The media was going crazy over cannibalism, as if it was something new. Deanna knew differently. She’d met her ex while she was getting her MBA at Yale, but the degree in psychology came first. It was where she’d first encountered the term anthropophagy, the practice of eating the flesh of other human beings. She had done an extensive paper on it for her abnormal psych class, fifty percent of the semester grade. There were many lessons from college which she no longer remembered, or even cared to, but this was a topic the years hadn’t been able to shake.
Before the scent of money called out to her so strongly, she’d thought to become a clinical psychologist specializing in the kind of mental instability which led to disorders like anthropophagy. Deanna made a little snorting sound into her cosmo. A headshrinker for headshrinkers. That brought on a tiny giggle. The whole idea was both repulsive and darkly attractive, and the fact she had been secretly dating her aby-psych professor at the time – who thought the study of cannibalism was just fascinating – nudged her in that direction. Her dorm mates warned her not to leave her grisly research photos lying around, her friends didn’t want to even hear the word cannibal, and her parents were distraught over the idea that their daughter was going to throw away her high-priced education on a bunch of whackos. Deanna did the paper, got an ‘A,’ broke up with the professor shortly after the semester ended, and did not become a psychologist. It wasn’t that the field or the research wasn’t intriguing, but she decided not too many of them wore Dolce Gabbana or had private bungalows in St. Martin.
Four incidents of cannibalism in a week, and the news would have everyone believe it was the start of a zombie apocalypse. It reminded her of the zombie flash mobs which popped up in San Francisco on occasion, thousands of people in makeup and bloody clothes shuffling through the streets and dining in sidewalk cafes. Ridiculous. But there was nothing even a little amusing about Scotty, and what he had done. Thinking about him brought her to the verge of tears again, so she drained her glass and motioned for another. Peter was swift and efficient, both in his delivery and retreat.
Cannibalism – and society’s abhorrence of it - was an old story, and few people other than those who had actually studied it knew just how old. The Roman god Saturn was said to have devoured his own son. The bible spoke of it during the sieges of Samaria and Jerusalem. It was reported during the Holy Crusades, and Pope Innocent IV, seeing its widespread prevalence during the famines in Europe, declared it a sin deserving to be punished by force of arms. Shakespeare addressed it in Titus Andronicus, and the native Algonquin people’s Wendigo was said to be a malevolent, cannibalistic spirit. Many of the indigenous people of the Pacific, Polynesia and Meso-America indulged in it as part of religious and cultural celebrations. The Aghoris of Northern India, a splinter sect of Hinduism, believed consuming human flesh gave both physical and spiritual benefits, which eventually led to supernatural powers and immortality. Its place in the world ran from the Romans to Hansel and Gretel, from Borneo to Hannibal Lecter.
None of them, however, fit the profile of a smart, successful 21st century urban executive who had filed his teeth and tried to eat a bum face-first. Scotty had lost his mind, and gone native. Deanna finished her second, and Peter quietly replaced it without her asking.
At Yale she had learned cannibalism wasn’t just something from the old world, and it was often found to have starvation as its root cause. From 1609-1610, there were reports of several Jamestown colonists eating the flesh of both the dead and the living, and one man was burned alive after confessing to killing, salting and eating his pregnant wife. In 1820 the whaling ship Essex was sunk by a sperm whale, and its captain and surviving crew spent ninety days at sea in a small, open whaling launch, dining on each another one by one until only two men remained. Their rescuers found the pair sucking marrow from femur bones, eyes locked and refusing to look away from the other. That event was Melville’s inspiration for Moby Dick. Hunger was blamed for instances of cannibalism within the Donner Party, Flight 571 in the Andes, during the siege of Leningrad, the Great Chinese Famine of ’58-’61, and for the five American fliers who were captured and eaten by starving Japanese troops in 1945. The offenders were subsequently tried for war crimes and hanged.
Deanna turned in her seat, drink in hand, and looked out at the private room with its expensive but tasteful décor and subdued lighting, only a scattering of patrons at the tables, each with a personal waiter hovering nearby. On one wall hung close to a hundred photos of celebrities and high-profile politicians posing with chefs and bartenders and maitre Ds, all of them members. Scotty had come here with her on several occasions, and he loved the place. She had sponsored him, and remembered warmly how impressed he had been, both with the club and with her and the people she knew. It made her sad, and she started wondering if he’d meant more to her than she thought. She turned back to the bar, glancing at a small clock next to a bottle of Grey Goose, surprised to see she’d been here for two hours already.
Peter appeared. “Another, Ms. Sansone?”
She pursed her lips. “If I don’t get something else in my stomach you’re going to have to pour me into a cab. I’ll take it at a table.”
Peter motioned, and Dimitri appeared beside her, guiding her to a corner seat. She settled in, feeling the cosmos, as a fresh drink appeared. “I’ll bring around a menu in a few minutes, Ms. Sansone.” She was feeling a little better, and knew the pink concoction was the reason. Still, she forced herself to take smaller sips.
Scotty. In the times they’d come here together they had never sat at this table, and that was at least a small relief. Suddenly she wondered if he had ever come here without her. He was a member, after all, and they had no strings. Had he sat in this room with another woman, enjoying the fine dining and each other’s company before retreating to a hotel suite for dessert? She was surprised to find herself feeling a tinge of jealousy, and again wondered what he had meant to her. Deanna remembered his touch, the heat of their bodies together, and felt a flush which didn’t come from the cosmo.
Then the image of him crouched naked in an alley with sharpened teeth and bloody face reared before her, and she shook her head sharply. That wasn’t the man she had known, and it reminded her there were motivations for cannibalism which went beyond hunger.
Politics and anthropophagy went hand in hand. Throughout the age of colonialism, accusations of cannibalism had been used to demonize indigenous people – whether it was true or not – and justify their destruction. Certain island kings were selected for their culinary prowess, and a few Central African leaders had used it to demonstrate their ferocity and dominion over their subjects, as with Idi Amin in Uganda, though it was never proven and he was never held to account for it.
Scotty, though, seemed to fall into the last category; mental illness. Again, despite the media’s attempt to depict the recent spate of incidents as “increasing at an alarming rate,” cannibalism was nothing new in the modern age, and popped up in all sorts of places, like Australia, Venezuela, the Ukraine and Germany. There were American serial killers like Albert Fish in the 20’s and 30’s, and Jeffery Dahmer in the 90’s. In 2003 rap artist Big Lurch ate a friend while under the influence of PCP. A London man ate an acquaintance in 2004 just days after being questioned and released in an unrelated murder case. In 2007 a Turkish man stored human remains in his fridge and fed them to his unknowing parents. 2008 saw a man who was sleeping on a moving Greyhound near Toronto, killed and partially eaten by another passenger while the other riders dozed around them. As recently as 2011, in separate events in Pakistan, Slovakia, Brazil and Haiti, modern cannibals were caught selling the meat of their victims at local markets cooked into pastries and pies.
Someone approached her table, rousing her from her ruminations. “Deanna?”
She looked up to see a well-dressed, slender man with dark hair. He had started out doing stand-up, and then gone on to be a raging success with a sitcom which shared his last name, one of the first comics
in the industry to start pulling down a million dollars per episode. “Oh, hi!” She rose and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I didn’t see you here.”
He smiled. “You looked lost in thought.”
“Are you in town for a show?” She knew he lived between LA and New York.
“Yeah, two nights over at Cobb’s. If you want to swing by I’ll leave tickets at the window.”
She nodded, knowing she wouldn’t. His face turned somber. “I’m sorry to hear about Scotty. Everyone liked him.”
She thanked the comedian and they exchanged a few awkward pleasantries, then he touched her on the arm and made his exit. Deanna looked around the room. It was no real surprise that he’d heard, they likely all had. The members list of Society wasn’t all that large, and this was big news. She felt like crying again and drained her cocktail. Peter brought over another, and Dimitri quietly set a leather-backed menu on her table, murmuring that he’d be by when she was ready.
For most, whether forced into it by starvation or those isolated acts of madmen, consuming human flesh just made people sick, similar to a moderate to serious case of food poisoning. It generally passed without further effect, although it would be even more severe these days, as it was believed the modern diet was so filled with chemicals and additives that human meat was just short of toxic.
Deanna supposed it depended on the chef. She giggled unexpectedly, loud enough to make a few of the dining room’s patrons look over, and she hid behind her fresh cosmo. She was getting loopy.
The real risk came from Kuru, an incurable degenerative neurological disorder caused by the prions found in humans. This was the risk for long-term cannibals, and could take anywhere from five to twenty years before the onset of symptoms. Body tremors were a classic example, and as the fatal disorder entered its final twelve months, a victim often began to experience increasing weakness and inability to stand, slurred speech and mental instability. Tribal people called it the Laughing Sickness due to the afflicted person’s pathologic bursts of laughter.
She opened the menu as Dimitri arrived, standing patiently nearby with his hands folded.
Is that what happened to Scotty? Had his diet led to a fast onset of Kuru, and driven him mad? Was that what the members of The Society had to look forward to? Her right hand trembled ever so slightly as she held the menu, and Dimitri pretended not to notice. Inside was a pair of fine parchment pages in script, the entries all without prices. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. And the cuisine here was expensive indeed. Clipped to the upper right corner was the daily special, a photo of the Vietnamese boy she’d seen outside being pulled into a doorway by his mother.
She tapped the picture. “I’ll try the veal.”
“Excellent, Ms. Sansone.” Dimitri tucked the menu under one arm and disappeared into the kitchen.
Deanna sipped her cosmo and let out another unexpected giggle, covering her mouth with a shaking hand. Nothing to worry about. It was all about the chef, and she could afford the very best. Everyone at Society could.
JACK’S FOLLY
This wasn’t working out as planned. Not at all.
Should have kept the cow, he thought.
Smooth porcelain walls rose about him on all sides, and he was unable to scale them, even after he’d shucked off his boots and tried it with bare feet. He kept sliding back to the center of the bowl. Still, he tried again, getting a short run at the wall, charging up, lunging, hoping to catch a grip on the rim.
Over a foot short, again, and he tumbled back to the center. The metal bar running up his back and hidden beneath his clothes gave him a sharp jab. Jack let out a cry that was part frustration and part fear. He wouldn’t have many more chances.
As he eyed the sheer white walls – and the wood beamed ceiling impossibly high above – he cursed himself once more. What had he been thinking? Just a simple trip to market, sell the cow, any idiot could do it.
Stupid peddler. Stupid trade.
The bowl shook as the footsteps returned, throwing Jack onto his bottom. A moment later an enormous face filled the space above the bowl, eyes with heavy lids, a broad flat nose over thick, pouting lips.
The face rumbled, “Fee, Fi…”
“Oh, shut up!” Jack screamed, scrambled to his feet and shaking a finger at his captor. “Just let me go and I’m out of here! Won’t trouble you again!” His voice was raw. Could the beast hear him up there? Did it even understand?
This should have been a no-brainer. A little climbing, a little creeping, nick some gold while the big bastard was sleeping. But he’d barely circled the room before it snatched him up and dropped him in this goddamn bowl.
“Fee, Fi…”
“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Jack, then his annoyance turned to fear as he saw a huge thumb and forefinger reaching into the bowl. He backed away as far as his confines would allow, fumbling behind him, pulling the long piece of metal from its hiding place. It was the only thing he’d been able to grab before being grabbed himself. Jack planted his feet and held the giant sewing needle like a spear before him.
…Fo, Fum,” said the beast, but suddenly the little snack struck out with something, something sharp! A bellow of pain erupted from its gap-toothed mouth and it jerked back its wounded hand, yanking the needle from Jack’s grip. It howled in agony, the little piece of steel imbedded in a cuticle.
“That’s what you get!” Jack shouted.
The face reappeared, contorted with pain, shaking with sobs. It began to wail and cry. Giant tears splashed into the bowl, and to Jack’s alarm, the water was up to his chest in moments, huge drops landing like rain, hammering him. The giant carried on, and Jack found himself immersed to his chin, kicking his feet and waving his arms.
I’m swimming, he thought suddenly. I’ll float to the top and just climb out!
Then, still sobbing, the giant thundered, “Bad!” and jabbed its finger down into the bowl, pinning a thrashing Jack to the bottom.
Stupid beans, he thought.
He drowned choking on salt.
CORN OF CORTEZ
Amber cirrus clouds crept overhead. They did not gather and darken as they once had, did not bring the rain, only marched on to distant places without touching the land. The winds came instead, sweeping over peaks and ridges, hooting past openings in the rock, laughing down the canyons. When it reached the open land it became a great shushing sound, pulling at the soil and gathering it upwards in masses of fine particles, turning the red sky brown.
Traces of water vapor and dust, but no rain, and in the fields the soil cracked and powdered. Squat stalks of blackened corn lost their grip on the land and fell against one another, brittle, their leaves curled and crisp. Dust fell upon the corn, adding its weight and bearing it to the ground.
High summer, and twenty-three degrees.
Cortez stepped from his domed house and felt the wind. It blew cold against skin which was leathery and blackened from the ultraviolet, and the calloused hands he thrust into the pockets of his hooded parka were large and lined with the red earth. He walked to the wire fence, boots kicking up red dust, and leaned his forearms on a post. He wore scratched goggles and a dirty pink mask to ward off the dust, which nonetheless found a way in to grind between his teeth and wear down the enamel, just as it wore down the land.
A three foot stalk had fallen against the wire, and he snapped off a small ear, stripping away the flaking leaves and brittle silk. Martian corn was black to begin with, the same shade as his skin, but these kernels were so hardened and devoid of moisture that they gleamed like the silica glass so common on this red world. The ear was only a few inches long, killed well before maturity. He pitched it into the field as he squinted out across the acres of withered crops, the wind kicking up swirls of dust between the fallen rows and making the leaves crackle.
“Is it all gone, Papa?” said a small voice beside him.
He hadn’t heard her come up, and didn’t look down at her, only stared into the field. “Yep.�
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“Won’t none of it come back?” She coughed, a long dry hack he didn’t care for. She’d picked it up over the winter, and it had hung on. Sometimes he found dark brown spots on the pillow in the bed she shared with Isaiah.
“It’s all gone. Where’s your brother?”
“He’s playing in the dooryard.” She wore goggles and a mask too, her small, dark face barely visible within the hood of her coat, the ring of synthetic fur worn down and looking patchy like a dog with mange. Not that he had ever seen a dog, except in pictures.
“Crawler all packed? You bring the water jug and your blanket?”
“Yes.” She used the tip of her boot to draw a circle in the dust.
“You pack the satchel?”
Her boot moved in a slow circle and she nodded. “There’s only the two foil packets of bread and the can of onions.”
Cortez stooped and picked up a clod of rusty soil, slowly rubbing it between his palms until it crumbled to a powder which the wind carried away like smoke. Magnesium, potassium, sodium and chloride, high alkaline pH. Its nutrients could support life, the hardy Martian corn in particular, but as tough as it was it still needed moisture to save it from the wind, needed a sturdier anchor than the iron oxide dust. He’d plowed these fields his entire life, had crawled on his hands and knees picking out iron and nickel asteroid fragments to keep from breaking a blade, had worked in wind which could carry a man away and cold which turned his black fingers white. He’d buried his kin out here, had buried Eve. This was his soil, but even he couldn’t make it rain.
“Happy Glory Day, Papa.”
Cortez just nodded at her, and she walked back towards the house, coughing. He hung his head and tightened his fists, then just let his arms hang by his sides as he looked up at yellow clouds without promise. Beyond them, pale and muted behind the rusty smudge of sky, the twin, irregular shaped moons of Phobos and Deimos hung close together. A gust lifted the surface of his fields into the air and clouded them from view.
In The Falling Light Page 23
