James Hynes - Kings of Infinite Space

At the top of the slope Stanley Tulendij hooked his fingers through Paul’s elbow and settled the younger man on the ledge between himself and Olivia Haddock. Olivia gave him a cold, sidelong glance, looking him up and down.

“You’re alright then?” Paul murmured.

“No thanks to you,” said Olivia.

“I tried,” protested Paul, struggling to keep his voice down. “Didn’t you feel me grab your ankles?”

Olivia shushed him with a red satin finger to her lips. Stanley Tulendij was stepping to the front of the ledge. He threw his arms wide. “What is the law?” he cried, his hollow voice reverberating the length and breadth of the cavern.

Next to Paul, Olivia clasped her hands before her and blew out a sigh, but below them, the crowd of homeless men swelled forward to the edge of the water, Colonel and Bob Wier at the front. The mouths of the pale men opened wide like hymn singers, their pointed teeth gleaming.

“When the going gets tough,” they chanted, “the tough get going. That is the law. Are we not men?”

“A quitter never wins, and a winner never quits. That is the law. Are we not men?”

“Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing. That is the law. Are we not men?”

“Don’t mess with Texas. That is the law. Are we not men?”

The men below swayed from side to side, clapping once when they came to “That is the law,” and the resounding slap of their hands rang around the cavern like feedback. Colonel and Bob Wier swayed right along with the others, though Bob Wier was now openly crying. Beyond the fringes of the crowd, J.J. swayed and dipped his shoulders in place, while to Paul’s right, Stanley Tulendij waved his bony hands in the air like a conductor. To Paul’s left, Olivia blew out another sigh and rolled her eyes. Paul wasn’t sure what to do, so he just swayed feebly, pretending to clap, but not bringing his palms together.

“It ain’t over till it’s over,” chanted the men. “That is the law. Are we not men?”

“Never let the bastards grind you down. That is the law. Are we not men?”

“Remember the Alamo! That is the law. Are we not men?”

“Let a smile be your umbrella. That is the law. Are we not men?”

“And this above all!” cried Stanley Tulendij, lifting his arms higher. Under the momentum of their chant, the men continued to sway for a moment longer, but then steadied themselves at the cry of Stanley Tulendij. As the reverberation of their clapping and chanting died away in the recesses of the cavern, Paul saw Boy G returning from the cubicles bearing a large, blue sack over his shoulder.

“In the daylight world,” Stanley Tulendij called out, his voice ringing round the rocks of the cave, “the rule is, ‘To thine own self be true.’ But here,” he cried, the men below moaning in expectation, “the rule is, ‘To thine own self be. .’ ”

There was a long, breathless pause, during which Paul heard only the plink! ploink! of dripping water. Boy G advanced on the crowd with a noiseless tread, bearing his burden closer. Olivia Haddock rolled her tongue around in her cheek.

“Enough!” roared the crowd of pale men. “To thine own self, be enough! That is the law. Are we not men?”

Stanley Tulendij threw his arms in the air, and the men cheered and whistled. They stamped their feet and shook their fists in the air.

“Finally,” breathed Olivia Haddock, restlessly tapping her foot.

As Boy G reached the back of the crowd with his burden, they parted to let him through. The closer ones reached out to stroke or caress the bundle over his shoulder as he passed. The ones at the rear of the crowd lifted themselves on tiptoe and ran their tongues over their jagged teeth. Only now, as Boy G came closer, did Paul realize that his burden wasn’t a sack, but the backside of someone’s pair of jeans. Boy G was carrying a person, doubled over at the waist, with her head and shoulders dangling behind him and Boy G clutching her legs in front. Stanley Tulendij caught Paul’s eye and winked.

“Enough, my boy! It’s a word of shattering power!” He clapped Paul on the shoulder. “Make it your battle cry!” He glanced past Paul, his eyes brightening at Olivia. “Isn’t that right, my lovely queen?”

“Whatever,” said Olivia.

Now Boy G was stepping across the pool on the flattened stalagmites, his tread making a moire of intersecting waves on the surface of the water. He bent slightly under the weight of the woman as he started up the steps carved into the rock. Suddenly Paul realized that he knew that backside, and all the breath was sucked out of him. At the same moment he heard the brisk, rhythmic scrape of metal against metal, and he looked over the heads of the crowd to see J.J. stroking a long-bladed knife against a sharpening steel. The murmur of the men below grew louder, saying a single word, and it wasn’t until Boy G had reached the ledge at the base of the column that Paul realized what they were saying.

“Meat!” they murmured. “Meat! Meat! Meat!”

Boy G stooped to one knee and tipped the woman off his shoulder onto the rock, where she stood unsteadily for a moment before sagging to her knees, her hands bound before her and her chin drooping to her breastbone. Her mouth was gagged by a handkerchief tied behind her head. Boy G backed away from her, swiveling his wide, cannibal smile past Stanley Tulendij and Paul and Olivia, and then he turned to descend the rock. Olivia glanced sidelong at the bound woman, then at Paul. Her lips were pursed, and Paul realized that she was trying hard not to smile.

“Think you’re better than us,” Olivia said, sotto voce. “We’ll just see about that.”

“Behold!” cried Stanley Tulendij, startling Paul, who turned to see the old man grasp the top of the kneeling woman’s head and tilt her face up for all to see. “See what Paul has brought us!”

At the base of the formation, the men were chanting louder, “Meat! Meat! Meat!” Colonel was chanting along with them, his eyes shining with an unholy light. Next to him Bob Wier didn’t chant but only stared into the clear cave water at his feet, lifting his hand to wipe the tears from his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Across the cave J.J. stropped his knife with a brisk, professional rhythm, faster even than the beating of Paul’s heart. Only when he had no place else to look did Paul lower his eyes to the face of the woman at his feet. Her eyes were wide and frantic, her skin very pale. Her freckles were like flecks of ash across her cheeks; the gag cut into the corners of her mouth. Paul’s heart stuttered and he nearly fell to his knees himself, for he was looking at the face of his Oklahoma lover, Callie.

“OKAY, I’VE HAD ENOUGH,” said Paul in a loud voice, to no one in particular. “I want to wake up now.”

This only provoked a grumble of laughter from the crowd of men below and even a hollow chuckle from Stanley Tulendij. Olivia issued an exasperated gasp. “Very droll, Professor,” called out Colonel from the edge of the pool.

“No, seriously,” said Paul. Callie looked up at him beseechingly, and Paul looked away, unable to bear it. “This isn’t funny anymore. I’m not enjoying this.”

Stanley Tulendij, his lipless mouth fixed in a cadaverous grin, bent close to Paul. “She won’t feel a thing,” he said with an avuncular wink. “Not for long, anyway.”

The murmuring from below—“Meat! Meat! Meat!”—grew even louder, and Paul looked down to see the crowd parting for J.J., who approached the pool ceremoniously bearing the big knife across his upturned palms. At the edge of the pool, he handed it off to Bob Wier, who grimaced and handled the blade as if it were red hot, immediately passing it off to Colonel, who took it solemnly. He held the handle with one hand and laid the gleaming blade lightly across his other palm. He stepped across the trembling pool on the stepping stones and started up the slope, his shining eyes fixed on Paul.