The Totems of Abydos

by John Norman

  There were things that puzzled him about her, such as her occasional restlessness in the night, her movings about, the stirring of her limbs, doubtless in dreaming, roars, snarls, unusual noises, such things.

  He learned from her to lift fish from streams, with a scoop of a paw. This was useful. It had not been in his beast memories.

  To be sure, he did not care much for water.

  It interested him that Rodriguez had been mistaken about such forms of life, regarding them as not indigenous to Abydos. This did not seem the sort of mistake which Rodriguez would have made.

  Yet here she was.

  He was pleased that she was here.

  There was, of course, a lingering loneliness in Brenner, a longing for someone, or something, which might understand him, with whom he could truly communicate. This is not to say that there was not a profound companionship between the lovely female beast and himself. This was an unspoken thing, a primitive thing, deeper and, in its way, doubtless more profound than words. There were feelings here, and interdependencies, as ancient as the beauty of pair bonding itself, a bonding, a loving and needing, and wanting and caring, more permanent than, and exceeding, the casual couplings of heedless beasts. In its way it was the fundamental reality, primeval, and basic, compared to which linguisticisms must seem almost superficial accretions, save in so far as they might point to the deeper realities, and feelings, beyond them. How trivial, and meaningless, in themselves, are the words, ‘I love you’. And yet of what moment they are when they call attention to that which is beyond words, older than words and deeper than words, which no words, in any language, can express.

  One evening Brenner was lying on the height of the cliff, as was his wont. In the distance was the village of the Pons. Near him, also recumbent, was the sleek female. On this evening, for no reason he clearly understood, he felt the isolation of his being, how alone, in a way, he was. She was there, of course, but she was only an animal. Brenner looked to the village. How he longed to speak to her of what had occurred there, how he longed to tell someone, how he wanted to express so many things she could not comprehend. He wanted to share his grief, his history, the story of his office. He wanted someone to understand what he had been, and what he now was. He wanted someone to understand that he was not a mere beast. He wanted someone to whom he might tell the secrets he knew. He looked over to the female. Her jaws opened, revealing the white fangs, the long, rough tongue, and she yawned, and blinked, sleepily. Brenner turned away, angrily. I am alone, thought Brenner. I am alone! And he was angry, for a moment, selfishly, irrationally, with Rodriguez, for having left him. He might have continued to bear the burdens of that wretched body, the pain of it, its blindness, to bear me company, thought Brenner, angrily. Then he put such thoughts from him. How unworthy they were! A wave of hatred swept over him for the female, in her simplicity, that she was what she was, that she could never understand. She could never comprehend his pain, his suffering, his sorrow. She could never understand the knowledge that was his burden. To one such as she, a simple beast, a mere animal, with no thought beyond the day, he could never make clear the intent, the meaning, of thousands of years, the fates of civilizations, the hopes and fears of a race. To one such as she he could not even make clear the intent, the meaning, of the duties which were incumbent upon him. He looked toward the village. There, as in a cradle, rested a race, a declining, perishing form of being that was his own. Was it his role to be only another shepherd of its dying days, to protect it, watching over it, in his turn, as others had in their turn, while it quietly vanished in the darkness of a vast forest, not even noted? He felt great sorrow.

  The female rose to a sitting position.

  How Brenner then hated her!

  You do not understand me, he thought. You cannot understand anything. You are stupid! You understand nothing!

  He looked up at her, she sitting there, from where he lay. She had her large, broad head lifted, as though she might be regarding the stars. The wind moved gently in her fur, making tiny ripples in it.

  How is it you dare to lift your head in such a way, Brenner thought, as though you were regarding the stars.

  I hate “you, he thought.

  But you are very beautiful, he thought.

  Angrily he stood up. He looked to the village. Then, in anger, in frustration, in loneliness, in desperation, to himself, to the female, to the stars, to the forest, to the moonless sky, he cried out, “I am the father!”

  “I am the mother,” she said.

  Chapter 41

  “My contract was purchased by Pons,” she said. “I was brought from Company Station handcuffed, and on a chain. In the village I was kept muchly gagged, chained in a small box.”

  “Probably a slave box,” said Brenner.

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  “Once I was brought forth to view a large cage, in which was a terrifying animal, that which I now occupy, or am. I was then taken back to my box and placed once more within it.”

  “You did not know what they intended?”

  “Not at that time,” she said.

  “I sometimes had strange dreams,” she said. “I did not understand them.”

  Brenner nodded.

  “Or I thought they were dreams,” she said.

  “How is that?” asked Brenner. To be sure, he himself had once experienced something like this.

  “In one dream,” she said, “I dreamed that I was knelt naked before my small captors. I was on several leashes, held to the side and back. I was tightly bound. It was explained to me that I was to be the “mother.” I did not understand this.”

  “What seemed so strange about this dream?” asked Brenner.

  “In the morning,” she said, “when I awakened, there were rope marks on my body.”

  “Go on,” said Brenner.

  “They spoke of a feast of gathering eggs,” she said.

  “Reproductive cells were removed from your body,” said Brenner.

  “I gather so,” she said, shuddering. “But if Pons are sterile, as I was informed, I thought in my dreams, to what purpose could be their seizure of these cells?”

  “It is your understanding, is it not,” asked Brenner, “whether from a recollection from your dreams, or whatever, that this feast has been celebrated?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Go on,” said Brenner.

  “I awakened one morning,” she said, “in the beast’s cage, but it was gone, and I was the beast. I thought that I had gone insane, but I gradually realized what must have occurred.”

  “Did you have beast memories?” asked Brenner.

  “Yes,” she said, “of fishing in fast-flowing streams, and such, but they were strangely mingled with my own.”

  “What was in the cage?” asked Brenner.

  “I was in the cage,” she said.

  “What were you,” asked Brenner, “you, or a beast?”

  “I was I,” she said, “as a beast.”

  “How long were you kept in the cage?” asked Brenner.

  “Three days,” she said.

  “Long enough for you to understand your helplessness,” said Brenner.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Continue,” said Brenner.

  “Then, in the darkness, I awakened to a tiny sound. The gate to the cage was open. I fled away, into the forest. There, in a short time, apprised by, startled by, sensations quite new to me, but familiar from my memories, I discovered I was treading in lands that belonged to another. I became frightened, and apprehensive. There was another meaning, too, of course, beyond those of claimancy and territoriality, that of maleness. Something in my new body, or old memories, found this disturbing. And I, as imprisoned in the beast, was terrified. But I could not help myself. I felt strange heats coming upon me. I knew then I would seek out this beast.”

  “Did you know it was I?” asked Brenner.

  “No,” she said. “I assumed it was only a male beast, of the species of whic
h I now was, to be sure, one apparently strong enough and vigorous enough, and terrible enough, to maintain a territory. You can imagine my terror, my misery. I was frightened of this thing. And yet my body, in spite of myself, would have me run panting to it. The rest you know.”

  “Your feelings must have been frighteningly ambivalent,” said Brenner.

  “I tried to resist, in my fear, my resentment. Even the beast in me, it seemed, tried to resist for a moment, if only to test the strength and will of the male. But that was a mistake. She was cuffed. She was twice bitten. He did permit her a moment to escape, if she wished, but she did not do so. She remained. He then, this matter clear, drove her to the cliffs, and pulled her to the platform. No longer was there escape for me. I was seized, and I became his mate.”

  “You realized these things were in accord with the intentions of the Pons?”

  “Yes, but I did not understand these intentions. It all seemed madness to me. Perhaps it was some mad joke of Pons, perhaps they found it amusing, to take me, to treat me as they did, to do these things to me, and then, most amusing, to give me over as a mate to a wild beast.”

  “You understood very little of what was ensuing,” said Brenner.

  “No,” she said. “Indeed, I thought that that was all there was to it, that, for whatever reason, I had merely been given to a beast.”

  “You were,” said Brenner.

  “And I bear my fate in joy,” she said.

  “Would you not have preferred brief silk, and a collar, on a distant world?”

  “Had I not met you,” she said. “But, you see, I love you.”

  “Perhaps I might have owned you on such a world.”

  “I would have striven to be a good slave to you,” she said.

  “Or to any master,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “We have been put to the purposes of Pons,” said Brenner.

  “I do not object, as long as I am with you,” she said.

  “Nor do I,” said Brenner, “now that we have one another.”

  “I do not understand the Pons,” she said.

  “They are struggling to survive,” said Brenner. “Their males are sterile, as you have been informed. Some of their females, apparently, can conceive. They are of our species, or what it could become. We are crossfertile with them. Seed was taken from me, to be implanted in certain females, that the next generation be produced.”

  “But what of the eggs removed from me?” she asked.

  “It seems likely that they will have been fertilized by this time,” said Brenner.

  “How so?” she asked.

  “Doubtless not all my seed was required for the usual purposes of the Pons,” he said.

  “We could have children,” she asked.

  “Quite possibly,” said Brenner. “Embryos might be raised in vitro, as I once was. Pons are aware of such techniques, and, possibly, their technology makes them available to them. More simply, host mothers might be used.”

  “But why would they do such things?” she asked.

  “It might be a kindness toward me, or you, or us,” said Brenner. “It might be an experiment. It might be a desperate venture to invigorate their gene pool. It might be all three. It might be something else. Who knows?”

  “I am then twice your mate,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Brenner.

  “Are you content?” she asked.

  “I would not have it otherwise,” he said.

  “Put your face to my belly,” she said.

  Puzzled, Brenner did so, placing his snout down to her belly, and then, softly, putting his cheek against that soft, rounded sweetness.

  Brenner suddenly sprang back. “It cannot be!” he said.

  “Is it so hard to understand?” she asked. “You see, I am indeed twice your mate.”

  “No!” said Brenner.

  “I am the mother,” she purred.

  “They must be killed,” he said. He had felt, against his cheek, stirring, the movement of living creatures, hidden within her.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Surely it is clear!” he exclaimed. “They will not be of us. They are of these other bodies. Whatever they are, they are not ours. They are lions. Lions, I tell you. Wild, terrible beasts. Their genes are not ours. They will be alien to us. They are bred for the hunt, the kill.”

  “They are ours now,” she said. “Is the seed within us not ours now, as the memories, the bodies, the limbs, the tongue, and claws?”

  “They are not ours!” said Brenner.

  “They are from our seed, yours and mine, as we are now,” she said. “Thus, they are ours. Or, if you prefer to think of the matter in this manner, we will merely keep them and love them, in memory of those majestic, innocent, lost beasts whose bodies we now occupy. We will care then for our children, or for their children, if you wish, or, perhaps better, simply for the children, who are both ours and theirs.”

  “They must be killed,” said Brenner.

  “You will not harm them,” she said. “I will defend them with my very life.”

  “Why?” said Brenner.

  “I am the mother,” she said.

  “It means the end of the Pons, the death of the other children, mine, and ours,” said Brenner.

  “Not at all,” she said.

  “It means the end of the pact,” said Brenner.

  “It means,” she said, “a new pact.”

  Brenner walked away, and turned, and came back.

  “You could not kill them,” she informed him.

  Brenner considered the matter, in confusion, in turmoil. Then he said, “No, I could not kill them.”

  “We will teach them to speak,” she said, confidently.

  “They will not have the intelligence for that,” he said.

  “You have beast memories,” she said. “Do they seem those of a stupid animal?”

  “No,” admitted Brenner.

  “They probably just never thought about speaking,” she said. “That is really a very unusual sort of thing, not the sort of thing that a beast would be likely to think about. Suppose a baby was raised in the woods. Do you think it would be likely, apart from others doing such things, to think about speaking?”

  “I assume not,” said Brenner.

  “If they cannot form suitable sounds,” she said, “we will teach them another way to speak, by use of the head, or paws, or by making marks on the ground, such things.”

  “We could drive them away, when they come of age,” said Brenner.

  “Or inform them that they must leave,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Brenner.

  “They might come back,” she said.

  “Woe to the Pons,” he said.

  “Not necessarily,” she said.

  “You seem very optimistic,” Brenner observed.

  “I am a mother,” she said.

  “I do not understand how this could come about,” said Brenner, suddenly.

  “Why not?” she asked, puzzled.

  “The Pons are not stupid,” he said. “They must have understood such a thing could happen.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Of course,” said Brenner.

  “You were not neutered,” she pointed out.

  “That would not have made sense, given the intent of the pact,” said Brenner. “It would have rendered me more passive, less aggressive, less capable of maintaining, and defending, the territory.”

  “You are puzzled that I was not spayed?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “But do you not think that might have made me a less heatable, less excitable, mate for you?” she asked.

  Brenner licked his chops. There was no doubt that she was an eager, hot female. To be sure, she had also been such a one before, and extremely so, in her former form, at Company Station. Indeed, so hot had she been that she would have undoubtedly brought an excellent price in a market. Yes, so hot she had been that he had rega
rded her as fit, even, for the collar.

  “Doubtless,” he said. “But we are looking at this from the point of view of the Pons.

  “In any event,” she said, “obviously it was not done.”

  Brenner considered the matter. The beast at least once had to have been completely at the Pons’ mercy. And surely the Pons must have realized that its fertility might jeopardize the stewardship, the guardianship, the pact! Even if they did not expect her to prey upon Pons, they surely could not guarantee that of the fruit of her body. Surely the Pons, as calculating and efficient as they were, would have protected themselves against such perilous eventualities! Doubtless, he would have supposed, that that lovely, fierce, sinuous, feline body, having fallen into the hands of Pons, would be incapable of its own replication, that that would have been surgically assured. But obviously, it had not been.

  “No,” said Brenner. “Obviously it was not done.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Brenner. “Why?”

  “Do you think the Pons are stupid?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “I do not think that they are stupid.”

  “I am hungry,” she said.

  “I will hunt,” he said. “Do you wish to accompany me?”

  “Certainly,” she said.

  “You could remain here,” he said. “I could bring something back.”

  “I will come with you,” she said.

  “You are hungry?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I see,” he said.

  “You must remember,” she said, nuzzling him, pushing playfully against him, “I am now eating for several.”

  In a few minutes they were in the forest. They stopped near the village, but stayed back, concealed by the trees.

  “Why do you think the Pons have done what they have done?” she asked.