The Totems of Abydos (67 page)

Chapter 33

With a certain form of throat, and oral cavity, a certain type of tongue, and a certain arrangement of teeth, of course, it is not easy to reproduce many sounds which would be the more natural and appropriate issuances of a different form of apparatus. This obvious fact makes clear the importances of translation mechanisms, of one or another level of sophistication, throughout the galaxy. Some of these are responsive to auditory inputs, and others, of course, to visual inputs, and others, yet, to inputs such as the traces of complex chemical exudates. But, invariably, aside from certain constructed devices and certain marvels of biochemical engineering, speech was an overlaid function, utilizing an apparatus obviously developed for other purposes, such as holding, tearing, grinding, tasting, swallowing, breathing, and such. On the other hand, amongst organisms utilizing a vocal apparatus, as opposed to those utilizing the modulation of wing speeds, the rubbing of chitinous limbs, frictions amongst adjacent platings, the articulation of patterns of moisture, condensing in cold air, expelled from blow holes, the secretion of chemicals, and such, it was usually possible for one organism to produce sounds which, once certain adjustments were made, could be accepted as surrogates of others. This is particularly easy to do, if the throat, for example, has been prepared, or altered, in a certain way.

Since that winter day, several weeks ago, the beast had been much disturbed by its insights into its own unusual capacities, which seemed to have been acquired in its new habitat, as, in its deepest memories, and even in its dreams, it could not recall them from the old home.

It was not at all pleased with many of the sounds it made, as they were quite different from the sounds which came to it from time to time in his mind, and in the unusual dreams, when he spoke such sounds, and in another form. Indeed, it often put such things from itself, impatiently, and contemptuously. Why should it not amuse itself by trying to chirp like birds or squeak like gits? But the riddles remained, and the curiosity remained, and so, on the cliffs, and in the forests, it would, from time to time, concern itself with such things.

One day, on the cliffs, it looked out, toward the village. “What am I?” it asked. It heard that sound. It was outside, outside, and yet it was not too unlike the sound from inside, that which the ear could only seem to hear.

The success of this effort, its first in such ranges of endeavor, far from exhilarating the beast, terrified it, and it put such experiments far from itself for several days. It had no business with such nonsense. Such things were not for it. But then, of course, perhaps they were, for it was no longer confident of what it was. It was angry. In the old home it had never encountered such problems. They had not arisen.

It may have been toward the end of winter, when the small creature again approached the platform.

This time the beast, having perceived its approach, came down to the platform, and sat on the platform, awaiting it.

The small creature, so tiny, so ugly, eyeless, the face so tiny in the larger head, put the tiny bag of grain on the platform, almost at the feet of the beast.

He looked up, although he could not see. “Are you there?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the beast.

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.