Food for demons, p.13
Food for Demons, page 13
The babe!
Here was food for her.
Instantly she cringed back. That was incredible. Her own child? Had she grown so vile she could even think such thoughts?
Yet, what chance had he to grow up? So puny and weak, so wan from lack of sunshine and fresh air, of proper food and exercise? What sort of life could he ever know? Certainly not a normal one.
Should she make him like her? She could feed thus, yet keep him, too. And once made an undead, he would no longer be as a normal though weak babe, but able to help her in many ways.
No, no! Preposterous, horrible thought!
Was it truly love she felt for her son . . . or was it selfishness, a desire to hold fast to the one link connecting her with the humanity she had lost?
For hours the woman wrestled with herself. And the child’s moods swayed her forth and back . . . from one decision to the other. When he slept, as he did, fitfully, now and again from sheer exhaustion, a wave of tenderness and pity swept over her, and she would determine to give him up, to get him to some family who would rear him in comfort and humanness.
Then he would wake, and his cries would irritate and anger her and, as through the hours her own hunger became more demanding, it required every iota of her will to keep from satisfying her blood-lust.
Yet she could not make the final decision. Her terrible unhumanness and her still-human mother love vacillated her like the swinging pendulum of a great clock.
Yet the night was nearing its end. She must decide . . . and now!
There really was, after all, but one possible solution under these circumstances. Swiftly, that she might not waver, she bent her head over the restless bit of flesh in her arms. Her lips drew back from sharp incisors. Her mouth and teeth touched that satin-smooth neck . . . and recoiled in horror.
With a wail of despair she struggled up. That way was definitely closed. Was the other still possible?
By what magnitude of exertion she squirmed her way up the steep ladder-stair, carrying the child, she did not know. And once onto the ground above she could only crawl.
And so, foot by desperate foot, she did. Across the clearing, through the narrowest part of the wood, hoping . . . praying to the God she had deserted . . . for strength and time to reach the nearest field, where men would soon be coming to work.
Roots and twigs and stones core and ribboned her clothing before she was but barely started. Yet she crawled on . . . and on . . . and on . . .
More and more her skin was bruised and lacerated, her trail marked by shreds of flesh torn from her by cruel barbs and rocks. Yet she felt them no longer. Lift and shove the now-heavy child ahead as far as she could reach. Dig torn fingers into the soil, or grasp a projection to pull her body ahead. Again . . . again . . .
Thought ceased. Memory became a dimness. Will alone remained to guide the mechanical actions some inner compulsion demanded.
All too soon she sensed a faint lightness in the air, but whether it was the false or the real dawn she knew not.
“Oh, dear God, not for me, but for my blameless son!”
But the boy was crying steadily now, fretfully wailing his bewilderment and irritation both from his hunger and from this rough, unusual treatment. His cries tore at the mother . . . yet angered and provoked her.
“Quiet, brat,” she slapped him—the first touch other than a caress he had ever known. Yet rage demanded an outlet, for she was again in the throes of her own terrible, demanding hunger.
Once more her bared teeth searched for the jugular. Once more the electric touch of tender skin stopped her.
Swiftly repentant, she continued on . . . on. Only the burning need for going on remained. Even the why was forgotten.
Suddenly a stabbing lance of pain like nothing she had ever known or imagined, struck through and through every atom of her being.
She knew starkly it was the dawn. She redoubled her pitiful efforts. Push the babe ahead . . . scramble along another arm-length . . . repeat . . . repe . . .
The first workers to reach the field heard a weak but continuous wailing from inside the wood. Curious but cautious they investigated. And found a mystery none was ever able to solve:
A tiny man-child, wan and weak from hunger and exhaustion, yet in whom the spark of life still flickered.
Lying half-beneath and partially shielded from the burning sunlight by a something that might—once—long ago have been a woman, but was now only a naked, shrivelled husk of dessicated skin and broken bones.
The clipping reproduced above tells the story. A man is born, lives out his alloted years, and dies. The survivors mourn.
I mourn Everett, as I mourn the years gone by, years that can never be re-captured. Years of youth and years of introduction;
Introduction to Ev, a tall man, already grey haired, always with a well chewed cigar in the corner of his mouth. I was sixteen years old, and had made the trip from my home in Buffalo to the Sian Slack in Battle Creek. For the very first time I was going to meet real fantasy fans, the cream of the crop, and how I looked forward to it.
The Sian Shack is a bit of fan history. A wonderful ranshackled house that can never be replaced, either in fact or in memory. The people who lived there were all wonderful, with no half-way measures. Al and Abby Lu Ashley who owned the house, Walt Liebscher bunked upstairs in a magic room whose walls were covered with originals, Jack Weidenbeck next to him, fan artist extraordinary; and Ev.
There were always other fans present. Frankie Robinson of Chicago, Bob Tucker of Bloomington, Charlie Tanner of Cincinnati, and a kid from Buffalo who went back to Battle Creek time after time, almost as a pilgrimage.
And there was always Ev. Mild, patient, explaining the ways of the real world and the fan world. At the time I met Ev he was the president of THE NATIONAL FANTASY FAN FEDERATION, and before I knew him ten minutes, I was a member. Before I knew him a half-hour I was on a planning committee. Before I knew him an hour I was helping him cut stencils for the club magazine.
Everett was a man of many moods, a man of intense convictions. His friends were the pride of his life. He treasured friendships as other men treasure more material possessions. He would brag of his friends, in high places and low, from Edgar Rice Burroughs and Doc Smith to the newest member of The National Fantasy Fan Federation.
He was not afraid to show his affection. In a world of falseness, Everett was a true note. If you were his friend, your faults did not matter. He could on occasion be stubborn when he knew he was right, or thought he was right, but the disagreements were momentary, and quickly forgotten. He was not the type to dwell on old unpleasantness, or carry a grudge.
Now, he is gone and I have memories of a man with grey hair, chewing on a cigar, running a row of nickles together to signify that he was willing to play poker, a man who was an honored guest in my home, and in whose home I was always at ease.
A man who signed every letter and card “Love, Everett”.
This is my final gesture toward a grand fellow. I offer you this book, Ev, with Love . . .
Ken Krueger
E. Everett Evans, Food for Demons
