The Totems of Abydos (66 page)

But the beast did not truly believe that it had invented the word. It was rather that it seemed clear to it that there were such things and that, somehow, it understood them. That, in itself, was quite enough for the beast, and surely impressive enough.

It began, over time, to become obsessed with the conviction that the answers to many of the riddles with which it was concerned might be found within that circle of sticks, far off, visible from the cliffs. It was familiar, of course, with the string which ran from the vicinity of the platform toward the circle of sticks. It also read, along the track of the string, now faint, but still detectable, the odors of a beast not unlike itself. Against such a beast it stood ready to defend this territory but the beast did not appear. It had, it seemed, gone away.

The new beast, in claimancy and challenge, with its tread, and the rubbing of its oily fur on trees, and, more explicitly, in the way of its kind, with its feces, and urine, here and there, had marked out its territory. It did not confine itself to this territory, of course. Such markers were not intended to restrict its own peregrinations, which tended to be extensive, but rather to limit the possible intrusions of others. They marked out, primarily, that country it would defend, within which it would regard the passage of certain others as trespass. These borders, to a large extent, followed the lines, and claims, of its unknown predecessor. It was a territory of a nature and range suitable to its kind. The borders of such territories, of course, are somewhat flexible, depending on a number of factors, such as the beast in question, its youth and vigor, the terrain, the game, and the competition from other members of the same species. Within the territory, of course, the beast, following the predilection of its kind, tended to conceal its presence, burying feces, and such. The warnings at the borders, of course, were directed primarily against other predators, and, in particular, against those of its own kind, should they exist, external visitants, possible intruders. A subsidiary advantage of them, however, was that wandering fleet ones within the territory, encountering them, might turn back, thus remaining within the territory. It might be mentioned that the circle of sticks, with its assemblage of dried vegetations, or, as we might say, the village, was close to the heartland of this territory. The absolute heartland, in the sense of being the lair of the beast itself, was a cave in the cliffs, a long, tunnel-like cave which led back, under the cliffs, toward the village.

Often the beast followed the string toward the village, and then followed it back, to its lair. In this fashion, of course, subtle signs of its presence, oil from the pads of paws left on leaves, pelt oil on brush, and tree trunks, a few stray hairs, here and there, the prints of its feet, and such, tended to follow the track of the string. Stealthy ones, wise in their own ways, avoided this area.

The beast’s time, of course, was not all spent in subtle, sometimes troublesome, ruminations. Indeed, at times, in the hunt, and in the kill, and in the eager, grisly feeding, and, later, in lying down, sated, sleepy, its consciousness was not other than it had been in the old home. But then, later, the strange thoughts would come. Too, like all beasts it would dream, but it was sometimes puzzled by these dreams, and did not understand them. The beast dreams posed no problems, of course, the running in the forest, the delicious smell of the fleet one, recollections of a successful defense of territory the preceding winter in the old home, against an animal larger even than itself, the feel of wet leaves beneath its paws, the sound of water rushing over stones, where one might drink, such things. In these dreams its legs would twitch, and move, and it would growl. In these dreams there were no words, only things, and doings. But there were other dreams, too, which it did not understand, dreams of places it could not have been, and of other creatures, to whom it, in another form, spoke. It even remembered tastes of a sort which must be impossible, as it could not feed on such things. And it remembered a white softness, supine, trembling, regarding him, frightened, moving, squirming. And then it was again itself and it thrust its snout against that softness, and thrust its head between its legs, forcing them far apart, smelling it, understanding it in its needful, helpless, beast sense. It then drew back and looked at the animal, so white, so soft, so curved. It was before him, supine, in its way, tethered. It was helpless. It would be easy, it thought, to eat it. Perhaps, it thought, that is why it is tethered here, to be eaten. But it licked it, slowly, carefully, with his long, rough tongue. It could not draw away. What strange sounds those tethers made. They seemed excellent tethers. Then it seemed it was again in another form, one recalled from former dreams, one which had appeared even in vagrant memories, and it felt strange sensations, which it did not understand, like promptings in the blood of something not itself, another creature, inexplicable feelings, and there were inexplicable recollections, and it awakened, abruptly, unaccountably furious, and made its way to the summit of the cliff, above the platform, and recollected a distant world, and a broad head, eyes with pupils like knives, a sinuous, agile body, and a maddening, luring odor, and it put back its head, and howled, and howled.

Chapter 32

It was now in the depth of winter.

Too, it was late in the afternoon. The beast, the moisture from its breath visible in the chill air, lay indolently on the top of the snowy cliff, the snow melted beneath the warmth of its body, looking toward the village. Perhaps in such weather, and at such a time, one might have expected it to be snug in its lair, asleep, particularly as it had fed earlier, and well, but it could often be found where it was, and, secure in the luxury of its winter pelting, it was not in the least uncomfortable.

Something was coming toward the platform. It was a tiny, frail animal. It was perhaps shedding, strange in the winter, as its outer skin was a different color from its body, and seemed loose about it. Too, it walked in the unusual fashion which the beast, from the darkness of the forest, had remarked upon occasion before, amongst certain animals, on two legs. It interested the beast that the animal could maintain its balance with such ease, given so eccentric a posture. It was much superior in this to one of the other small bipedalian animals of the forest, the tree clinger, which would frequently return to the security of all fours. It did not, on the other hand, seem that it would be adept at climbing, or leaping from branch to branch, or swinging amongst them like a graceful, wingless bird. The footprints of the animal, tiny, and close together, were visible behind it in the snow, even in the half light. It walked as though it were in pain. It is cold, too, thought the beast. See how it clutches its skin about it, how it shivers. The beast doubted that it would be good to eat, at least that specimen. Too, as we have noted, it had recently fed. At such a time even fleet ones could graze within yards of it. The head of the animal, concealed in the strange skin, seemed large for its size.

The beast cocked its head to one side.

It was clear now. The little animal was holding to the string, or, at least, reaching out, from time to time, to touch it, as if to reassure itself that it was still there. Why could it not just look, wondered the beast. Did it expect it to be gone when it reached for it? Was it afraid of that? Where could it go? It was there. Perhaps it had always been there. Perhaps it would always be there. And, if not, what difference would it make? The string was not important to the beast, though it found it interesting. But the string, it seemed, was important to the other animal. It seemed afraid to let it go. Perhaps it needed the string. Perhaps it must hold on to the string, or perish, thought the beast. But ,if so, that is very unfortunate, for the string is very old, very thin, and worn. It might be broken, or taken away.

The beast continued to observe the approach of the small creature.

It must now be able to see me, thought the beast, at least if it looked up. I have made no effort to conceal my presence. But it does not look up.

Yes, the small animal below, making its way, shivering, through the snow, clearly now, was holding to the string, clutching it. Then, when it came to the end of it, it let it go and began, forelimbs outstretched, taking small, shuffling steps, to grope its way forward. This puzzled the beast. It is in the dark, it thought. But it is not in the dark, because it is still light. It is true it is becoming dark. The beast, of course, in its own case, had seldom been in the dark, except when it slept, or closed its eyes. Even with no moon there were the stars, and the beast had little difficulty in seeing by their light. It could see even in most of the passages it had explored in the cliffs, those strange squared passages so unlike a normal cave, and those rooms off the passages, some of which contained large boxes and strangely formed stones. When the stars were obscured by clouds, it was more difficult, but even then there was normally some light, filtering through the clouds, and, too, one could tell much by smell, by hearing the currents of air moving about objects, by noting the effect of drafts on the hair of one’s body.

The small creature had now come to the platform, and had put out its forelimbs, touching it.

Its presence there, of course, from the point of view of the beast, was not an intrusion. Only certain presences would have counted as intrusions, providing occasions for activity. Many animals came and went in the beast’s territory, and in the thousands of subterritories, maintained by other animals, within his territory, without concerning it. What did it matter, so to speak, that ants might be found in the world of wolves? They did not count. The beast was even fond of a small git, which it occasionally watched, which nested near one of the posts of the platform.

“Are you there?” called a small, shrill voice from below, that of the tiny creature which had groped its way forward to the platform. How strange that high, thin, shrill voice is, thought the beast. If a creature is so small, it thought, better perhaps that it be silent.

“Are you here?” called the small animal.

Suddenly the beast rose to its feet, disturbed. The hair on the back of its neck rose up, like the collar of a cloak behind it. Its fur shook, as if casting off water. It had, for the first time, realized suddenly, comprehending it consciously, that these noises it heard, diminutive, and pathetic, but in their way as real as thunder and rushing water, not like the puzzling, mysterious noises in its mind, those which the ear could only seem to hear, were, like the noises within, intelligible. They could be understood, and it understood them. Such things were words, and they came from without, not from within.

The small creature was now looking up. It must surely see him. Perhaps it had heard, above it, the scratching on the rock, as it had sprung up, and the snapping of its hide and fur, like leather shaken in the wind.

“Are you there?” called the tiny voice.

The beast resumed its recumbent posture, uneasily. It must put such things from its mind. There were mysteries enough. What had such things to do with food or drink, or shelter, or such things? But it was odd, and unsettling, to hear the noises of the mind, or things like them, coming not from within, but from without, from the outside, in recognizable form, and from so odd and deformed a creature as stood below.

“Are you there?” called the creature.

The beast now rose again to its feet. It was agitated, for this presence was not as harmless as it might seem. Somehow, in one way or another, it seemed to threaten its peace, perhaps even the foundations of its world. I am angry, thought the beast. One bite could finish such a creature, it thought. It made its way, lightly, down the cliff toward the platform. Gently it padded across the platform. Then it crouched down, belly low, on the platform, tail lashing behind it. But I am sated, it thought. Why had it come down? It was angry. But, too, it was curious. And, too, it was a little afraid, because there was some threatening linkage, it knew, between this thing, this pathetic, insignificant, tiny thing, and the strange thoughts, and the strange dreams, with which for the past months it had been troubled.

“Are you there?” whispered the small creature.

The beast looked at it. Its body was very small, but the head, comparatively, was large, or at least large for the body. Would it not be heavy, that head, to be carried by such a body? The head had a tiny face, much too small for it, much like the faces of some of the little, loose-skinned, two-legged creatures it had seen in the forest. But the back of the head was large. In the tiny face, seemingly lost in the larger head, there were two holes. No eyes gleamed out from those holes. They were empty.

“Are you there?” whispered the tiny thing.

The beast growled, menacingly.

The small creature thrust an object onto the platform, and then turned about, and, as it could, feeling its way, fled. The beast saw it reach the string, and grasp it, and then hurry away.

The beast, with its teeth, and holding it down with one paw, tore open the object on the platform, and smelled it. It could not eat such stuff. It lifted it up, and shook it, scattering grains about.

It looked after the small animal, which had now disappeared through the trees. How odd, it thought, that such a thing, and others like it, could live in the forest.

It then stood on the platform.

Some small birds alighted on the platform, and, here and there, and some almost at its feet, pecked at the material which had been flung about.