substance theirs, of becoming them, or like them.”
“But why, then, the graves?” asked Brenner.
“They presumably serve various purposes,” said Rodriguez. “For the sophisticated, assuaging guilt, and such, they may serve as atonements to, and as memorials to, the fathers. For the less sophisticated, they may provide loci for the spirits of the fathers, places where they may theoretically be contacted, places which they may occasionally visit, or haunt. Surely one would not wish their vengeful spirits to plague the village. And, of course, for outsiders, they serve to conceal the evidence of the crime. Later, the graves, their preparation and such, may have even become no more than a part of a tradition, the origins of which, and the meanings of which, were lost in antiquity.”
“In the totem feast,” said Brenner, shuddering, recalling the Pons clambering about on the carcass of the father, crouching upon it, crawling within it, cutting loose pieces of it to eat, “the children fed upon the substance of the father.”
“And thus it was, undoubtedly,” said Rodriguez, “even in the beginning.”
“But this fact,” said Brenner, “the emptiness of the graves, does not mean that the theory must be true.”
“No,” said Rodriguez. “It does not. In the end, of course, we do not know. In the end we are left, as always, with the ambiguities, the opacities, the mysteries.”
“But you do not regret having come here?”
“No,” said Rodriguez.
“It seems the final victory belongs to the Pons,” said Brenner.
“Between myself and the Pons there are no final victories,” said Rodriguez.
“You are content?”
“Yes, I am content.”
It seemed Rodriguez would lift his hand again, once more to touch the shaggy fur of the beast, but then he lowered it.
“Good-bye,” he said.
“Come again, to see me soon,” said Brenner. “For I am lonely.”
“I love you,” said the small figure.
“I love you,” said Brenner.
“Goodbye,” said Rodriguez.
“Goodbye,” said Brenner.
The small figure turned away.
“Hold to the string,” said Brenner.
“Of course,” said Rodriguez.
Chapter 38
Perhaps it was a whisper of scent, carried over the trees. Perhaps it was a sound, so far off that one could not be sure it was heard. Perhaps it was a sudden sense, or fear, or understanding, or something even subtler than these, as one commonly thinks of such matters, but, suddenly, the beast stood up, frightened, on the height of the cliff.
Something within it had seemed to shriek with misery, with a refusal to believe, with a rejection of an insistence. It was an inward shriek, or scream. It was as though of one forlorn, and abandoned. It was like the scream of a terrified child in the darkness, a bereaved child, in an empty house. It was a scream of terrible, profound, chilling loneliness. The beast stood, risen up, the wind cold in its fur, on the height of the cliff, lonely there, against the sky.
Then, in an instant, it had, in one or two movements, leaping, endangering even a body such as its own, as though insane, descended the cliff, left the platform behind, and bounded along the string, toward the village. In a moment or two it encountered three Pons making their way toward the platform. These small things cried out in fear, seeing it coming, and with such swiftness. It bounded past them, even before they had, in their terror, been able to react, even before they could flee into the brush or hide amongst the trees, so quickly had it come upon them. They turned, then, to watch it pass.
Scarcely a hundred yards from where the beast had encountered the Pons, coming to the platform, and cliffs, it stopped. There the trail of the small, eyeless one departed from the string. The string was not broken. He had not been pulled away from it, clinging to it. The string had not failed him. His trail left the string and set out, perpendicular to the string, leaving it behind. He had, it seemed, at this point, left the string of his own will. He had made his way into the darkness of the forest, enclosed in his own darkness. The footsteps, the beast noted, did not seem hesitant or fearful. It had left the string, it seemed, with a good heart. In the forest, as far as it could, within its limitations, it had not crept, but strode, even marched.
In a short while the beast came upon the first stains of blood, a moist darkness on the floor of the forest, and, a little later, uttered a terrible roar, and a stealthy one, scarcely pausing to