The Flesh Eaters (12 page)

“What’s this that you’ve seen that’s so important? If this is a prank, you’ll be sorry for it!”

The boy runs ahead and stands proudly by his discovery. The father sees the grotesque, puffy hand sticking out of the sand.

“My God!” he says, crossing himself. “Stand back! I don’t want you to see this.”

The boy thinks this is unfair, but he obeys. However, he does not move very far away; he wants to miss nothing of this exciting event.

The fisherman, reluctant to touch the horrible thing, clears the sand carefully away from the hand and finds that it is attached to an arm. Thinking that the arm must be attached to a body, he begins to dig where the torso should be, but finds nothing. Puzzled, seeing no other way, he pulls at the wrist and almost falls over when an arm that has been severed at the elbow comes easily out of the sand. Hastily, he drops the repugnant thing. As he wipes his hand on his trousers, he fears he may become ill. His son, looking at the limb, is wide-eyed with excitement.

“Go back to the house and fetch a piece of cloth from your mother,” the fisherman orders. “Be quick about it. I must take this to the Sheriff. Now be off! Run!”

The town meeting is still in progress, the Sheriff droning on and on. Everyone looks bored except Cutter, who seems faintly amused by the proceedings.

“... I remember when young people still had respect for those in authority. When I was young, I would never dare talk to the Sheriff the way some of them speak to me. Disgraceful, it is! Why, you wouldn’t believe some of the things they say to me.”

“I wonder why?” Cutter says under his breath.

“That’s the cause of all lawlessness. No respect for authority. And it’s the parents’ fault. They just do not discipline their children. My father beat me every day. He said if he didn’t know the reason for it, I did!”

The Sheriff pauses for breath, then erupts again.

“And the situation will not get any better until the King returns! That’s what’s really at the bottom of all this—no strong authority at the top! If the King does not do his job, how can I be expected to do mine? I ask you, what can I do when the entire land is in chaos, when those damnable English hold our own true King prisoner?”

Goodwin seizes the opportunity. “What you say, Sheriff, is no doubt true, but I fear we have strayed from the matter at hand.” Why am I being polite to the old fool? he thinks.

“If this is not the matter at hand, I do not know what is.”

Goodwin sighs. “Well then, the particular problem, not the general one. We have agreed that the disappearance of my father is not an isolated incident. There have been others—perhaps many others.”

The Sheriff opens his mouth to interrupt, but Goodwin rushes ahead. “We have agreed that something must be done, but we have yet to determine what. While it would be pleasant to continue this discussion about our country’s ills for the next fortnight, we are all busy men. Can we not discuss specific measures to be taken?”

At that moment the door bursts open, and a fisherman rushes in carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle. “Sheriff! Sheriff!” he cries out.

The Sheriff fixes him with an angry glare, though he is in fact not the least upset by this interruption. Not only will it get them away from the uncomfortable subject at hand, but it will also give him a chance to bully someone ill-equipped to fight back.

“What are you doing here?” the Sheriff brays. “Can’t you see that we are having an important meeting? How dare you break in here like this? Get out!”

The fisherman flinches, but holds his ground. “Sheriff, I had to show you what I found on the beach.”

The Sheriff puffs out his chest, tips back his head and squints at the shaking intruder. Then he roars, “Do you think that we are interested in bits of garbage that wash ashore? Now leave before I fix it so that someone finds
you
on the beach.” He smiles at his own wit.

“But look!” the fisherman says desperately. He lets his parcel unroll so that the arm drops on the table before the men.

Expressions of horror are uttered by everyone, except for the Sheriff, who is rendered momentarily speechless. The color drains from his florid face, and his lips move soundlessly. The fisherman looks rather pleased at having caused so much consternation.

“What do you think you’re doing, man?” the Sheriff sputters. “Get that thing out of here! How dare you come in and disturb us with something like that? Ugh! Turns my stomach.”

“But Sheriff, I thought you should know. I—” The fisherman is not allowed to finish.

“I’m the Sheriff, and I’ll decide what I should know. Now get that out of here. I will deal with you later.” The Sheriff turns to the others. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry for this.”

“Don’t you think you should explore the matter further?” Cutter asks quietly.

“What is there to explore?” The Sheriff seems to have no interest at all.

“A dismembered arm on the beach is somewhat unusual, is it not?”

“Arms, legs, what difference does it make?” The Sheriff shrugs. “Who knows what happens in the sea. Why, I could tell you—”

“I’m sure you could,” Cutter says, halting a pointless oration. He asks the fisherman how he found the awful thing.

Stammering, the fisherman tells his brief tale.

“How do you suppose it got there?” Cutter asks.

“The tide, I imagine.”

“Have you ever come across anything like this before?”

The fisherman shakes his head. “I’ve seen some strange things in the sea, but never anything like this. Thank the Lord.”

“You know the tides. Where do you think it might have come from?”

“There’s a strong current running up the coast. And the tides are very strong this time of the year, so I could not say. The sea can carry things a long way.”

“Thank you. The mystery is no less, but that is not your fault. You have been most helpful. Sheriff, do you have anything further you wish to ask him?”

The Sheriff waves his hand to indicate that he cannot be bothered with such trivial matters.

“Then I suggest you let this man go back to his work... and that you give him something for his trouble,” Cutter says, a malicious twinkle in his eye.

At this new outrage, the Sheriff mutters angrily under his breath. Then, with exceedingly bad grace, he hands the fisherman a small coin.

The fisherman bows his thanks to Cutter and starts for the door.

“Hold on, a minute!” the Sheriff yells. “Take that—that
thing
—with you.”

As the fisherman begins to put the arm back in the wrapping he turns it over, and for the first time the ring is visible. Goodwin has been watching with growing annoyance, but now he walks around the table and leans over to examine the arm. Suddenly his face pales. Clutching at his throat, he slumps down into a chair.

The other men are concerned by this sudden collapse, but Goodwin does not respond to their questions, just shakes his head and stares blankly. The Sheriff is told to fetch some wine, and does so unhappily, thinking how unfair it all is—first he had to pay that lout of a fisherman for bringing that disgusting thing here, and now he has to give up his good wine because Goodwin is about to puke up his guts.

Charles Decker administers the wine to Goodwin, who soon regains some color. Decker asks what has upset him so much. Goodwin pauses for a moment.

“That is my father’s arm.”

As the men begin to fire questions, the Sheriff groans. He feels as though he has just been dropped into a steaming heap of dung.

Goodwin tells the men there can be no doubt. “That is his signet. Look, I wear one like it.”

The men compare his ring with the one on the severed arm. They are the same.

“That still does not prove it is your father’s arm,” the Sheriff stammers.

Goodwin shakes his head. “There is also a mark on the arm—here,” he says, pointing to a spot on his own forearm. “My father received a wound there when he was a boy, and you can still see the scar. There can be no doubt about it.”

Goodwin accepts expressions of sympathy. When he continues, his voice is strained but under control. “It does not surprise me to learn that my father is dead. I have long feared it. Sheriff, will you at last agree that something must be done? There is some fiend out there who must be discovered.”

The Sheriff hems and haws. “But I do not know what can be done at this late time.”

“My father’s intention was to take the Coast Road,” Goodwin says.

Charles Decker sits up straight. “The Coast Road! I was on that road just a week ago. It is a lonely, gloomy way, but I saw nothing unusual.” He never once thinks of the children he saw playing on the beach.

Goodwin supposes that the Coast Road is the logical place to investigate first.

The Sheriff heaves a great sigh. “Aye. I will search there if you insist upon it...” He brightens. “But I do not think that it will come to anything.”

“When will you begin?” Ashton asks.

Christ, he just won’t leave it alone! the Sheriff thinks. However, this is the kind of question with which he has had much experience.

“As soon as I can make the necessary arrangements. I am the Sheriff, you know, and I have responsibilities. I cannot just drop everything to go riding around the country chasing phantoms. Oh, I will go! I have said as much. But I cannot leave this afternoon. There are things that I have to do, certain duties that...”

He goes on and on, until his listeners feel that by now the cows must have come home and departed again. They leave without securing a definite commitment as to when the Sheriff will mount the search.

It takes a good many weeks for the Sheriff to fulfill his so-called obligations and responsibilities. During that time, additional pieces of human beings are washed ashore, causing great consternation in the town. Further delay is impossible; at last, the Sheriff acts.

He issues officious instructions to the search party. His display of leadership is more for the benefit of the townspeople than for the dozen men in the party, who are puzzled by his often conflicting orders.

Old Cutter has been observing. A smile plays on his lips as he walks over to the Sheriff, who has just mounted his horse.

“My congratulations, Sheriff, on this prompt commencement of the search.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that only a month has elapsed since the resolution was made. I hope that, despite your haste, your preparations are adequate.”

I wonder if this windbag talks this way when he’s at home, the Sheriff thinks. Gruffly, he replies, “Oh, they are adequate enough for this wild goose chase.”

“Every day of delay increased the probability that that would in fact be the outcome. But then, I’m sure that was your intention— that the murderers would leave the district of their own accord.”

The old man’s pleasant smile goads the Sheriff. “I did not notice you volunteering to join the party.”

“Sheriff! Look at me. Do you not think I am past the age for such endeavors? I am at best a poor horseman, and would be more a hindrance than a help in a fight.”

“A fight?” the Sheriff says in alarm, as though he had never considered that possibility.

“Surely you do not imagine that villains who brutally dismember their victims will surrender meekly upon your command?”

The Sheriff, who has no intention of finding any villains whatsoever, mumbles something about being prepared and signals the party to move off. As they head down High Street, he bellows for the benefit of the watching townspeople, “Come on, you lazy bastards! This is not a pleasure outing! We’re going to catch us some bandits!”

The Sheriff spurs his horse, and the other men hurry to catch up to their bold leader.

A horseman rides slowly along a deserted stretch of the Coast Road. He sees that the path ahead is blocked by rocks and bushes that have apparently fallen from the overhanging cliff. Suspicious, he checks for signs of an ambush, and though he sees nothing unusual, he remains wary.

Dismounting, he draws his sword, then leads his horse to the side of the road and through a narrow gap in the obstruction. He is almost through when he is attacked from overhead. A child drops from an overhanging branch onto his back. The man stumbles, and before he can regain his balance, several members of the family, led by Sawney Beane, leap out of the bushes and slaughter him.

The suddenness of the attack frightens the traveler’s horse, and it breaks away in a panicky gallop. After several miles, it stops to feed on the sweet grass by the side of the road, where it is observed by two brothers as they walk by.

The brothers are in their early twenties, and attractive in different ways. The younger, Donald, is fair-haired with an open, honest face. The darker complexion of his brother Geoffrey indicates a darker temperament.

Though they are poor, the brothers have a certain dignity which shows in the way they carry themselves, and in their worn, but well-cared-for clothes.

“What is this horse doing here?” Donald says.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t concern us. Let’s keep going.”