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Authors: L. A. Morse
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to observe the hunt and the kill.
In the dim light, in the vast shadows of the cave, the family no longer appears truly human. Except to hunt, they never leave the cave, so they are all very pale. In the darkness, the whiteness of their skin is almost phosphorescent, like that of certain kinds of mold or slugs. Their hair is long and lank and dirty. Their clothes and bodies are stained with filth and blood, with scabs and sores and bruises. The smell of the cave—dampness, brackish water, urine, excrement, rotting flesh—clings to them, but they do not notice it.
The children are thin and wiry like their father, but their rough games have made them very strong. Their jaw muscles are exceptionally developed from eating stringy, uncooked flesh, and gnawing on resilient bones. The children do not have names. They are called “Boy” or “Girl” or “You,” but there is rarely any confusion. They have learned that it is best to be alert to their parents’ wishes and commands.
There is an uncanny cohesiveness among the group—a total awareness of one another. They function almost as one organism, moving and breathing in harmony.
The children know no life other than that of the cave; they accept it as normal. And so it is also with Sawney Beane and Meg, for their existence prior to the cave is only a dim recollection of unpleasantness. The cave—here, now—is their life, and it is right.
Three infants are being attended to by Meg. The youngest sucks at her bare breast, which almost continual nursing has considerably distended. The other two babies are at her feet, contentedly chewing on bits of human muscle. Ordinarily this would be too tough for them, but it has begun to decompose, and after much effort they have reduced it to a soft pulp.
Five children are grouped around Sawney Beane, who is conducting one of his frequent sessions of instruction.
“Remember these rules. You must obey them. If you do not, you will be punished. You must never be seen. Never leave the cave except to hunt. Always stay hidden from outsiders. Never show yourself except to attack.” He turns to the oldest child. “When do you leave the cave?”
“Never leave the cave except to hunt.”
“And when do you leave the cave to hunt?”
The child is unsure of the answer. “When it is safe?”
Displeased, Sawney Beane slowly repeats the question.
The child is desperate; he knows the consequence of answering incorrectly. Relief washed over his face as he remembers. “Only when you tell us to hunt.”
Sawney Beane nods. “Only when I tell you to hunt. You can only do what I tell you to do. And you must do what I tell you to do.” He turns to another child. “How do we kill?”
“We take the things by surprise. We kill quickly.” The answer comes as if by rote.
“That is right. Surprise them. Kill quickly. Never give them a chance to fight. We attack only when we are certain we will succeed. When we show ourselves, no one must ever escape. Our safety depends on that.”
“How do we surprise them?” the second child asks.
Sawney Beane nods approval of this question. “The things are stupid. They are curious. When they see something strange, they go to look at it. They forget everything. Then you jump out and make their blood run. They only know you are there after the knife goes in. Then their faces look like this.” Contemptuously, he mimics the surprise and fear of the victims, and the children laugh. “It is very funny when they know they are dead. Then they are afraid. Then the things fear us. That is good. We drink their blood because we are the hunters.”
One of the youngest children has not been paying attention. He has been playing with gem-encrusted jewelry and bright gold coins, holding them up so that they catch the candlelight. Now, as he tosses them from hand to hand, they make a tinkling sound. Sawney Beane notices, and he slaps the child hard. The child is knocked down, but he does not cry. He
In the dim light, in the vast shadows of the cave, the family no longer appears truly human. Except to hunt, they never leave the cave, so they are all very pale. In the darkness, the whiteness of their skin is almost phosphorescent, like that of certain kinds of mold or slugs. Their hair is long and lank and dirty. Their clothes and bodies are stained with filth and blood, with scabs and sores and bruises. The smell of the cave—dampness, brackish water, urine, excrement, rotting flesh—clings to them, but they do not notice it.
The children are thin and wiry like their father, but their rough games have made them very strong. Their jaw muscles are exceptionally developed from eating stringy, uncooked flesh, and gnawing on resilient bones. The children do not have names. They are called “Boy” or “Girl” or “You,” but there is rarely any confusion. They have learned that it is best to be alert to their parents’ wishes and commands.
There is an uncanny cohesiveness among the group—a total awareness of one another. They function almost as one organism, moving and breathing in harmony.
The children know no life other than that of the cave; they accept it as normal. And so it is also with Sawney Beane and Meg, for their existence prior to the cave is only a dim recollection of unpleasantness. The cave—here, now—is their life, and it is right.
Three infants are being attended to by Meg. The youngest sucks at her bare breast, which almost continual nursing has considerably distended. The other two babies are at her feet, contentedly chewing on bits of human muscle. Ordinarily this would be too tough for them, but it has begun to decompose, and after much effort they have reduced it to a soft pulp.
Five children are grouped around Sawney Beane, who is conducting one of his frequent sessions of instruction.
“Remember these rules. You must obey them. If you do not, you will be punished. You must never be seen. Never leave the cave except to hunt. Always stay hidden from outsiders. Never show yourself except to attack.” He turns to the oldest child. “When do you leave the cave?”
“Never leave the cave except to hunt.”
“And when do you leave the cave to hunt?”
The child is unsure of the answer. “When it is safe?”
Displeased, Sawney Beane slowly repeats the question.
The child is desperate; he knows the consequence of answering incorrectly. Relief washed over his face as he remembers. “Only when you tell us to hunt.”
Sawney Beane nods. “Only when I tell you to hunt. You can only do what I tell you to do. And you must do what I tell you to do.” He turns to another child. “How do we kill?”
“We take the things by surprise. We kill quickly.” The answer comes as if by rote.
“That is right. Surprise them. Kill quickly. Never give them a chance to fight. We attack only when we are certain we will succeed. When we show ourselves, no one must ever escape. Our safety depends on that.”
“How do we surprise them?” the second child asks.
Sawney Beane nods approval of this question. “The things are stupid. They are curious. When they see something strange, they go to look at it. They forget everything. Then you jump out and make their blood run. They only know you are there after the knife goes in. Then their faces look like this.” Contemptuously, he mimics the surprise and fear of the victims, and the children laugh. “It is very funny when they know they are dead. Then they are afraid. Then the things fear us. That is good. We drink their blood because we are the hunters.”
One of the youngest children has not been paying attention. He has been playing with gem-encrusted jewelry and bright gold coins, holding them up so that they catch the candlelight. Now, as he tosses them from hand to hand, they make a tinkling sound. Sawney Beane notices, and he slaps the child hard. The child is knocked down, but he does not cry. He
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