The Totems of Abydos (62 page)

But the Pons, nonetheless, swung open the doors.

Within, Brenner surveyed the great hall of the temple. It was bright with the light of more than a hundred torches. Within there were many Pons. Counting those behind him the entire population of the village must be here.

Brenner stood within the double doors, at the height of the aisle leading downward toward the platform.

This was not what he had expected to see.

He had thought there would be nothing here but a frenzied, restless, furious, frightened beast, perhaps in one corner, or at the back, crouching, waiting, eyeing the door, ready to rush forward, or perhaps one prowling back and forth, or circumambulating the walls, tail lashing, confused, snarling, seeking egress, or perhaps one held at bay, snarling, baring its fangs, lifting a threatening paw, one ringed with jabbing, thrusting torches, held in the hands of tiny, terrified Pons.

But it was not like that at all.

The beast, and it was, indeed, the totem beast, as Brenner had feared, sat upon the platform, back on its haunches. Its head, on that long neck, was perhaps twenty feet above the surface of the platform. Its pointed ears were erected. The roof of the hall was not more than a few feet over its head.

The Pons in the hall were in white robes. They turned and looked at him, as he stood there, at the height of the aisle leading down toward the platform. Several of them held lighted candles. Brenner had never seen candles before in the village. He had not realized that the Pons were familiar with such objects, let alone that they might possess them. At the belts of the Pons hung small, polished scarps. They did not appear to be the same sort of scarps as were used for commonplace purposes, such as the digging of tubers. The distance between males and females, he noted, was being maintained, but, presumably because of the number of Pons in the hall, in a somewhat unusual manner. The males and females were now separated as groups, rather than as individuals; the female group, which was on a higher level in the hall, and farther from the beast, was some ten to twelve feet from the male group, which was lower, and was closer to the beast.

Brenner turned his attention again to the beast.

Yes, thought Brenner, it is old. I am sure it is old. Rodriguez had thought so. He had said so. Brenner now, too, thought so. This was suggested, somehow, more by its general appearance, by its general cast, than by specific indications such as a drab pelt, a grayness about the jaws and muzzle. Yes, thought Brenner, it is old.

The beast did not move.

Perhaps it is dead, thought Brenner, suddenly. It is so quiet.

Its fur moved a little, in some draft, perhaps from the tunnel behind it, moving toward the open doors behind Brenner. But the smoke, too, from the torches, Brenner noted, seemed to be drawn away, mostly upward, somehow. The hall was not close. It was not difficult to breathe here, even with the Pons, the torches, and the candles. The hall is ventilated, somehow, Brenner realized.

He looked again at the beast.

Perhaps it is dead, Brenner thought.

Its pupils, like vertical slits, regarded him.

No, thought Brenner, it is not dead.

Suddenly the Pons behind Brenner, those who had conducted him hither, and those who had opened the various doors, and had then followed him, began to chant:

We will kill.

We will dread.

We will fear.

We will kill.

We will mourn.

We will love.

We will love.

This chant was then taken up by the other Pons. This chant was not done loudly, rather, almost in whispers. It was soft, repetitious, insistent.

Brenner took a step down the aisle toward the platform. He grasped the pointed stick he had brought with him. The stick seemed futile to him. He did not know that he could drive it to the heart of such a beast. He might not be able to reach the heart. He was not even certain of the location of the heart of such an animal.

“We will kill, we will kill,” whispered Pons.

“We will mourn, we will love,” whispered others.

This is madness, thought Brenner. I cannot kill this thing. It is too large. It is too terrible. In the arenas of Megara, Rodriguez had told him that a hundred men with spears were pitted against one such beast.

But it must be killed. It had tasted flesh.

It was old. Perhaps that was why it had seized Rodriguez. It could not find fleeter game.

It must be killed, Brenner thought.

“We will kill, we will kill,” whispered Pons.

“We will mourn, we will love,” whispered others.

What is it doing here, Brenner asked himself. Why is it here? Why is it just sitting there?

He approached the beast more closely. He was now some seven yards from it.

“We will kill, we will kill,” whispered Pons.

“We will mourn, we will love,” whispered others.

How did it get in here, Brenner asked himself. How did it find its way in? Why doesn’t it move?

Then, at the foot of the platform, on the floor, where he had not seen it before, his attention so taken with the torches, the Pons, the beast, he saw some objects, gathered together.

Brenner cried out with sorrow.

They were limbs, broken and torn, and a part of a torso, an arm here, a foot there.

The floor was dark with stains beneath them.

Brenner, tears in his eyes, looked up with fury at the beast.

The Pons had doubtless done the best they could. How they had managed to collect, and at what risk, even so many of the remains was remarkable. There was no mistaking parts of the body of his friend, those that were here. He recognized a scar on an arm, the watch on a wrist. The head was gone.

The Pons, in their love, and loyalty, had gathered these things together, and brought them here, and, to the extent that they were capable of such things, had put them here, in state. But above them, on its platform, like a god, was the beast, the totem itself.

“Kill, kill,” whispered the Pons.

Of course, thought Brenner. They cannot harm the totem themselves, even if they had the capability of doing so. It is the totem. It is I who must do this. But who better than I, whose friend has been taken from him by this fiend? Who else would I, in suitable vengeance, permit to perform this act? But how can I kill such a thing?

“I hate you!” cried Brenner, in tears, at the beast.

It looked down upon him, but did not move.

It could leave this place, thought Brenner. There is nothing, really, to hold it here. It could kill us all, breaking us with the blows of its paws, tearing us in two with those jaws.

Brenner looked at the makeshift spear, the pointed stick, he held. A hundred men, Rodriguez had told him, were pitted against such beasts in the arenas of Megara.

He would have to climb to the platform, even to reach the beast.

Then, from somewhere behind him, Brenner heard the voice of a Pon:

We love you, father.

Forgive us, father, for what we will do.

This was answered, or followed, by another Pon:

We will be 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 will do.

A third voice then called out:

Forgive us, father.

Love us!

Cherish us!

Protect us!

After a time another voice, high-pitched, called out:

Oh, I could get me in.

I could lay them waste.

But I will not do so,

for they are my children.

I am the father.

Brenner then looked down, to his right. The git keeper was there. Gently, the git keeper removed the makeshift spear from Brenner’s hands. Then he turned about and, from a pillow, carried by another Pon, removed the shining brass tube. It had been opened. The rifle was freed. He put it in Brenner’s hands. Brenner looked down at it, stunned. The weapon was ready. He was sure of it. He could even see the particular alignment of switches. He was sure, as he now examined it, that they were what he had once seen when Rodriguez had armed the rifle. Somehow, he was sure they would be. The safety, too, doubtless, had been released. Brenner slid back the bolt a little, looking in the breach, then let the bolt move back, automatically. One of the charges, cylinderlike, was in place, its red-capped end forward. The trigger, within its guard, was in evidence, the guard having descended from the barrel. At this distance, standing below the platform, looking up, Brenner could not miss.

The beast was cleaning itself, licking at the fur on its left shoulder.

Brenner grasped the weapon firmly.

The beast looked down at Brenner. It stopped grooming itself.

Brenner lifted the weapon.

The beast’s long tail lashed a little, moving back and forth, and then was still.

Thanks to the gods of ten worlds, thought Brenner, echoing a phrase of Rodriguez’, that it does not understand this thing, that it does not understand what it can do, that it does not know the danger in which it stands.

With this, I can kill it.

He steadied the weapon, aiming it carefully upward, at the center of the beast’s chest.

The beast then, oddly, as it sat there, not really moving much, lifted, and straightened, its body. In that moment it seemed quite vital. It now held its body as might have an animal in its youth or prime. It did not seem old then. It was almost as though it has pride, thought Brenner.

Then he pressed the trigger.

The path from the muzzle of the weapon to its target was quite short, only a few feet.

A sudden, black, startling, seared, cavelike hole appeared, as if by magic, in the beast’s chest. This hole seemed ringed in the first instant in a blastlike blaze of fire and light, roaring, incandescent, and torrential. Rocks were gouged out of the ceiling, and showered down behind the platform.

Brenner looked up at the beast. It had not yet fallen. It seemed very still. It was slumped down a bit but, on the whole, retained its sitting position. Perhaps it does not even know, or understand, that it has been hit, thought Brenner. The strike had been made quickly, in a sudden, brief stream of fire, almost a flash of light. It may not understand what has occurred, thought Brenner. It seemed to sit there, the hole smoking, the hair about it burnt away, in its chest. The opening had been made so quickly, so cleanly, that it seemed possible, for a wild instant, to Brenner, that the charge, in its heat, might have cauterized the very wound it made. But then, a moment later, its fur was drenched with blood.

Fall, die, die, thought Brenner. Die, he thought, die!

For a moment he was afraid of it, that it might move toward him. Even in its moments of death such a thing could be terrible.

But it did not move toward him.

It was no longer dangerous.

Brenner, sick, let the rifle slip from his fingers.

The beast lowered its head. It half rose. Its legs seemed uncertain beneath it.

It must fall, thought Brenner. It must die! Are you so hard to kill, mighty beast? Are you so unwilling to die? Do you cling to life with such force, with such tenacity?

Blood then came from about the jaws of the beast. It licked it, running its tongue about its jaws.

Its belly was now almost on the platform.

It looked at Brenner.

“Who are you?” suddenly cried Brenner. “What are you?”

“I am the father,” it said.

“He is dead!” squealed a Pon.

“He is dead! He is dead!” cried others.

Suddenly, then, from all about Brenner, there were howls, and leapings about, and shrieks of glee. The Pons, in their white robes, and those in the gray robes, were suddenly intermixed, jostling one another, striking and pulling at one another. Yes, thought Brenner, those raucous, pleased sounds, they must be laughter, or triumph. But how chilling, how maniacal, now seemed what might once have been a mere ventilation of emotion or tension. Brenner saw several Pons tearing off their robes. Some Pons were leaping about now, naked, making menacing sounds, presumably imitative of those of the totem beast. Others were making such sounds, but were moving about, too, in a sort of dance, imitating the movements of the totem beast, its prowlings, it climbings, its charges, even its stretchings and yawns. Many others, dancing about, whirling in their robes, in frenzy, brandished the tiny, polished, wicked scarps in their hands. Brenner would not have cared to walk too close to one.

Brenner felt sick.

The beast was dead. It lay now in its blood on the platform. The blood ran from the platform, and over the floor. In such a thing was much blood. The beast was dead. Brenner had killed it. It was dead, the beast, the ancestor, the primal father, the father, the totem.