich blood! You have drunk your father’s blood. What step is this to take? You eat the flesh of a cow and a sheep. A man is no different. We will be wolves. We will hunt our food.”

  Each phrase causes Meg to gasp, though the idea of what he is saying does not really shock or scare her. She is drawn to
his power. Her one protest is feeble: “But the danger...”

  Sawney Beane laughs, knowing the argument is won. “There need be no danger. We will learn from the wolf who attacks only when it is safe. He attacks strays and those that fall behind. We will do the same. It would be far more dangerous for us to take real cattle and sheep. Men guard their herds closer than they guard themselves. We will be wolves, and strike fear in the hearts of the cattle and sheep. Think about it. Recall last night.”

  Meg lowers her head, lost in concentration. His words mingle with images and tastes and smells and sensations from the previous night and build to a crescendo in her mind. She raises her head and smiles. “Do you know, I am very, very hungry.”

  Sawney Beane smiles back at her.

  They are walking along the cleared track that serves as one of the main roads of Scotland. The country is rugged and inhospitable. They see no other human beings, only an occasional small farmhouse in the distance. Meg is excited by the idea of what they are to do, and impatient to begin: Sawney Beane is calmer and more serious. He is attempting to work out the best way to perform their task. Carefully, he studies the countryside and the woods that line the road. He begins to develop what seems to him a satisfactory plan. Though lacking in normal intelligence, he has a deep instinctive feeling for the best way to hunt his chosen prey. Until this time, nothing in his life has made sense to him, but now he moves with the ease and confidence of an animal returning to its natural habitat.

  They reach a place in the road that suits his purposes. Sawney Beane explains to Meg that she will hide in the woods a short distance from the road, while he climbs a small hill from which he can observe anyone approaching. When someone suitable comes along, she will go out on the road and distract the traveler while he sneaks up from behind and makes the kill. Meg has misgivings about how she will play her part, but she unquestioningly accepts his authority. Before he goes up the hill, he gives her one of the knives, and the weight of the sharp weapon in her hand makes her feel more comfortable.

  Sawney Beane settles himself on the hill to begin his vigil. He has the patience of the natural hunter, but there are very few travelers on the road, and several times he has to fight down the temptation to move against an unsuitable target.

  Finally he spots a solitary, prosperous-looking traveler on foot. After carefully determining how long it will take the traveler to reach the ambush point, he goes down to join Meg. His approach startles her, and she almost attacks him with her knife. He tells her to ready herself.

  Tense, they wait for the right moment. Then, in the silence of the wood, they hear the traveler whistling a merry tune.

  Sawney Beane nods that Meg should be off. When she disappears from his view, he feels a twinge of nervousness, but it only serves to heighten the acuteness of his senses. Suddenly, he hears a new sound. He races through the bushes and catches up to Meg just as she is about to go out on the road. She is startled by his sudden appearance.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He puts his hand over her mouth and tells her to listen. Soon they hear the sound of horses, and then the search party appears. At the same time, the solitary traveler comes into view from the opposite direction. The traveler and the search party stop and face each other, only a few feet from where Sawney Beane and Meg are hidden in the bushes.

  The Magistrate, at the head of the search party, raises his hand and addresses the traveler: “Stay, friend. Where do you come from?”

  “I come from Greykirk this morning.”

  “Have you passed or seen a man and a young woman traveling together—most likely on foot?”

  “I’ve seen few people, and no one like you describe. Why? What have they done?”

  “The girl’s father has been brutally murdered. His servant is gone, so he probably did it. The girl is missing as well. She may have taken part, or is perhaps the man’s prisoner. It doesn’t much matter to me. When we find them, I’ll pull the truth out of them, and I’ll use burning forceps to do it, if that’s what it takes! If they are guilty I’ll send them straight to Hell. If you have much farther to go, I urge you to be careful and keep a sharp lookout.”

  The vehemence of the Magistrate’s speech unsettles the traveler. What he had thought was going to be a pleasant day’s walk now seems fraught with danger. “Do you think they’re on this road?”

  The Magistrate shrugs. “There’s been no sign of them this far, but there are other roads they might have taken, and we’ll search those next.”

  The traveler shakes his head sadly. “I had better hurry if I want to get off the road by nightfall.”

  “That’s a good idea. Good luck to you.”

  The Magistrate turns to his companions. “They don’t seem to have come this way. Well go a little farther, and then across to the West Road. Perhaps there will be word of them there.”

  The party rides off.

  From their place of concealment, Sawney Beane and Meg have heard the entire exchange. He is unconcerned; he has left the town and now has no interest in anything connected with it. Meg, however, reacts to the violence of the Magistrate’s words.

  “Did you hear what they said? They’re looking for us.”

  “They have not found us.”

  “Burning forceps!” she says with a shudder. “I should not have come with you. They think you did it. They don’t know about me. I could say you did it, and you forced me to come with you... that’s right! I was your prisoner. They would believe me.”

  Sawney Beane’s expression remains unchanged, but his voice has a hard edge of contempt. “I would not be there to say otherwise.”

  “That’s right. I could go back.”

  Anger contorts his face. He slaps Meg hard enough for each finger to leave a distinct imprint on her cheek. Then he pushes her roughly to the ground, puts a hand around her throat, and applies pressure. His eyes burn into her, and she is too frightened to struggle.

  “You can do what you wish.” His voice is barely a hiss. “You are no different than the others. You are a stupid cow. Go back with the herd. Wolves are free and roam the forest.”

  He releases her, gets to his feet, and strides off. Meg is confused and distraught, but just before he disappears into the trees she calls desperately for him to wait.

  Sawney Beane wheels around pulling his knife from his belt. “If I wait, it will only be to kill you.”

  He walks toward her. His eyes gleam and his lips form a sinister smile.

  The search party reaches a crossroad. For several uneventful miles Andrews has been considering something, and now, as the party turns off the highway, he comes to a decision.

  “I’ll not accompany you to the West Road,” he says to the Magistrate, who looks at him without much interest. “Widow Warren’s farm is several miles back, and she’s all alone there now. I believe I’ll go back and warn her about the fugitives and”—he pauses and gives a wink, so that no one can mistake his meaning—”and offer my protection for the night.”

  “Protection? Is that what it’s called?” roars the wit of the party.

  While he would have preferred to elicit some response from the Magistrate, who seems to dislike him, Andrews is grateful that someone has caught his meaning. He laughs to acknowledge the wit’s subtlety. “And perhaps offer my comfort in her recent bereavement.”

  Andrews knows that his offer is unlikely to be accepted, because the last time he saw the Widow Warren his innocuous comment about the size of her buttocks caused her to kick him in the groin. Still, perhaps persistence would pay off. Andrews wishes the party good luck and turns his horse back down the road.

  “Good luck to you,” the wit calls after him. “Beware the Widow Warren. I hear her husband died of exhaustion. You might be safer facing the killers.”

  The Magistrate waits impatiently for the laughter to die down. He has never enjoyed suggestive banter, and now that his belly has grown so large that the mechanics of sex make it more trouble than it is w
orth, the whole subject bores him. Particularly when the talk is only hollow bragging by fools who would have difficulty seducing a sheep.

  “Let’s get on with it, if we want to have supper in our own homes tonight,” the Magistrate says. “It’s said that men who live by their appetites will die by them. I hope that our friend Master Andrews will be more fortunate in his pursuits.”

  “Still, that’s not a bad way to go!” brays the wit, as the search party rides off along the side road.

  As Andrews rides along in pleasant contemplation of what he would like to do to the Widow Warren, his reverie is broken by a cry for help which seems to come from the bushes. He considers riding away as fast as possible, but instead draws his sword and peers into the tangled undergrowth. The cry comes again.

  “Who’s there?” Andrews calls.

  “Help me!”

  “Come out. Show yourself, whoever you are.”

  The bushes rustle and Meg appears. She is completely naked. One arm ineffectively covers her large breasts; her other hand is cupped over her pubic mound. She seems somewhat embarrassed by her condition, but also relieved that help has come.

  Andrews cannot believe what he is seeing. “Meg! What are—”

  “Oh, Master Andrews. I’m so glad it’s you! You’ve got to help me.”

  “What are you doing here? We’ve been looking for you.”

  “Oh, it was terrible.” In her emotion, she forgets herself and puts her hands over her eyes.

  Andrews’s mouth falls open and his own eyes bulge at the sight of her fine young body.

  Meg whimpers. “You must know my poor father has been killed by that... that Sawney Beane.”

  “I know that. But that doesn’t explain your presence here like... like... that!”

  Meg uncovers her eyes. “He made me come away with him. He said he would kill me if I didn’t. I was afraid, so I came with him. We walked and walked and walked. So far.” She gestures, and her breasts jiggle appealingly. “Finally I couldn’t go any farther. I just couldn’t, no matter what. Then he got mad. I thought he was going to kill me, but he just hit me and ripped off my dress and ran off. You believe me, don’t you? You’ve got to help me. Please!”