The Flesh Eaters

by L. A. Morse

“Who are you to ask?”

  “Damned impertinence! I am the Sheriff of Midlothian. Now who are you?”

  “We might be the King and Queen of Sheba, for all that it is your affair.” Geoffrey does not suffer fools gladly.

  “Easy, brother,” Donald says. “We are Donald and Geoffrey Calder, Sheriff, Why do you ask?”

  “I will ask the questions, and you will answer them if you know what is good for you. Where do you live, and where are you going?”

  “We live back there, and we are going there.” Geoffrey points back, then forward along the road.

  Several members of the party snicker, and the Sheriff’s face turns red.

  “We live at a small farm about five miles back,” Donald puts in hastily. “We are going to visit friends beyond the turning.”

  The Sheriff considers this information, as though it were a riddle he could not answer. When the brothers begin to fidget, he asks suddenly, “Is that your horse?”

  They answer simultaneously, Donald saying no, Geoffrey saying yes. They look at each other, confused.

  The Sheriff beams as if he had just been handed a steaming Christmas pudding.

  “Aye and nay. How interesting.” Still smiling, he points to Donald and shouts, “You! Which is it?”

  “We found the horse back the road a bit. He seemed to have thrown his rider. We were taking it with us in the hope that we might return it.”

  “Return it? How thoughtful of you.” The Sheriff’s voice is heavy with sarcasm. “Then why did you say the horse was yours?”

  “To avoid just such an inquisition as this,” Geoffrey responds promptly. “May we pass now?”

  “In a moment.” The Sheriff directs his deputy to search the horse’s saddlebag.

  From the hill overlooking the road, the twins watch with fascination, but little comprehension. All this jabber-jabber is confusing.

  In the saddlebag, the deputy finds a small leather pouch and opens it. He gasps. “Gold! It looks like fifteen or twenty florins.”

  The Sheriff asks to see the pouch. He looks at the money, then absentmindedly puts it in the pocket of his tunic.

  The deputy discovers some papers which he reads with difficulty. “They seem to belong to Squire Sloan from Lammermuir.”

  Geoffrey is worried now and annoyed, but he keeps his voice under control. “We have told you. We merely found this horse and wanted to return it.”

  “I know you have told me that. But, you see, we’ve been on this road for many miles, and we have seen no Squire Sloan, or anyone else. Do you know why?... Because you have killed him and hidden his body!”

  The brothers vehemently deny the accusation, and the Sheriff waits until their protests subside.

  “You have his horse and his money! I need no further proof!”

  “This is absurd.” Geoffrey is very angry— and very scared.

  “Is it? What about Master Goodwin of Berwick?”

  “Who?” the brothers ask together.

  “So you don’t even know his name. He is the one you vilely murdered and dismembered. You threw his body in the sea. Unfortunately for you, part of it washed ashore, and you now have the Bloodhound of Midlothian on your trail.”

  The deputy looks confused at this astonishing statement, and the Sheriff mutters angrily, “That’s me, you fool.”

  Turning back to the brothers, he shouts, “You made Master Goodwin food for fishes. Now, you will be food for crows.”

  Donald is almost sobbing. “We know nothing of this. We have done no wrong. This is a mistake.”

  “There has been a mistake, all right, but on your part. What about Andrews the joiner? And Master Edwards and his wife? Where did you put their bodies?”

  “We’ve never seen them!” Geoffrey screams. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is mad! Let us go!”

  “You will go straight to Hell with the other murderers and bandits of your breed!” The Sheriff signals to the other men. “Seize them and bind them!”

  Though Donald and Geoffrey struggle and protest their innocence, they are bound with ropes. The Sheriff now threatens to gag them as well unless they are quiet.

  On the hill, the boy twin leans forward to get a better view. He loses his footing and slips several feet, causing small rocks and dirt to fall. The twins freeze, afraid of being discovered.

  Several men look up from the road toward the sound. “What was that? Should we investigate?” asks one.

  The noise has badly frightened the Sheriff. “No! No, you fool! It was nothing! There’s nothing there! Let’s get out of here! We must take our prisoners back to town. We’ve been lucky to have solved our problems so easily. Let’s not abuse our good fortune.”

  The party rides off, dragging the brothers with them.

  The twins relax, marveling at the bewildering ways of things. So much jabber-jabber— and no sticking, no blood. Things are certainly strange creatures.

  The search party arrives back in town with its prisoners, who are dirty and tired from their hard journey, and in very low spirits. The Sheriff had hoped for a large gathering to witness his triumphant return, but only Masters Cutter and Biggar observe the party’s approach.

  The Sheriff proudly announces, “These are the villains who are responsible for the murders and disappearances.”

  “They don’t look especially dangerous to me,” Cutter says in his dry, rasping voice.

  At this moment even Cutter cannot upset the Sheriff and he responds heartily. “Appearances can be deceptive. Anyway, you can take my word for it that these are the ones. Why, I caught them just after they killed a Squire Sloan of Lammermuir.”

  “You saw them do this?” Biggar’s eyes grow wide.

  “Not exactly. They are far too clever for that, but just the same, there is no doubt they did it. They still had the Squire’s horse and purse with them. They are the devil’s own, all right.”

  Cutter makes a skeptical noise in his throat, but Biggar seems to accept the Sheriff’s statements.

  “Did they put up a struggle?”

  “Well, they might have, and who knows what would have happened then? But I was too smart, and we took them with no trouble.”

  Cutter shakes his head, somewhat dubious, but the Sheriff is too pleased with himself to notice.

  “I do not mind confessing that I was somewhat worried when we left here, not knowing who or what we might find. But I had my duty to do, and I did it.”

  This expression of noble self-sacrifice makes Cutter slightly nauseous, but he knows there is no point in responding.

  “This should put an end to all those disappearances and such, and we can all rest easier now,” the Sheriff concludes firmly.

  “That we can! Remarkable, truly remarkable!” Biggar has been completely won over. “I will admit, Sheriff, that I had my doubts whether you would accomplish anything. I am pleased to be proved wrong, and I congratulate you.”

  Cutter looks on with disgust as Biggar and the Sheriff beam at each other, then walks away without a word. Biggar stares after him, perplexed, then asks the Sheriff if the villains have confessed.

  “Not yet, but you can be sure they will.” The Sheriff rubs his hands together, displaying his Christmas pudding smile. “Oh, aye! They will confess. I will see to that.” He orders the guards to take the prisoners away.

  Geoffrey turns to Donald. “Are you content now? This is what comes of involving yourself in things that do not concern you.”

  Donald tries to smile. “Do not fear, brother. You must have faith. We’re innocent, and I am confident that all this will soon be remedied.”

  A short while later, Geoffrey’s screams of agony echo within the stone walls of a dungeon cell. The piercing shrieks cause the Sheriff’s face to darken with rage. “Confess!” he yells. “Confess! Damn you!”

  Geoffrey Calder is chained upright to a rack. His bare chest shows the marks of a cruel beating. One of his hands is in a press with a wooden handle, which a guard manipulates.
When the handle is turned, Geoffrey’s fingers are crushed until the bones splinter.

  On the other side of the cell, torches in wall niches illuminate the form of Donald Calder draped over a barrel, his wrists chained to his ankles. His back is covered with large blue-black bruises and bloody gashes, in some places as deep as his ribs. His blackened eyes are swollen shut. Jagged stumps are all that are left of his teeth. He is barely conscious—beyond caring, beyond hoping, unaware of his brother’s screams.”

  The Sheriff nods to the guard, and the press is again tightened. Geoffrey screams insanely. The guard releases the pressure. The Sheriff speaks in a low voice to the sobbing victim.

  “Confess... confess and we will stop this. It will be over. Confess.”

  Geoffrey struggles to raise his head. His lips move. “In... no... cent,” he gasps.

  “You are not innocent! Confess! Confess your guilt!”

  The Sheriff slaps Geoffrey across the face and nods to the guard. The press is tightened once again. Geoffrey gives a mindless scream and then his head drops forward. He is unconscious.

  “There,” the Sheriff says. “He said it. He said guilty. You heard it, didn’t you?”

  The guard, a stupid fellow, looks confused. “I didn’t hear nothing.”

  “You fool! He said ‘guilty’ as plain as you could like. What’s the matter with you? Are you deaf that you did not hear his confession? Well? Did you hear it or not?”

  Rattled by the Sheriff’s angry, glare, the guard stammers “I heard.... I heard it.”

  “That’s right. Now we can hang them.”

  A double scaffold has been erected in Market Square, and many townspeople are on hand for the occasion. The Magistrate stands before the gallows, awaiting the prisoners. This is a new magistrate, an exceedingly tall man, dry and sober, cadaverously thin. Even his voice is thin and hollow.

  Donald and Geoffrey Calder, their hands tied behind them, are dragged up to the scaffold. Their bodies have been abused and their spirits broken. They look pleadingly at the crowd, but meet only stony stares and eager grins. The ropes are put around their necks.

  “Donald Calder and Geoffrey Calder,” the Magistrate drones, “you have confessed and been found guilty of highway robbery, banditry, and murder. These are capital crimes. Accordingly, you will be hung by the neck until you are dead. May God show you more mercy than you showed your victims.”

  “We are innocent... innocent... stop this... please stop this,” Geoffrey cries out, but his voice is so weak that only the closest spectators can hear him. Several of them chuckle in a knowing fashion.

  “Brother, forgive me. It was my fault that this happened,” Donald whispers.

  Geoffrey attempts a smile. “Of course, I forgive you. If this can happen, we are better out of this world.”

  Donald looks relieved. “Thank you. Goodbye, brother. Until we meet in a better place.”

  “Farewell, brother.”

  The Magistrate signals, the traps drop open. The brothers jerk and twitch at the ends of the rope for a long time. At last they hang motionless, except for a slow swaying in the breeze.

  The Sheriff stands close to the gallows, a satisfied expression on his bulldog face. A number of spectators shake his hand; some slap him on the back in a congratulatory way.

  It is evening in the cave.

  The youngest children are playing a rough form of tag that involves knocking each other about. They play in almost complete silence, making no sound when they are hurt, for that is the object of the game—to keep silent—to make an opponent cry out.

  Sawney Beane and Meg sit on their elevated pallet, Meg nursing a baby at her spreading breast. Sawney Beane sits still, his eyes half-closed. He seems almost asleep, but nothing in the cave escapes his attention.

  First Hunter and Girl Hunter sit off in the shadows outside the circle of candlelight. The scabs and pustules on First Hunter’s face glow dull red in the dim light. He leans over to whisper in Girl Hunter’s ear, but her expression remains blank. He whispers again, more urgently, and the ghost of a smile crosses her face.

  First Hunter looks around to see if anyone is watching, but it seems they are unobserved. He places his hand on the calf of Girl Hunter’s leg, then slowly moves it higher. She does not stir. He continues to caress her, reaching still higher. He pushes her dress up, baring her thighs. First Hunter looks over his shoulder again. His father is sitting quietly, seemingly unaware. But though Sawney Beane gives no outward sign, his attention is focused on the boy and girl.

  First Hunter rubs and squeezes the firm flesh of Girl Hunter’s thighs. Though she does not change her position, she begins to respond to his touch. Her eyes close, the rhythm of her breathing alters.

  Continuing to fondle one leg, First Hunter cups her small breast with his other hand. At first he squeezes the breast through the rough material of her shift, but soon he puts his hand down the top of it. At his touch, her nipple swells and grows erect. First Hunter loses all sense of caution. He is not aware that Sawney Beane is staring hard in their direction, his eyes now fully open.

  First Hunter pulls down the top of Girl Hunter’s loose fitting shift, revealing both her breasts. At the sight of the small, dark-tipped globes, he sucks in his breath. Then he covers one breast with his mouth, letting his tongue run over the taut nipple.

  Girl Hunter has remained seated, but now she leans back, resting her weight on her arms, her eyes closed. She never touches First Hunter.

  First Hunter maneuvers himself between her legs, oblivious to everything except the body against which he is pressing. He pushes Girl Hunter’s dress up to her waist and his hands roam wildly all over her body. His fingers brush the fine, sparse hair of her pubis and feel a warm dampness. A strangled grunt of satisfaction escapes him.

  First Hunter undoes his breeches and prepares to enter his sister. Just as he is about to thrust forward, he is lifted abruptly and thrown to one side. Sawney Beane stands over him, his face expressionless. First Hunter reacts like a mad animal—growling, spitting, roaring his anger and frustration. “You... you... shit eater... sheep fucker... you...” he spits at his father.

  Sawney Beane laughs,” and this enrages First Hunter even more. He attacks ferociously, clawing and trying to bite his father. The boy’s rage makes his attack ineffective, and Sawney Beane, with his superior strength and cunning, finds it easy to control him.

  Eventually Sawney Beane tires of the game and gives First Hunter a tremendous open-handed slap to the head that sends the boy flying. Insane with fury, First Hunter tries to speak, but only spittle comes from his mouth. Finally he manages to scream, “She is mine! She is mine!”

  Sawney Beane is no longer amused. A sinister light shines in his eyes. He leaps on First Hunter and begins to choke him. The boy struggles at first, then quietens. His breathing becomes difficult, and his eyes bulge.

  Sawney Beane moves his head very close to the boy’s. He speaks slowly, but with great intensity. “I am the Master here. I will take what I want. You can do what you will with the girl... or what she will let you. But you must not interfere with me if I want something. If you fight me again, you will be dead.”

  The other children laugh as Sawney Beane releases the boy, who slinks away into the darkness. First Hunter is still angry, but he has no doubt that he will be killed if he challenges Sawney Beane again. He has been defeated, and his clouded brain struggles to adjust to the situation.

  Meg has watched the fight impassively, the baby still sucking at her breast.

  Sawney Beane looks around to see if there will be other challenges to his authority. His cold stare causes the laughter and chatter to fade into silence. He walks over to Girl Hunter. She is still in the same position, with her breasts bare and her dress bunched at the waist. She breathes heavily; the fight has excited her more than First Hunter’s caresses.

  Sawney Beane stares down at her firm young body, so different from the soft, abundant flesh of her mother. His nostrils flar
e as he inhales the musky woman odor. He pulls down his breeches and throws himself upon her, entering her almost instantly. Girl Hunter gasps in wonder and pleasure.

  Meg looks on unconcerned, but the other children are excited.

  Sawney Beane makes grunting sounds with each thrust, and the girl’s gasps answer him. As he tenses for orgasm, she digs her fingers into his back. He shouts, “I am the Master!” and immediately Girl Hunter screams in hysterical pleasure. She has been taken by her father! She has been taken by the gray wolf of the forest! His triumphant shout and her scream echo in the silence.

  Sawney Beane pulls up his breeches and returns to Meg. He sits in his familiar cross-legged position, his eyes again half closed. The children sit motionless, and then, gradually, they relax. The younger ones resume their game of tag, and the cave is as it was before.

  The undercurrent of sexuality in the family bursts forth in the days ahead. Sexual energy crackles through the cave; the smell of lust is heavy. Like a pack of wild dogs in heat, the family couples at every opportunity. All but the youngest children are involved, and these imitate their elders, pressing their naked loins together, thrusting their hips in a parody of the sexual act.

  At first the males take the initiative, but Meg soon begins to assert herself, and the girls are quick to follow her lead. All are swept up in the flood. Sawney Beane cannot control the situation, but he is wise enough to realize that he would only jeopardize his position if he attempted to contain the forces he has liberated. And he knows that this new activity, like the hunt, will soon become routine; he will then regain his control. Circumstances will be somewhat different, but he will adapt. He is the Master.

  BOOK THREE

  I

  The family has grown greatly during the last few years. Girl Hunter is nursing her second baby; several of her younger sisters have borne children. In fact, without exception, all the girls who have reached puberty are in varying stages of pregnancy.

  Most of the family is out now and the cave is quiet. Meg sits with the younger children and a number of the pregnant girls. A few older boys are paired with girls, and their manner is proprietary. These relationships are not sexually exclusive, and the question of fatherhood does not arise, nor could it be answered if it did.