The Totems of Abydos

CHAPTER 31





It could tell the feel of oncoming winter, the sharpness in the air. But, too, there were many other signs. Certain small animals, not worth tracking, were storing food. Some others had disappeared, to hide until spring. There were flockings of small birds, anticipatory to departures. And overhead, already, regularly in the late afternoon and evening, and on into the night, calling out to one another, could be marked the flights of others. There were many signs. Even the increasing thickness of its own coat could inform it of the approach of winter.

Things were not, of course, the same here as they had been at home.

Many times it had come to the height of this cliff, as though drawn here.

Often, for hours at a time, perplexed, it would look off toward the circle of sticks in the distance. In one part of its brain, it found such a thing anomalous. But then such things did not matter, really. They did not require attention. They did not impede its movement, they were not edible. They could be accepted as another part of its world, as merely given, and not to be questioned, accepted as facts, like stones, and trees, and the bright spots in the sky, at night. But in another part of its brain, for whatever reason, it found the circle of sticks vaguely familiar, and somehow disturbing. As it gazed upon it, it seemed that something, insistent, but no more than a whisper, struggled to make itself heard.

And then one night, it thought a thought quite unusual for such a beast, which was, “What am I?”

In all its memory there had never been such a question raised, and in such a way. It is not that it had never been perplexed before, for it had often been perplexed, or curious, and had, in its way, investigated one thing or another. But it is one thing to ask, so to speak, “What is that,” and another to ask, “What am I?” This sort of thing, as you can see, represents an attitude of inquiry quite other than that expressed in questions, so to speak, such as “Is it good to eat,” “Where is it hiding,” and “Can I catch it?”

The beast, you see, for the first time, at least as far as it could determine from its memories, had become conscious of its own mystery, its own inexplicable reality, its own unaccountability. That it should be, or that anything should be, had suddenly seemed very interesting to it. It could not recall having concerned itself with such matters before.

One of the very odd things about such questions, and this oddity much disturbed the beast, sometimes making it shudder, was that it seemed to hear these questions in its mind, and understand them. To attempt to make this clear we might point out that it was familiar to the beast that sounds might have meanings, for example, that the breaking of a twig or the dislodgment of a pebble might be pregnant with import, but there was a very different sort of meaning involved here. There seemed no obvious connection or relationship between the sound and what it meant.

From one point of view this seemed preposterous but, from another, it seemed frightfully mysterious, and grand. It was as though a world had suddenly opened up before it, a thrilling world, a world awesome in its possibilities. It grasped, dimly at first, and then with terror, what to you may seem simple, and obvious, namely, that a noise could mean. In a sense, you see, it had come to grasp the concept of a word. In considering the greatest inventions of various rational species, on various worlds, it is common to think of such things as a knife or lever. On the other hand, one might also consider the possibility that the most fecund, basic, significant invention of these species is commonly overlooked, perhaps because it is too familiar, or because it is invisible, the word. That a noise can mean, in this remote, mysterious, awesome, almost magical sense, is perhaps the most basic and important discovery of a species. Indeed, in that discovery, some might see the quantum leap to a new level of existence. In the beginning, so to speak, may have been the word.

But the beast did not truly believe that it had invented the word. It was rather that it seemed clear to it that there were such things and that, somehow, it understood them. That, in itself, was quite enough for the beast, and surely impressive enough.

It began, over time, to become obsessed with the conviction that the answers to many of the riddles with which it was concerned might be found within that circle of sticks, far off, visible from the cliffs. It was familiar, of course, with the string which ran from the vicinity of the platform toward the circle of sticks. It also read, along the track of the string, now faint, but still detectable, the odors of a beast not unlike itself. Against such a beast it stood ready to defend this territory but the beast did not appear. It had, it seemed, gone away.

The new beast, in claimancy and challenge, with its tread, and the rubbing of its oily fur on trees, and, more explicitly, in the way of its kind, with its feces, and urine, here and there, had marked out its territory. It did not confine itself to this territory, of course. Such markers were not intended to restrict its own peregrinations, which tended to be extensive, but rather to limit the possible intrusions of others. They marked out, primarily, that country it would defend, within which it would regard the passage of certain others as trespass. These borders, to a large extent, followed the lines, and claims, of its unknown predecessor. It was a territory of a nature and range suitable to its kind. The borders of such territories, of course, are somewhat flexible, depending on a number of factors, such as the beast in question, its youth and vigor, the terrain, the game, and the competition from other members of the same species. Within the territory, of course, the beast, following the predilection of its kind, tended to conceal its presence, burying feces, and such. The warnings at the borders, of course, were directed primarily against other predators, and, in particular, against those of its own kind, should they exist, external visitants, possible intruders. A subsidiary advantage of them, however, was that wandering fleet ones within the territory, encountering them, might turn back, thus remaining within the territory. It might be mentioned that the circle of sticks, with its assemblage of dried vegetations, or, as we might say, the village, was close to the heartland of this territory. The absolute heartland, in the sense of being the lair of the beast itself, was a cave in the cliffs, a long, tunnel-like cave which led back, under the cliffs, toward the village.

Often the beast followed the string toward the village, and then followed it back, to its lair. In this fashion, of course, subtle signs of its presence, oil from the pads of paws left on leaves, pelt oil on brush, and tree trunks, a few stray hairs, here and there, the prints of its feet, and such, tended to follow the track of the string. Stealthy ones, wise in their own ways, avoided this area.

The beast’s time, of course, was not all spent in subtle, sometimes troublesome, ruminations. Indeed, at times, in the hunt, and in the kill, and in the eager, grisly feeding, and, later, in lying down, sated, sleepy, its consciousness was not other than it had been in the old home. But then, later, the strange thoughts would come. Too, like all beasts it would dream, but it was sometimes puzzled by these dreams, and did not understand them. The beast dreams posed no problems, of course, the running in the forest, the delicious smell of the fleet one, recollections of a successful defense of territory the preceding winter in the old home, against an animal larger even than itself, the feel of wet leaves beneath its paws, the sound of water rushing over stones, where one might drink, such things. In these dreams its legs would twitch, and move, and it would growl. In these dreams there were no words, only things, and doings. But there were other dreams, too, which it did not understand, dreams of places it could not have been, and of other creatures, to whom it, in another form, spoke. It even remembered tastes of a sort which must be impossible, as it could not feed on such things. And it remembered a white softness, supine, trembling, regarding him, frightened, moving, squirming. And then it was again itself and it thrust its snout against that softness, and thrust its head between its legs, forcing them far apart, smelling it, understanding it in its needful, helpless, beast sense. It then drew back and looked at the animal, so white, so soft, so curved. It was before him, supine, in its way, tethered. It was helpless. It would be easy, it thought, to eat it. Perhaps, it thought, that is why it is tethered here, to be eaten. But it licked it, slowly, carefully, with his long, rough tongue. It could not draw away. What strange sounds those tethers made. They seemed excellent tethers. Then it seemed it was again in another form, one recalled from former dreams, one which had appeared even in vagrant memories, and it felt strange sensations, which it did not understand, like promptings in the blood of something not itself, another creature, inexplicable feelings, and there were inexplicable recollections, and it awakened, abruptly, unaccountably furious, and made its way to the summit of the cliff, above the platform, and recollected a distant world, and a broad head, eyes with pupils like knives, a sinuous, agile body, and a maddening, luring odor, and it put back its head, and howled, and howled.