‘New York?’ said Kaufman. The Palace of Delights? ‘Before you were born, before anyone living was born.’ As it spoke the creature’s fingernails were running up under the skin of the split body, and were peeling the thin elastic layer off the luscious brawn. Behind Kaufman, the
other creatures had begun to unhook the bodies from the straps, their hands laid in that same delighting manner on the smooth breasts and flanks of flesh. These too had begun skinning the meat.
‘You will bring us more,’ the father said. ‘More meat for us. The other one was weak.’
Kaufman stared in disbelief.
‘Me?’ he said. ‘Feed you? What do you think I am?’
‘You must do it for us, and for those older than us. For those born before the city was thought of, when America was a timberland and desert.’
The fragile hand gestured out of the train.
Kaufman’s gaze followed the pointing finger into the gloom. There was something else outside the train which he’d failed to see before; much bigger than anything human.
The pack of creatures parted to let Kaufman through so that he could inspect more closely whatever it was that stood outside, but his feet would not move.
‘Go on,’ said the father.
Kaufman thought of the city he’d loved. Were these really its ancients, its philosophers, its creators? He had to believe it. Perhaps there were people on the surface —bureaucrats, politicians, authorities of every kind — who knew this horrible secret and whose lives were dedicated to preserving these abominations, feeding them, as savages feed lambs to their gods. There was a horrible familiarity about this ritual. It rang a bell — not in Kaufman’s conscious mind, but in his deeper, older self.
His feet, no longer obeying his mind, but his instinct to worship, moved. He walked through the corridor of bodies and stepped out of the train.
The light of the torches scarcely began to illuminate the limitless darkness outside. The air seemed solid, it was so thick with the smell of ancient earth. But Kaufman smelt
nothing. His head bowed, it was all he could do to prevent himself from fainting again.
It was there; the precursor of man. The original American, whose homeland this was before Passamaquoddy or Cheyenne. Its eyes, if it had eyes, were on him.
His body shook. His teeth chattered.
He could hear the noise of its anatomy: ticking, crackling, sobbing.
It shifted a little in the dark.
The sound of its movement was awesome. Like a mountain sitting up.
Kaufman’s face was raised to it, and without thinking about what he was doing or why, he fell to his knees in the shit in front of the Father of Fathers.
Every day of his life had been leading to this day, every moment quickening to this incalculable moment of holy terror.
Had there been sufficient light in that pit to see the whole, perhaps his tepid heart would have burst. As it was he felt it flutter in his chest as he saw what he saw.
It was a giant. Without head or limb. Without a feature that was analogous to human, without an organ that made sense, or senses. If it was like anything, it was like a shoal of fish. A thousand snouts all moving in unison, budding, blossoming and withering rhythmically. It was iridescent, like mother of pearl, but it was sometimes deeper than any colour Kaufman knew, or could put a name to.
That was all Kaufman could see, and it was more than he wanted to see. There was much more in the darkness, flickering and flapping.
But he could look no longer. He turned away, and as he did so a football was pitched out of the train and rolled to a halt in front of the Father.
At least he thought it was a football, until he peered more attentively at it, and recognized it as a human head, the
head of the Butcher. The skin of the face had been peeled off in strips. It glistened with blood as it lay in front of its Lord.
Kaufman looked away, and walked back to the train. Every part of his body seemed to be weeping but his eyes. They were too hot with the sight behind him, they boiled his tears away.