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Authors: Michael Bishop
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the assembly ground—not simply the adult males, but individuals of every sex and age. Even now, however, in the midst of this lunging riot, the population of the clearing divided into two groups, each one scrimmaging furiously, intramurally, in its own cramped plot of earth. Manes tossed, and eyes pinwheeled with inarticulate color. The hunger of the Asadi made low sad music over the Wild, like summer thunder.
Slashing at and sometimes half maiming one another, the Asadi quickly devoured the two carcasses. Like piranhas, I thought.
Then E.Z., inhaling mightily, moaned again, and the confusion ceased. Every lean grey snout turned toward him. The dying went off to die alone, if any were in fact at the point of death. I saw no one depart, but neither did I see anyone lying helplessly injured in the dirt. The Asadi waited. The Bachelor and I waited.
The third and final act of today's baroque ritual: Eisen Zwei lowered the last carcass from his back, sat down beside it, and, in full view of his bemused tribespeople, ate the monstrous thing piece by piece. He gave the huri nothing, and the huri, inert but clinging, did not protest this selfish oversight. Meanwhile, terribly slowly, Eisen Zwei ate.
Eventually I retired to the shade of my lean-to, emerging at fairly frequent intervals to check the goings-on in the clearing. By the second hour the Asadi had begun to move about within their separate territories. By the third hour these territories had merged, making it impossible to distinguish the two distinct "teams" of previous days. The old pattern of Indifferent Togetherness had
reasserted itself, except that now the Asadi moved with incredible sluggishness, suspiciously eyeing their chieftain and refusing to encroach on the unmarked circle containing him.
I noticed that The Bachelor had come down out of his tree, but I was unable to find him in the clearing. All I saw was E.Z., isolated by a revolving barricade of legs, peeling away the last oily strips of meat from his dinner and chewing them with an expression of stupid pensiveness. The huri flapped once or twice, but the old man still did not feed it.
Finally, sunset.
The Asadi fled, but Eisen Zwei—no doubt as surfeited as a python that has just unhinged its lower jaw to admit a fawn— slumped in his place and did not move.
Now a single alien moon dances in the sky, and I'm left with a question whose answer is so stark and self-evident I'm almost afraid to ask it: From what sort of creature did the old man obtain and dress out his ritual offerings? Huddled beneath the most insubstantial of roofs, I am unable to fend off the frightening ramifications of the Asadi way of death. . . .
Speculations on Cannibalism: An Extemporaneous Essay
From the unedited in-the-field tapes of Egan Chancy: It's a beautiful day, and if I hold my microphone out—I'm holding it out now, extending it toward the Asadi—all you'll be able to hear is five hundred pairs of feet slogging back and forth through a centimeter of hot dust. There. Hear that? Perhaps you don't. Nevertheless, Eisen, it's a beautiful day.
It's four days since your counterpart, Eisen Zwei, stirred things up with his disorderly three-course banquet. Since then, nothing.
I'm walking. I'm walking among the Asadi. They fail to see me even though I'm just as solid, just as real, as they are. Even the ones I've given names to—Campy, Werner, Gus, Oliver, and the others—refuse to grant me the simple fact of my existence. This is
hard, Ben. This is difficult to accept. Nonetheless, I continue to feel a paternal tenderness toward these few Asadi—Jane, Thelma, Dianne, Celestine, and the others—I've been able to recognize and name. . . .
I've just walked by Celestine. The configuration of her features gives her a gentle look, like a Quaker woman wearing a parka. Her seeming gentleness leads me to the topic of this commentary: How could a creature of Celestine's mien and disposition actually eat the flesh of one
Slashing at and sometimes half maiming one another, the Asadi quickly devoured the two carcasses. Like piranhas, I thought.
Then E.Z., inhaling mightily, moaned again, and the confusion ceased. Every lean grey snout turned toward him. The dying went off to die alone, if any were in fact at the point of death. I saw no one depart, but neither did I see anyone lying helplessly injured in the dirt. The Asadi waited. The Bachelor and I waited.
The third and final act of today's baroque ritual: Eisen Zwei lowered the last carcass from his back, sat down beside it, and, in full view of his bemused tribespeople, ate the monstrous thing piece by piece. He gave the huri nothing, and the huri, inert but clinging, did not protest this selfish oversight. Meanwhile, terribly slowly, Eisen Zwei ate.
Eventually I retired to the shade of my lean-to, emerging at fairly frequent intervals to check the goings-on in the clearing. By the second hour the Asadi had begun to move about within their separate territories. By the third hour these territories had merged, making it impossible to distinguish the two distinct "teams" of previous days. The old pattern of Indifferent Togetherness had
reasserted itself, except that now the Asadi moved with incredible sluggishness, suspiciously eyeing their chieftain and refusing to encroach on the unmarked circle containing him.
I noticed that The Bachelor had come down out of his tree, but I was unable to find him in the clearing. All I saw was E.Z., isolated by a revolving barricade of legs, peeling away the last oily strips of meat from his dinner and chewing them with an expression of stupid pensiveness. The huri flapped once or twice, but the old man still did not feed it.
Finally, sunset.
The Asadi fled, but Eisen Zwei—no doubt as surfeited as a python that has just unhinged its lower jaw to admit a fawn— slumped in his place and did not move.
Now a single alien moon dances in the sky, and I'm left with a question whose answer is so stark and self-evident I'm almost afraid to ask it: From what sort of creature did the old man obtain and dress out his ritual offerings? Huddled beneath the most insubstantial of roofs, I am unable to fend off the frightening ramifications of the Asadi way of death. . . .
Speculations on Cannibalism: An Extemporaneous Essay
From the unedited in-the-field tapes of Egan Chancy: It's a beautiful day, and if I hold my microphone out—I'm holding it out now, extending it toward the Asadi—all you'll be able to hear is five hundred pairs of feet slogging back and forth through a centimeter of hot dust. There. Hear that? Perhaps you don't. Nevertheless, Eisen, it's a beautiful day.
It's four days since your counterpart, Eisen Zwei, stirred things up with his disorderly three-course banquet. Since then, nothing.
I'm walking. I'm walking among the Asadi. They fail to see me even though I'm just as solid, just as real, as they are. Even the ones I've given names to—Campy, Werner, Gus, Oliver, and the others—refuse to grant me the simple fact of my existence. This is
hard, Ben. This is difficult to accept. Nonetheless, I continue to feel a paternal tenderness toward these few Asadi—Jane, Thelma, Dianne, Celestine, and the others—I've been able to recognize and name. . . .
I've just walked by Celestine. The configuration of her features gives her a gentle look, like a Quaker woman wearing a parka. Her seeming gentleness leads me to the topic of this commentary: How could a creature of Celestine's mien and disposition actually eat the flesh of one
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