The Flesh Eaters (16 page)

The attackers hold their blows, but the child continues to scream. The family bursts into laughter. Fear and weakness are always funny—and, after all, it is a game.

It is early evening in the town. The Sheriff walks along High Street carrying a thick staff, checking that everything is in order. Though it is not yet dark, the street is empty and all doors and shutters are closed.

The Sheriff is about to head for home when he spots a figure in an alleyway, rooting in a large pile of garbage. His first impulse is to go on as if he had seen nothing, but then he reconsiders. There is dissatisfaction in the town about the job he is doing—people have continued to disappear, despite the Bishop’s ritual. The Sheriff decides he had better give the appearance of activity, show the townspeople he is protecting them. He walks cautiously toward the alleyway.

The scavenger is dressed in foul rags. His skin is almost black with dirt. His hair and beard are matted in greasy clumps. Most of his teeth are missing, and the few that remain are rotted. A puckered purple scar runs from his forehead down one cheek, causing the eye on that side to remain closed. The other eye seems unnaturally large. Picking over the garbage, the man occasionally finds something he wants and pops it into his mouth with a sucking sound. He starts violently when the Sheriff calls for him to come out of the alleyway.

“Eh! Eh! What’s that?”

“Come out! Right now. Where I can see you.”

The scavenger sidles out of the alley, and crouches before the Sheriff, who turns away in disgust; the fellow’s appearance is revolting.

“No harm. I do no harm, Master.” The scavenger runs his tongue over the broken stumps of his teeth.

“You had best leave this town. We do not permit your sort here.”

“I do no harm.”

“I told you to go! Do so, you filthy pig!”

The Sheriff moves as if to kick, and the man scurries off a few steps, then stops and turns. His one good eye shines out of the blackness of his face.

This is too much! the Sheriff thinks. I am not even getting respect from half-blind, filthy beggars. “I didn’t wish to dirty my boot on you,” he growls, “but you seem to crave it.”

The man does not move. “Be you the Sheriff?”

“I am. And I do not waste time with shit-smeared beggars.”

“I be looking for you.” The man remains in his crouching position. “I know things you would like to know.”

“What could you know?”

“Many things, master.” The man simpers, and again runs his tongue over his teeth.

“What things?”

“I know who makes people to disappear.”

The man cackles with laughter, then begins to cough convulsively. The coughing continues until he is able to clear a lump of phlegm from his throat and spit it out.

“What do
you
know about the disappearances?” the Sheriff asks scornfully.

“I hear many go missing. I hear you have trouble.”

“Where do you hear this? I am the Sheriff, and there is no trouble.”

The man raises his bony shoulders and lets them fall. “I hear people talk. They talk about you. Say you do nothing.” He cackles again in a way that causes the back of the Sheriff s neck to prickle. Things must really be bad, he thinks, if this creature knows I’m in trouble.

“If you know what is good for you, you will tell me what you know and quickly!”

The man shakes his finger in admonishment. “Oh, no. Slowly. What I know help you. You in trouble. I help you. It worth something. You give something, I help.”

“I will give you something, all right. Something you will not soon forget.”

The man shrugs. “No? I go.” He shuffles away like a crippled crab, but turns when the Sheriff calls out to him.

“You tell me what you know. If it is helpful, I will give you something. But not here. Follow me. You understand?”

“I follow. I help you.”

Walking back to his chambers, the Sheriff wonders about the sense of relying on filthy half-wits for assistance. He looks over his shoulder. A deformed shadow is dogging his footsteps.

In the closeness of the Sheriffs chambers, the man’s foul stench fills the room like a yellow fog.

“You stink as though you sleep with pigs,” the Sheriff says.

The man cackles. “Aye. Pigs. I sleep with pigs. Pigs and worse. Oh, much worse. I like Pigs.”

The Sheriff opens a window. “Be quick now,” he snaps. “What do you know?”

“Drink. I drink first. Give me drink.”

“Afterwards. You will get some drink afterwards.”

“Drink. Now.” Defiant, the man folds his scrawny arms.

The Sheriff pours a little wine, sets the cup on the table, and returns to the window. He watches with disgust as the man drinks, making slurping sounds.

“Good. More.” The man holds out the cup.

“No more until you talk. You will talk now, or I will beat it out of you!”

“I talk. I talk...”

There is a long pause. “Well?” the Sheriff says.

“Bad man. Very bad man. He do bad things.”

“I know that, you fool. Who?”

“Master Fairlie. The innkeeper.”

“Innkeeper? What inn?”

“The Three Bells.”

“The Three Bells?” The Sheriff wrinkles his brow. “On the South Road?”

The man nods.

“I know him. There’s nothing wrong there. You’re making this up. That’s slander and false witness—serious offenses. You will regret whatever made you do this. Master Fairlie is a good innkeeper.”

“Not good. Bad. Evil.”

The Sheriff is angry, but this pig-loving monster seems so definite that it is hard to dismiss him. “Why is Master Fairlie bad? What does he do?”

“He does things. Bad things.”

“Come on, man! Your time is running out!”

The man squirms nervously and scrunches up his face. In desperation, he stammers, “He... he... kill people.”

“What?”

“Kill people. Many people. Many, many.” Gaining confidence, the man claps his hands enthusiastically.

“How do you know this?”

“I see this. I work there. I see what he do. I scared. I go.”

The Sheriff still does not believe there is anything in this, but he is puzzled. Obviously, this malevolent creature bears hatred for the innkeeper and wants to make trouble for him. He seems to be a half-wit, a lying lunatic. On the other hand, he is putting himself in the hands of the law, so maybe he is sure of himself. And it does make sense that an innkeeper might be responsible for the disappearances.

As the Sheriff thinks the problem through, the man shifts uneasily, wishing he were somewhere else, wishing he had not begun this, wishing—

“Why does he do this?”

The barked question catches the man by surprise and he jumps. “What?”

“Kill people, you fool! That’s what you said he did, isn’t it?”

“Kill people. That right. He kill people.”

“Why?”

The man feels as though he is being chased through a labyrinth in which there are only wrong turns and dead ends. Why? He is trapped—and then suddenly he sees an opening. His tangled brain recalls something he once heard but did not completely understand.

“For the devil.” The surprise on the Sheriff s face encourages him. “That right! He kill people for the devil.”

“What do you mean?”

“Late at night, when it dark. When there full moon. He take people. Kill them. Talk to the devil. He say, ‘Devil, take these people.’“

“He worships the devil and makes sacrifices to him?”

The man sighs, relieved. “That right.”

“No. That’s not possible.”

“True. I see it.”

“What does he do with the bodies?”

“Maybe devil take them. I not see. Scared. I run. away. Scared of devil. Scared of Master.” The man holds out his hand. “I tell you, you pay me. I go.”

“Not so quickly. These are serious charges. They must be investigated.”

“I go.” The man starts toward the door.

The Sheriff grabs him, but when he feels the greasy texture of the ragged shirt, he lets go, shuddering.

“You’ll go nowhere. You will spend the night in the shed in back, locked in. Tomorrow we will visit The Three Bells to hear what Master Fairlie has to say.”

At this, the man cringes. “No! No! Not there. He hate me. He kill me. He have devil take me.”

The Sheriff, though not the most perceptive of men, is impressed by such terror. Devil worship: he should have thought of it himself. This will keep the townspeople quiet for a while.

“Right,” he says cheerfully, feeling better than he has for some time. “You are not the witness I would have chosen, but you may serve the purpose. Let’s go. You won’t be sleeping with pigs tonight, but I trust you can endure that.”

A roaring fire blazes in the large fireplace of The Three Bells, a welcome response to the damp chill outside. The inn is a rough but pleasant place. The walls are decorated with hunting trophies; giant sausages hang from the blackened rafters. The tables and chairs are sturdily made, and years of use have worn them smooth and given them a warm, rich color.

All in all, the atmosphere of The Three Bells reflects the easygoing personality of Fairlie, the innkeeper, a jolly red-haired man who prides himself on the comfort of his inn, and on the superior quality of his ale. Nevertheless, there have been few customers lately, and Fairlie is dozing by the fire when the Sheriff enters. Rising, he greets his visitor heartily.

“Sheriff! We don’t often see you in these parts. Here, sit down by the fire. Let me bring you some refreshment. I have some ale that I would welcome your opinion on.”

The Sheriff looks questioningly at him.

Hardly missing a beat, the innkeeper continues. “You will be my guest, of course.”

With a smile of relief, the Sheriff sinks into a chair by the fireplace and stretches his hands and feet out to the warmth. Fairlie draws a large tankard of ale, which the Sheriff downs in three quick gulps.

“Mm—m! Excellent! Really excellent! You have done yourself well with this.”

“I’m glad you approve,” the innkeeper says.

The Sheriff absentmindedly holds out the empty tankard. Fairlie refills it cheerfully, then sits down to observe his guest. “So, how do things go with you?” he inquires.

The Sheriff shakes his head sadly. “Difficult, always difficult. There are heavy and dangerous responsibilities to my position, but I do not shirk them. A lesser man might get by without taking many risks, but I go where my duty takes me, no matter the peril.” He belches loudly. “Urrrpp!”

Fairlie’s eyes twinkle, but his tone is respectful. “Your attitude does you credit.”

“Mm—m! This ale is really most excellent... most excellent.” The Sheriff speaks meditatively as he allows the now empty tankard to dangle from his hand.

“A taste more?” Fairlie says in his least inviting manner.

“I would not be so rude as to refuse your hospitality,” the Sheriff replies without a trace of irony, and the tankard is again refilled.

The Sheriff asks how things are.

“Not well, I’m afraid,” the innkeeper answers, sadly. “Trade is very slow. There are few people on the road these days.” He pauses to see if there will be any response to this, but his visitor’s eyes are half-closed as he basks in the warmth of the fire. “I mean no disrespect,” he continues, “because I know you are doing your best, but with all these disappearances, it seems most people are afraid to travel. And that means hard times for me.”

“Sorry to hear it,” the Sheriff mumbles drowsily. He yawns. “It is most comfortable here by the fire.”

A touch of bitterness enters Fairlie’s voice. “I am glad you find it so, but I may not be able to remain here much longer unless things improve.”

The Sheriff yawns again. “As a matter of fact, I am making investigations today.” He holds out his empty tankard. “And do you think I might have a bit of sausage also?”

Fairlie sighs, refills the tankard, and cuts a thick slab of sausage, reflecting that this just about eliminates any profit he might have made over the last week.

The Sheriff washes the sausage down with large swallows of beer. He smacks his lips noisily. Fairlie watches for a moment with mingled distaste and amusement before he speaks.

“So you are in pursuit of someone. Poor bugger. I wouldn’t want to have you on my trail.” He stares at the Sheriff, whose eyes are half-closed as he chews contentedly.

“But it must be hard on you, never knowing what you’re going to encounter. A pot of ale in one place, a chamber pot in another.” Fairlie laughs. “Still, I guess it is better than chasing monsters and demons. I heard about that.”

“I have learned to look fear in the eye and stare it down,” the Sheriff says, his mouth full of half-chewed sausage. Swallowing with a loud gulp, he adds, “Actually, I’m going after something of a demon—one of the worst, in fact. A worshiper of Satan himself.”