McCann pulled his walrus moustache. “These boys have probably been in captivity since they were very young — either born here, or wrest from their dead mothers” arms in the wild. They know nothing else; they cannot imagine freedom. And these wretches could not run off if you turned them free tomorrow. See how they limp the scars on the backs of their ankles? Hamstrung. Perhaps that explains their demeanour of defeat. They are creatures evolved, surely, for one thing above all else — running — and if they cannot run any more, they have no aspiration. Perhaps it is humane to excise the very possibility of escape; believe me, hope harms a creature far more than despair ever did…”
Praisegod Michael emerged from his chapel-like residence. His black robe flapped about his ankles, heavy, as he walked. He threw his arms wide, loudly sniffing the air. Then he fell to his knees, bowed his head, and began to pray.
Praisegod’s hunting party formed up rapidly. There were to be five humans (or near-humans) — Praisegod, his man Sprigge and one Other Zealot, and Malenfant and McCann — along with four Hams, and ten Runner bearers.
One of the Hams was just a child, about the size of a human ten-year-old. This boy seemed dressed in clothing of a somewhat finer cut than most of the Zealots. Praisegod kept him close by, sometimes resting his hand on the boy’s flattened skull, or cupping him under his chinless jaw. The boy submitted to this, and ran small errands for Praisegod.
Five of the Runners were to carry equipment — home-made spears and crossbows. The rest were there to carry the humans.
Malenfant’s mount was to be one of the older, more broken-down specimens he had observed that morning. The hominid stood before him, as tall as Malenfant despite his stoop, his very human eyes empty of expression.
Malenfant flatly refused to climb aboard his shoulders.
McCann leaned towards him. “For God’s sake, Malenfant,” he hissed.
Praisegod Michael watched this with a thin amusement. “Do you imagine you spare this stooped one discomfort or indignity? There is no soul behind those deceptive eyes, sir, to experience such complicated passions. I trust your compassion will not pour away when your bare feet are bleeding and sore… But perhaps you are right; he is rather worn down.” He nodded to Sprigge.
Sprigge tapped the old Runner’s elbow, and he obediently knelt on the ground. Sprigge stepped behind him and drew a knife from his belt — metal, very old, sharpened and polished until the blade was a thin, fragile remnant.
“Shit.” Malenfant lunged forward, but McCann grabbed his arm.
Distracted by the commotion, the Runner saw the knife. His battered face twisted in animal rage. He started to rise, perhaps for the first time in his life defying those who used him.
But Sprigge wrestled him to the ground and knelt on his back. He sliced the knife through the old Runner’s throat. Blood spurted, a brighter red shining in the crimson dirt. Still the Runner fought; he didn’t stop struggling until his head had been all but sawn off his body.
McCann released Malenfant. “The rogue elephant and the mahout, Malenfant,” he whispered grimly. “And if you defy, you will only make matters worse for the creatures here.”
“Thank you, sir,” Praisegod said to Malenfant, his look calculating, mocking. “You perceived a lack which I have been remiss in correcting. Well, it is done, and the sun is already high. Come now.” And he slapped the face of his own mount, who trotted away to the west, away from the rising sun.
The others hastily mounted, and the hunting party proceeded at a steady jog after Praisegod, the Runners” bare feet thumping into the earth, the Hams following the graceful Runners as best they could with their awkward, bow-legged style.
They reached the fringe of the forest, and moved out onto the plain.
The forest floor hadn’t been so bad for Malenfant’s bare feet, save for bites, for which he’d no doubt suffer later. But after a half-mile of desert his feet were aching and bloody. And as the miles wore away he began to dig deep into his already shallow reserves of energy. Malenfant knew they had had no choice but to go along with Praisegod Michael’s invitation to join his hunt, which was obviously some kind of bullshit character test. He tried to see it as an opportunity. But there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
He found his thoughts dissolving, his purpose reducing merely to a determination to keep one foot moving in front of the others, to show no weakness.
The weather fell apart. A lid of boiling cloud settled over the sky, making the small world seem flat and enclosed, washing the colours out of everything. And then the rain came, a ferocious storm that stippled the crimson sand with miniature craters. Much of the water drained quickly into the dry soil, but soon rivulets were running over the ground, and the sand turned into clinging mud.
Praisegod called a halt. The humans dismounted. Malenfant rested, hands on his knees, breathing deep of the thin air.
Under the brisk supervision of the Hams, the Runners unloaded sheets of sewn together leather. They quickly put together a kind of tepee.
The Zealots, with McCann and Malenfant, huddled in the tepee. Inside there was a stink of old leather and damp bodies and clothing. The other hominids were excluded — all save Praisegod’s Ham boy, who snuggled close to the Zealot; Praisegod stroked his cheek with in-turned fingers. The other Hams had a few sections of skin that they held up over themselves, to keep the rain off their heads.
As for the Runners, they had no shelter at all. They huddled together under a rain so thick it turned the air grey, their knees tucked into their chests, naked, visibly shivering.
McCann saw Malenfant watching the Runners. “You should not concern yourself,” he said. “In the wild they have no conception of shelter. If it rains they get wet; if they catch a chill they die. Nothing in their present circumstances changes that.”
Praisegod had been reading passages in a book, a clumsy thing of scraped-leather pages, presumably a Bible or a prayer book. He leaned forward, as if trying to find a more comfortable position for the comical, stubby tail he must have curled up under his robe. “I suspect you fear the rain, Malenfant.”
Malenfant frowned. “Ah, bullshit. All this turbulent weather has got to be a result of that new Earth in the sky. It’s a bigger world: you’re going to get tides, “quakes, atmospheric disruptions—”
“Your language is a jabber. Perhaps you believe the rain will wash away this puny world, and you along with it. Well, it will not; for if this island resisted the very Flood itself, a little local rain will not harm it now.”
“Ah.” McCann was smiling. Malenfant could tell what he was thinking. This is what this guy believes. Don’t say anything to contradict him. McCann said, “We are on an island, an island that survived the Flood. Yes, of course.” He glanced out at the huddled Runners. “And that explains them.”
Praisegod said, “They are less than men yet more than the animals. What can they be but Homo diluvii testi — witnesses of the Flood? This island was spared the rising waters; and so were its inhabitants, who must have crowded here with the ignorant instincts of any animal.”
“Then,” said McCann carefully, “we are privileged to glimpse the antediluvian order of things.”
“Privileged or damned,” Sprigge muttered, staring at the Neandertal boy on Praisegod’s lap. “This place is an abomination.”
“Not an abomination,” snapped Praisegod. “It is like a strange reflected Creation. Man was born to look up at the orders of beings above him, the angels, prophets, saints and apostles, who serve the Holy Trinity. Here, we look down, down on these creatures with men’s hands and faces and even tongues, but creatures without mind or soul, who sprawl in the mud.”