The Flesh Eaters (6 page)

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 worth, 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!”

Andrews’s difficulty in putting away his sword betrays his excitement. Attempting to appear to be considering Meg’s situation, he slowly rubs the wart on his nose. Really, he thinks, this is almost too good to be true. At last he speaks, with a show of reluctance. “I suppose I believe you... but as to helping you, I’m not so sure.”

“Oh, Master Andrews—”

“Last night, I was not pleased when you withheld your favors from me.”

“Please, Master Andrews!”

“No, I was not at all pleased. You inflamed me and then refused me.”

“That was because my father was there.” Meg bites her lower lip. “If you help me now, I will do whatever you wish.”

“Whatever I wish?... Stand still, and let me look at you.”

Meg holds her hands to her sides and arches her back, causing her breasts to jut even more.

Like a boy in a sweetshop, Andrews does not know where to look first. His eyes roam from her white breasts with their red centers to her round belly, to her dimpled thighs, to her prominent mound. He has difficulty breathing.

“You are a fine looking woman. If I help you, I expect you to show your appreciation.”

“Whatever you wish.”

“In advance.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I say that.”

Meg bows her head in submission.

In his haste, Andrews gets his foot caught in the stirrup as he dismounts from his horse. He untangles himself, rushes to Meg and clutches her to him, rubbing his bulging codpiece against her. His hands run over her body, greedily squeezing her resilient flesh. He kisses her neck and shoulders. Suddenly he seizes one breast with both hands and puts his mouth over the nipple, sucking it, teasing it with his tongue. Meg gasps in surprise, then places her hand on his codpiece, locates the opening, and slides the hand inside to encircle his swollen penis. A groan comes from deep in his throat. Meg removes her hand and pulls abruptly away from him. Andrews’s puffy eyes open wide, but before he can speak, she says, ‘Let us leave the road.”

“Lead the way, girl—and be quick.”

Andrews follows her into the bushes, running his hands over her back and buttocks, afraid to lose contact. They reach a clear patch.

Andrews removes his cloak and places it on the ground. He helps Meg to lie down on the cloak, then kneels between her spread thighs and looks upon her body. He places his hands on her breasts and presses them roughly, savoring the yielding firmness. His bulging eyes seem about to pop from his head. He fumbles at his waistband, pushes his tights down to his knees, and throws himself upon her. His face grows red with exertion as he pounds vigorously away; his eyeballs glisten moistly, and he grunts with each thrust.

Suddenly a curious look comes over Andrews’s face. His pelvis stops thrusting; his eyes seem puzzled. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words are blocked by a great spout of blood. He does not understand why his life blood is spilling onto Meg’s white shoulder and soaking his cloak, but his bewilderment does not last long for he is soon dead.

Sawney Beane stands over him, his knife buried in Andrews’s back. With a grunt, Meg pushes the inert body off of her and kneels over it. Sawney Beane and Meg look at each other. They smile—and then, triumphantly, they begin to laugh.

“Easy!... I told you it would be easy,” he says.

“His face! You should have seen his face when the knife went in. So surprised! He didn’t know what it was! And then he saw his blood running out of his mouth! It was good.” Meg hugs herself in an ecstasy of pleasure, pressing her breasts together. “It was so good! Even better than before.”

Sawney Beane becomes serious. “He would have taken you back. You do not regret your decision?”

“Never! Never! Never!” Looking down at the body, she spits. “
You
were going to help me? Fat pig!” She half lifts the body, pulls out the knife, and licks the blood off the blade.
You
will help me?” She raises the knife, then plunges it into the body again and again, each thrust accompanied by a scream of “Help me! Help me! Help me!” The two words are like a curse.

Meg stops at last and looks up at Sawney Beane, a wild expression in her eyes. Hungrily, she licks her lips. He takes the knife from her and, with surprising skill, cuts into Andrews’s chest. He pulls aside the pectoral muscles and hacks at the ribs until they break. He reaches into the chest cavity and grasps the heart. Quickly, he severs the veins and arteries and removes the organ. For a moment he looks intently at the dark, glistening muscle; then he raises it high above him and tilts back his head.

“I am the gray wolf of the forest! Fear me! I feed upon your heart!” he shouts.

He lowers the heart and tears at it with his teeth. Greedily, Meg joins him. They eat furiously, ripping the tough muscle, grunting and growling like starving animals. As they eat, their eyes meet, their red-coated mouths smile, and once again they are convulsed with triumphant laughter.

Sawney Beane and Meg lie on the ground in the clearing, overcome by the torpor that follows a large meal. Meg is dressed now. She feels content. She has finally managed to convince Sawney Beane that her wish to go back to town was temporary, due only to hunger and fatigue. And surely she has proven herself by trapping Andrews. Sawney Beane seems to trust her now, but... She wonders if he might have killed her. She will be very careful in the future.

Slabs of Andrews’s flesh have been removed from the chest and legs, and Sawney Beane devours a last morsel of meat. “This may be the first time I have ever eaten my fill,” he says.

“But not the last.”

“No, not the last. Do you like it?”

Meg nods. “I like having my belly full, but I like the killing more. The meat is meat, but when the knife goes in... I feel... I don’t know, I can’t explain it.” She caresses her lower body. “I feel strange inside... strange, but very good.” She cuddles up to him. “I want to do it again. Can we get somebody else? Can we do it soon?”

“Soon enough. First we must find somewhere we can live. Where we can be safe and not be found. I will know the place when I find it.”

“And we do nothing until then?” Her voice begins to whine.

“Not until then.”

Sawney Beane sees that Meg is pouting. He speaks slowly, but with great force. “Listen carefully. We hunt when I say we hunt. We eat when I say we eat. We sleep when I say we sleep. Do you understand?”