The Totems of Abydos

CHAPTER 34





Through the dusk of the winter evening the small figure trudged back toward the village, holding to the string. Behind him, like a gigantic shadow, and as noiseless as one, came the beast.

The small figure, slowly, carefully, departing from the string, his hands outstretched, crossed the clearing. In a few moments, he touched palings, and, feeling his way about, came to the gate.

The beast remained back from the gate. It sat some thirty or forty yards back.

There seemed soon, in spite of the lateness of the day, and the nature of the season, much movement, much agitation, within the palings. Lights moved back and forth within them. Sitting there, it could smell smoke from fires within the village. It did not care for that smell.

The beast asked itself why it had come. What could there be here of interest, or importance, to it? It had, of course, followed the small figure.

It did not understand the village, which seemed a poor lair, or nest. It did not find the inhabitants of that place, which it had observed, from time to time, here and there, from the darkness of the forest, of great interest. They were surely amongst the most miserable and weakest, and worthless, creatures of the forest. Their jaws, and teeth, were small. They lacked claws. They could not fly. They were poor climbers, poor runners. There was little to be remarked about them, other than the ease with which they could maintain their balance on two legs. That was impressive, like the unusual form of locomotion practiced by certain amphibians at the edges of streams and ponds. To be sure, standing on the hind legs did raise their heads higher than they would otherwise be, and this might be of some advantage in looking about oneself, particularly if one had inferior hearing and smell. All in all, the beast held the small creatures in contempt. They were edible, of course. But it was confident it would prefer the fleet ones, or even stealthy ones.

Why have I come here, once more the beast asked itself. But, in its heart, it knew. It had come because of the thoughts, the riddles, the mysteries, the dreams, the troublings. These small creatures hiding in their lair, or nest, were surely, on the whole, of little interest. They were small and weak, and slow and awkward. They could not fly. They could not climb well, or run well. But they did do something that the other creatures of the forest did not do, something that was, in its way, more impressive than climbing well, or running well, and more impressive, too, than the possession of an upright posture. They spoke.

Have I been here before, the beast asked itself? And strange memories occurred to it, of giddy sensations, of swingings about, like a tree clinger, but without grasping a branch, of flying, like a bird, but without wings, of seeing trees, it seemed, from the top, not from the ground, of grating, clanking sounds, of a ground it could not claw through, even less than stone, of hard, narrow, closely set trees, of stuff like the floor, through which it could not press, through which it could not bite, through which it could scarcely see.

The beast growled, in anger.

The gate to the palisade opened a bit and some of the small creatures, Pons, emerged. Some of these held torches. The beast lowered itself to its belly, tail lashing. It remembered, from somewhere, such lights, and others, powerful, from above, seeming to emerge from terrible sounds, like beams darting back and forth through the trees.

The eyeless one was thrust toward the beast and, slowly, foot by foot, while his fellows remained by the gate, approached it, hands outstretched.

The beast growled once, to guide it.

It growled again, in a moment, menacingly, to halt it. It was close enough.

But the figure took another step forward.

The beast backed away a step, belly low, growling warningly.

Again the figure came forward. It did not seem afraid. This puzzled the beast. This was the first time it had been approached in such a fashion. It snarled, warningly. But it would not give ground further. It opened its jaws. It lifted a paw from the ground, in its agitation the claws springing out. But the figure, perhaps as it could not see, came forward still. It came forward with small, slow steps, reaching out. Again the beast snarled, menacingly, warningly. But the figure continued to approach. And then the figure was beside it, standing beside it, at the very side of its jaws, which were close to the ground. The beast did not understand this. It did not understand this, at all. Why had it not killed it? Kill it, thought the beast. But it did not kill it, as easy as that would have been. Somehow, not understanding why, it was permitting this insignificant creature to stand near it. He felt its small hands at its muzzle. The beast’s ears flattened back. It growled. But it was permitting this creature to touch it. The small figure then, weeping, embraced, as he could, the head of the beast, and laid his own head against the beast’s head. By this the beast was much troubled. It understood little, or nothing. How was it that it had permitted this? How strange this all was, how unlike the old home! Why had it not killed this thing? Why did it not kill it even now, or, if this seemed impossible, back away from it, or run from it? The small creature held to the beast, sobbing. The Pons, seeing this, gasped, thrilled, and looked wildly to one another.

The beast heard, from somewhere in the vicinity of the gate, the voice of one of the small creatures:



We love you, father.

Forgive us, father, for what we have done.



This was answered, or followed, by another such voice. While this second voice was heard, calling out its phrases, enunciating them in measured tones, more, and more, of the small creatures emerged through the gate, taking their places before it. Some of these, too, carried torches.



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.



The beast, of course, understood this, at least in the sense of understanding the words. To be sure, it made little sense of it beyond that. It all seemed quite puzzling. Surely it could have nothing to do with it. Somehow, however, something in these words, like thunder from far away, like the humming, roaring sounds which had, at first, seemed so far away, like the small, moving lights, which had, at first, seemed so far away, disturbed the beast.

A third voice then called out:



Forgive us, father.

Love us!

Cherish us!

Protect us!



The beast now half crouched, its tail lashing. Obviously it was becoming agitated. The small figure which had held it so closely could not hold to it now. The head had pulled away, it was too high for it to reach.

The torches were too much like candles. Things furtive, like phantoms, flew, and shrieked, about the edges of its memory. Its huge heart began to pound. The Pons were now spread out, about the palings, in the vicinity of the gate, some lifting their torches. They did not have strange skins. They wore robes. It recalled, from somewhere, robes of snowy white, wooden walls. Claws sprang into view. Its lips drew back, baring fangs.

Once more the voice called out:



Forgive us, father.

Love us!

Cherish us!

Protect us!



The beast, crouching down, its hind legs gathered under it, tail lashing, surveyed the gathered Pons, the tiny figures, the torches.



Love us!

Cherish us!

Protect us!



It recalled the parts of a body, somehow meaningful, before a platform. Polished scarps.



Cherish us!

Protect us!



It recalled another form, somehow itself, but which could not have been itself, and a strange thing, from which had emerged, bursting forth, a blast of ringing fire, and it drew back, recoiling inadvertently, even in this memory from that sight, and it recalled a gaping, monstrous cavity appearing black, then red, and flooding, in a mighty chest.

It crept forward again.

It recalled a vat, or jar, and, within that container, odd, with no body, a head.



Cherish us!

Protect us!



It did not understand these things, but it was not pleased.

It growled with terrible menace.

It was as though something crept closer now to the corners of its dark mind. It was as though there were something quite close to it now, but behind a curtain. It was close, as if it might be just behind a door, which had not yet been opened.

“Cherish us!” called a Pon.

“Protect us!” called another.

Again the beast growled. There was no mistaking the menace in that sound.

“Stop!” cried the small figure to the Pons near the gate. “Stop!”

But the Pons continued to call out their phrases.

The beast in its agitation, in its mounting fury, looked upon the Pons.

“Cherish us!” they called.

“Protect us!” they called.

The beast then addressed itself to the small creature who stood quite near it.

“What am I?” it asked.

“You are the totem!” screamed the small figure near it.

“Who am I?” it demanded, in a voice almost unintelligible in its form, in a voice heavy with wrath, in a voice which could be native only to a beast, in the accents of a creature who lived on flesh, in sounds which might have come from a storm.

“You are the father!” cried out the small creature.

In that moment then it seemed as though the cliffs had broken open, splitting apart, and a thousand forms, violent, and hideous, uncompromising, had burst forth, howling and screaming. It was as though all the fathers, all the victims, loved and hated, revered and betrayed, had come forth, and all thirsting for blood. And now, in the person of the beast, in the person of this terrible thing, the injuries done onto all these might, in one night of carnage, be avenged. It is that which I am, now thought the beast, the most recent in a line of progenitors, one required for life, who gives life but is to be destroyed by the life it gives, who is doomed to be servitor to ungrateful seed, who will be feared and hated because of the scepter which must be borne, and which he, alone, can bear, he doomed to be protector, defense and shield, tyrant, lover, king, victim.

The Pons, shrieking, fled toward the gate.

The beast, in all its terribleness, had reared up on its hind legs, more then than forty feet in height, clawing at the dark sky, roaring in fury, and pain, understanding what it was, and what had been done to it, and what it could now do, if it wished.

The beast stood there then, a moment later, very quietly, eyeing the gate.

This stillness in it, somehow, seemed even more menacing than its rage of a moment earlier.

It was not a simple beast, of course. It was a beast, but, too, it had a mind capable of firmness of purpose, capable of planning, of attention to detail.

This made it additionally terrifying.

The gate shut. The bars were put in place. Only the small figure of the eyeless one was left outside the palings. He had fallen, twice, trying to flee toward the gate. It had been shut before he could reach it.

The beast walked toward the gate. The small eyeless one, sensing its approach, backed against the palings.

“Where is the rifle?” asked Brenner.

The eyeless one looked up toward the beast. “It was destroyed,” he said.

“Good,” said Brenner.

“I saw it done before I was given this body.”

“That was their mistake,” said Brenner.

“It is their way,” said the eyeless one.

“A mistake,” said Brenner.

“They are at your mercy, like infants,” said the eyeless one.

Brenner could see torches within the palings, and the faces of some of the Pons through the gate.

“What are you going to do?” asked the eyeless one.

Brenner did not respond to this but went to the palings at the left of the gate and, with his shoulder, pressing against them, snapped several, and forced others, rupturing the dirt in which they had been planted, from the ground. He then moved to his right, toward the gate and then past it, and, carefully, putting his head to one side, with his teeth, drew up some four or five palings. He dropped them, one by one, like sticks, outside the former perimeter of the fence. Pons drew back from those parts of the fence. Brenner then went to the gate itself and, with the huge prehensile paws of the form of life which he now shared, or had become, with its nature, its instincts, and its memories, seized the gate. Then, with a growl, he reared up, yanking the gate from the fence and, turning, hurled it a hundred feet behind him, across the clearing. He then entered through the hole where the gate had been. Pons shrank back before him, toward the village clearing.

The eyeless one, feeling his way about the palings, groping his way, followed the sounds, the tiny sounds of the retreating Pons, the soft, exultant, anticipatory growls of the beast, in effect, herding them before it.

Brenner sat down, at the edge of the village clearing. He could see the small, open-sided shelter where the git cage had been. He could see the hut he had shared with Rodriguez. He surveyed the Pons.

“Where are you?” called the eyeless one.

“I am here,” said Brenner.

The eyeless one came to him, and put his hands out, feeling the beast.

“What are you going to do?” asked the eyeless one.

“I am going to kill them,” said Brenner. “I am going to kill them all.”

The Pons shrank back, further,

“If I should miss one or two,” said Brenner, “others in the forest will finish the work. I will not kill you.”

“You will not do this,” said the eyeless one.

“Who can stop me?” asked Brenner.

“One who is your equal,” said the eyeless one.

“He was old,” said Brenner. “He would not have been my equal. And I killed him.”

“There is another.”

“Bring him forth then,” said Brenner. “We shall adjudicate the matter.”

“He is here,” said the eyeless one.

“Where?” said Brenner. He knew there could be no other. Could their sense of smell not inform them of that.

“You,” said the eyeless one.

“You are mad,” said Brenner, licking at his fur, on the left shoulder.

“Surely you understand,” said the eyeless one.

“No,” said Brenner.

“You are the father,” said the eyeless one. “No beast devours its own kind.”

“These are not my kind,” said Brenner.

“They are at your mercy,” said the eyeless one.

“Excellent,” said Brenner.

“They count on your protection,” said the eyeless one.

“They have miscalculated,” said Brenner.

“You cannot hurt them,” said the eyeless one.

“You are mistaken,” said Brenner.

“You will not hurt them!” said the eyeless one.

“Why not?” asked Brenner, puzzled.

“They are your children,” said the eyeless one.

“They are not my children,” said Brenner.

“Some carry your seed,” said the eyeless one.

The beast turned about, in fury. It fled through the hole where the gate had been. Outside the remains of the fence it stopped, and roared in defiance, in anger. Then it put back its head and howled toward the dark sky.

From within the remains of the fence, a voice was heard, high-pitched, calling 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.



The beast looked back toward the palisade. It then turned about and disappeared into the forest. It was its intention, at that time, never to return. It wandered a long time in the forest, tirelessly. It drank now and then, at one stream or another. But it did not pause to hunt. Oddly enough, as though understanding this, fleet ones, very still in the forest, looked up from their feeding, watching it pass by. It came to a line of white stones and stopped before it. Here something inside it, different from itself, wept, in memory of a mighty creature. It then looked down, again, at the white stones. It did not need the stones, of course, to find its way back to the village. Its sense of direction would have seemed uncanny to most species, and particularly to many which regarded themselves as rational, some of which prided themselves on the substitution of cogitation for the compass of the instincts. And it could, in any case, if it had wished, have followed its own backtrail, which lay as open to its senses, soft on the leaves, almost steaming there, as might have a paved road, a succession of blazed trees, a line of stones, to other forms of life. Shortly before dawn, not following the stones, it had returned to the edge of the clearing, that within which the village lay.

It sat there, amongst the trees, at the edge of the clearing, in the darkness. Torches had been set about the breaches in the fence. It could see figures moving about, mostly within the palisade. The Pons were laboring to restore the gate, the palings.

It thought the following:



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.



It then returned to its lair.