The Totems of Abydos

CHAPTER 39





The summer passed, and then the winter, with its cold, and its snow, came. The forest was white. Gits, and some other creatures of the forest, hibernated. On the ground, covered with snow, lay the husks of fallen lantern fruit. At night, however, even Pons could see dimly, in spite of the moonless sky, simply in virtue of the light of stars, reflecting from the snow. Branches, weighted with ice, laced with crystalline structures, occasionally snapped, and, with a very clear sound, carrying in the cold air, fell to the ground. The floor of the forest was carpeted with white. The tread of fleet ones, dainty, and the tread of others, less delicate, could be detected here and there. During this time the Pons stayed much in their village. The beast, during the winter, roamed much abroad. It was warm in its winter coat, and it enjoyed the cold, and the snow. Without the leaves the forest, the trees like dark, giant posts, was very open to it. The beast, however, it must be admitted, also enjoyed the fall, with the changing of the leaves, and the summer, with the fullness of the forest’s majesty. It was only the spring that caused it great pain. This may have been, in part, because it was in a spring, long ago, on a far world, that Rodriguez and Brenner had first set out for Abydos. But it seems more likely that there was another, and simpler, reason for the pain, a reason which was a beast’s reason.

In the course of time, given the orbit of the planet, the angle of its axis and such, ice, drop by drop, fell from the branches, moistening, and then creating tiny rivulets in, the forest floor. Streams flowed faster, filled with melted snow from far away. The heads of gits poked out of their nests. Buds began to form on the trees. Grass began to sprout here and there. Certain birds reappeared in the sky, some in flocks, and others in lines, their presence once again indicating the location of ancient routes. Pons, with pointed sticks, and scarps, emerged from their village to essay the first working of the soil. All in all, it was once again, in accord with the physics of worlds, to which many rhythms of nature were attuned, and the expectations of calendars, spring. As I have suggested this was a difficult time for the beast. It was restless. It seemed irritable. It tended to be unusually aggressive. Pons had the good sense not to approach it in these times.

It was one evening in early spring when the beast, troubled by dark dreams, stirrings and shadows, half understood, from the old home, had awakened roaring. After this, uncomfortable, miserable, it had not wished to return to sleep. It did not wish to be tortured again by such dreams, or the shapes it sensed in them, or the maddening scents they carried, as clear to it in its sleep, as penetrant, as though they were borne in the actual air of the forest. Before this the beast had wandered from his own territory, as it occasionally did, and had been gone for several days. It had only returned this afternoon. It had sought stealthy ones to kill, for the pleasure of it, but had found few. They avoided him now, almost all of them. And he, in spite of his fury, his frustration, if they would not stand against him, had not long pursued them. The beast in it, you see, was now ascendant, and it tended to obey the laws of the beast. A more reflective form of life, a more thoughtful form of life, might have been much more implacable, much more relentless, in such matters.

Troubled, restless, angry, the beast left its lair and climbed, scrambling up, to the height of the cliff, where it might look down on the forests that were its world. In the distance, it could see the light of a fire or two in the village.

It sat for some time on the height of the cliff.

Suddenly, almost unaccountably, the hair on its body erected, its nostrils distended, its ears lifted, it snarled. It looked down, beyond the platform, to the dark trees beyond.

Something, it sensed, was there.

Amongst the trees, amongst his trees, somewhere, not far, was something, something which moved with a stealth, a subtlety, not unlike his own.

The beast snarled, warningly.

“Be warned, intruder,” bespoke that sound.

No response came from the forest.

The beast strained all his senses, but it could apprehend nothing. Perhaps it had been mistaken. Perhaps there was nothing there. The wind was blowing from the cliffs. If there was something there, it was approaching from upwind.

The beast then emitted a mighty roar, a roar which rang out as might have a trumpet over the forest, an unmistakable sound, of claimancy, of territoriality, of sovereignty, of readiness to do the works of war.

The beast then listened with care. It would have had excellent hearing, even amongst its own kind. It heard nothing. Could it have been mistaken? Far off, Pons were disturbed by the roar. The fastenings on the gate would be checked. Torches would be lit, and placed at the gate, and, here and there, about the palisade, that frail bulwark. Stealthy ones about, if any lurked near, would presumably now withdraw from the area. Certainly they would not be likely to mistake the menace, and meaning, of that sound. Indeed, had not the beast given them warning? Was it not now, in the common customs of beasts, allowing them to withdraw with furtive grace, as though they might never have been there? But the beast could not detect the sound of movement, of either rushing forward, then stopping, then approaching again, of challenge, or of retreat. There seemed to be nothing, not even the stirring of leaves or the rustle of undergrowth, it being thrust aside.

Once again it roared, that there might be no mistake about matters.

Again there was silence.

Then the beast quickly descended from the cliff, leaped to the surface of the platform, listened there for a moment, and then leaped from the platform and moved toward the trees.

Every sense was alert.

It moved into the trees.

It was elated.

On the cliff it had not been displeased by the silence.

Rather it had been pleased.

Too, it had not interpreted that silence as we might have, that there had been nothing there, or that it was now gone. Rather it understood that silence differently, understanding it to mean that whatever had been there was still there, that it had not withdrawn. It was certain, you see, as you or I, and even a more rational particle of its own nature, might not have been, that there had been something there, and that there was still something there.

The explanation for its elation, as it entered the trees, seeking, hunting, was not difficult to determine. It had to do with various primitive excitements, such as the eagerness to rend and the lust for blood.

In a moment or two it detected, before it, dark amongst the trees, hard even for it to discern, a large, dark, sinuous shape. This thing was much larger than a stealthy one, or, at least, those it had hitherto encountered.

The beast, as one might suppose, was much surprised by this.

The beast did not deign to conceal, or to attempt to conceal, its presence.

It approached with caution, but frontally.

It had roared. It had emitted its challenges. It had made its intent clear, and all the dark, terrible menace of that intent.

The intruder, crouching down, its belly close to the ground, backed away, a step or two.

The beast then circled the intruder, which turned about, belly low, so that they might continue to face one another. The beast now, in the stirring of the wind, soft against its face, took in the scent of the intruder, which was surely, as the beast would have anticipated, the scent of a stealthy one, or akin to such a scent.

Suddenly Brenner thought, Rodriguez was mistaken! He thought this form of life was not indigenous to Abydos. But it is! It must be!

The beast growled, and the intruder responded with a snarl, tail lashing.

Is this to be driven away, wondered the beast. I must kill this, thought Brenner.

You see, something in the beast, on a level more primitive than the conjectures of Brenner, which remained rather rational, was profoundly shaken, both by the lineaments of the newcomer and by its scent. It seemed it had seen such things before, and had experienced that scent, or something like it, before, in its dreams, and, perhaps, in its memories, those from long ago, from the old home.

It was only half the size of the beast, but it was, nonetheless, an extremely large animal. Its markings, as Brenner could discern, were similar to his own.

The beast growled, menacingly, at the newcomer, which responded in kind.

Yes, thought the beast, obedient to the imperatives of interspecific aggression, this is to be driven away.

This is extremely dangerous, thought Brenner. I am confident that I can kill it. I must do so.

What had originally motivated Brenner in his rapid descent from the cliff no longer swayed him. The eagerness to rend, the lust for blood, the appetition for destruction, originally felt, for whatever reason, no longer burned in his heart. It seemed that the beast now thought, merely, this perhaps in accord with the customs of its kind, in dealing with its own kind, this thing is to be driven away. If this thing is to be killed, thought Brenner, it will have to be killed with intent, with fixed purpose.

The beast then approached the newcomer, growling. It put its face down, toward the newcomer. The newcomer, the stranger, the intruder, raised its head, snarling. The beast put its snout against the newcomer, growling. The newcomer remained extremely still. The beast continued its investigations. The newcomer turned about, suddenly, angrily, almost like a striking snake, fangs bared, and the beast, with a cry of rage and pain, leaped back, its shoulder bloody.

The newcomer crouched there, snarling.

The beast sat back and licked its own blood, at its shoulder, regarding the newcomer.

The newcomer now crouched very low.

The beast then, without warning, sprang suddenly forward and with a blow of its great paw smote the head of the newcomer forcibly to the side, and, following this, with its fangs, twice lacerated its flanks, taking two bloods for one.

The newcomer whimpered.

The beast, angry, moved to one side, that the newcomer might now flee into the trees.

But the newcomer did not move. It remained where it was, flanks bleeding, belly low.

The beast growled, a threatening, informative, cruel, lordly sound. This was answered by a sound from the throat of the newcomer. Its sound, however, was more in the nature of a whine, or whimper. In it might have been read a note of fear, of penitence.

The beast remained where it was for a time, leaving an avenue of escape open for the newcomer, of which it declined to make use.

I shall have to kill it, thought Brenner.

The beast continued to regard the newcomer.

The newcomer whimpered again.

Then the beast, in the fashion of the sovereign it was, closed off the retreat of the newcomer. It could now withdraw only to the cliffs, where, trapped, it might be dealt with as the beast pleased.

The newcomer presumably was not familiar with this territory, and would not realize the implications of what the beast had now done.

In regarding the newcomer, you see, the beast, had begun to be swayed by imperatives which, though scarcely understood, were quite as forcible in their impact as those of interspecific aggression.

It lunged forward a step, violently, snarling, and the female leaped up, turning about, and fled.

In a moment, of course, she realized the cliffs were before her and the beast behind her.

She stopped suddenly, and turned about, frightened, frenziedly, two or three times, having nowhere to go, and then crouched down, whimpering.

The beast then took her by the back of the neck and dragged her bodily to the surface of the platform. There, lying on her side, at his feet, she looked up at him in terror. She lifted one paw, pleadingly, the claws retracted. She whimpered.

No, no, thought Brenner, I must not do this! What could come of this could mean the doom of the Pons! What could come of this but the terror of beasts uncomplicated with thought, innocent in their appetites and might, not fathers but hunters and killers, carnivores, predators, who in merciless innocence would claim the forests for themselves!

The female whimpered.

Yes, thought the beast, I remember! And it smelled then, suddenly, the readiness of the female, and it enflamed it like storms and wine. Here was the meaning of the dreams and the memories!

Here was the female!

Here was what something in it had been waiting for, what it had longed for, yearningly, on the cliffs, during the long nights.

Now it was here, at his feet. Its petty attempt at resistance, frightening even her, who must have instinctually recognized its possible consequences, had been, at the pleasure of the beast, he having permitted her to consider the matter for a time, and anticipate his response, utterly crushed. Her flight, ritualistic or not, had been abruptly terminated, stopped short, before bleak, towering, seemingly impassable, walls of stone. Now she lay before him, on her side, dragged bodily to where he wished her. She lay before him, helpless and submissive. His power over her was complete, effective, uncompromising and ruthless. She squirmed a little. She made a tiny, mewing sound. The beast looked down upon her. She was clearly in estrus. The beast sensed not only the apprehension in her, but the need in her, the readiness in her, her heat. The scents, and the sight of her, were heady. The flanks! The lines of her body! The smells of her! These things were maddening to the beast. Why then had she not assumed the position, wondered the beast. It then, with its prehensile paws, positioned the female. She seemed to cry out, startled, held, helpless. Is she so young, asked the beast. No, it told itself. Clearly not. Can it be that a female this trim, this beautiful, this exciting, does not understand the meaning of this? Can a female this lithe, this attractive, not have been so had many times before? Surely many such as I have used her previously for such purposes, to sate our lusts? How, then, is it that she is reluctant, or perplexed? Are her instincts confused?

As she seemed distraught he exposed his claws somewhat, entering them a bit into her body, not to hurt her but to hold her the more securely, and that she would understand herself the more securely held. His grip, anchored now, was quite tight. She made a pathetic little sound, as though pleading for mercy. She was absolutely helpless.

She felt then the touch of him and, suddenly, terrified, she tried to free herself.

This, of course, her struggles, was unavailing. It only resulted in the tightening of his grip upon her. She whimpered in pain.

The beast found her behavior puzzling.

She was then very still.

She had learned that she could not escape, even if she wished to do so.

She did not wish to deepen the hold of the claws in her.

She felt then again the gentle, exploratory, and prodding touch of him.

This is a strange female, thought the beast.

Then the female uttered a small, soft, surprised noise. Now she is beginning to understand, thought the beast.

She squirmed a tiny bit.

There is no escape for her, thought the beast.

But the female uttered a soft noise, one it seemed at once of curiosity, of surrender, of petition.

She is an unusual and interesting female, thought the beast.

The female then, feeling his touch, began to whine beggingly.

Yes, it is a normal female, thought the beast.

I must not do this, thought Brenner, wildly, agonizingly. Am I naught but a beast? Is this what I have become! How is it that I, of my race and kind, should find beauty in this form? How is it that I can find this attractive, that I can respond to it? What have I become? What am I? How horrifying that I should find this thing so beautiful, so wanted, so perfect! How is it that I should find this lithe, alien form, this glossy pelt, these movements, these sounds, these odors, so exciting? Would it not be better to be forever condemned to loneliness? And what but pain and horror might come of this? Is this not death to Pons? Should I not, in my lonely vigilance, in the discharge of my dark stewardship, drive this thing away, or, failing that, destroy it?

It seems a quite satisfactory female, thought the beast. It will give me much pleasure.

The female, held, intensified her supplicatory whines.

Brenner found himself excited, half maddened, even frenzied, by these sounds, and by the sight and the scent of her. He could not believe the feel of her body. He was delirious with joy at her proximity.

I must drive her away, thought Brenner.

She is quite satisfactory, thought the beast. I will never let her escape.

I must drive her away, thought Brenner.

I shall claim her, thought the beast.

I must not do this, thought Brenner.

Then the beast uttered a mighty roar, of joy, of triumph, of exultancy, of jubilation, of satisfaction, and the pretty one, so helplessly held, uttered a sound of great surprise, and perplexity, and then, in a moment, again and again, yowled in ecstasy.

Later the female licked at the blood on the beast’s shoulder, cleaning it for him, and he, in turn, licked her flanks, where he had, in the forest, punished her for her insolence, or resistance. On her hide, too, at the flanks, there were the bloody marks of his claws. These marks, too, he attended to, with his large, rough tongue.

He later made use of her again on the platform, and then, again, after having driven her up the trail, nipping at her, on the height of the cliffs. He then, toward morning, drove her down to the valley, and thence herded her to his den. There, within those walls, and near the outer gate, that closest to the valley, he again, from time to time, pleased himself with her beauty.

In the morning, before they rested, she lay at his feet and looked up at him, lovingly. She lifted her head and licked at his leg.

You are mine, pretty one, thought the beast.

You are mine, pretty one, thought Brenner.

They then rested, curled about one another.