The beast v1 0, p.1
The Beast (v1.0), page 1
09-03-2023
THERE CAME A SHARP SQUEAL
AND THEN SILENCE….
George leaped to his feet, the unwary and innocent bystander who has blundered into the murder scene and is now seen by the killer. The shadowy form across the street emerged into the lesser darkness of the pavement and reared up on its hind legs, looking at George. From its bloody jaws hung the body of a common house cat.
The man felt faint as his own sudden standing up drained the blood from his brain. Was it a bear? Taller than he was when it stood, it had a rounded head and a long muzzle and small eyes set close to the head. The eyes were large and luminous, a night creature’s eyes. George Beaumont, called Bo by his friends back home, alone in a strange town in the dead of night, felt that a dream had somehow extended into his waking life, that, dreaming and waking too soon, he had pulled this apparition into his world by mistake. He wanted it not to be there. The creature dropped the dead cat into the gutter and stalked toward him on its hind legs, fixing him with its eyes….
Books by Robert Stallman
The Orphan
The Captive
The Beast
Published by TIMESCAPE/POCKET BOOKS
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Robert Stallman
THE BEAST
(The Third Book of the Beast)
A TIMESCAPE BOOK
PUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS NEW YORK
Contents
Chapter One May, 1938
Chapter Two November, 1937
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental
Another Original publication of TIMESCAPE BOOKS
A Timescape Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster division of
GULF & WESTERN CORPORATION
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020
Copyright © 1982 by Estate of Robert Stallman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Timescape Books, 1230
Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020
ISBN: 0-671-41383-X
First Timescape Books printing September, 1982
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
POCKET and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster.
Use of the trademark TIMESCAPE is by exclusive license
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Printed in the U.SA.
This book is for
Stumper and Betty
And that which thou sowest, thou sowest not that
body that shall be, but bare grain, it may chance of
wheat, or of some other grain: But God giveth it a
body as it hath pleased him, and to every seed his
own body.
—I Corinthians 15: 37-38 (King James)
Chapter One
May, 1938
My third year of awareness in this world approaches its end. I feel old and bored. Spring comes again with its brilliant days and cold nights during which I wander to the sheep runs along the Rio Grande and contemplate an easy night’s meal. Often I do not touch them, preferring to spend hours loping across the mesa to the east or wandering upriver as far as the Reservation boundaries. During the day, Barry cares for his family, our family now, and works at his two jobs. I am known by Renee and Mina, and even the new baby looks at me with blank blue eyes when I slip into the bedroom at night. He is not afraid either. But I am restless. Barry thinks always of becoming separate from me. I feel like two creatures now instead of one.
This May night is cool, with a waning moon hanging above like a bent bow aimed at the mountains. Below the cliffs I walk along, the Rio glints and swirls its brown current in the familiar music of water noises. On the west side of the river ahead I sense a coyote, head down, lapping water. Without thinking and for no reason other than boredom, I begin stalking him, sliding down the steep banks in a flowing of sand to slip into the brown water. It carries me as I paddle slowly and land some ways downstream. The wild dog is out of range of my spatial sense now, so I begin trotting boldly upstream along the sandbars.
I feel alert, my spatial sense surrounding me with news of the river bottom: a family of birds over there, ducks in the reeds, snakes, gophers, rabbits of several kinds and, there ahead, just scrambling up the clay bank, my coyote, his draggle tail full of burrs and Spanish needles. He does
not scent me, as the breeze tonight is coining from upriver. I wait until bis form disappears over the edge of the bank and then leap and scramble straight up the caliche until I can crouch on top. The mesa is dotted with brush and prickly pear; no cover or rocks for hundreds of yards. My spatial sense picks him up trotting, nose down, at an angle that will bring him within fifty yards of where I crouch behind some of last year’s tumbleweeds. Now I can hear the rustling sound of his pads in the sand, the stertorous snuffling as he scents and then clears his nose.
I am about to begin my rush when something warns him. He shies away suddenly, pausing and looking in my direction, standing stiff-legged, his head thrust out. I decide to charge him directly. Perhaps the stupid dog will drop dead of fright. As I come scrambling out from behind the mound of tumbleweeds, the coyote utters a startled yip and scrabbles madly in the sand getting under way. The chase is on. He gets a good leaping start while I am still yards away, and his long legs become a blur as he goes faster than a jackrabbit back toward the riverbank. I see him disappear over the bank on the fly, desperate enough to chance breaking his legs, I think, panting and leaping right after him. Below the spot he leaped from is a dry wash packed full of dead tumbleweeds into which the coyote crashed and has now almost fought his way through. I find myself in the same stickery mess, unable to stop my momentum, and have to thrash about considerably to get through the ridiculous things. When I get out I sense the coyote speeding down the sandbar toward the water. He thinks to lose me in the river. Just like a stupid dog. Thinks I’m a cougar, probably.
I hear him splash into the river, and, not waiting to get to where he is, I leap out and crash into the water, too, treading hard against the current. Now, Mr. Coyote, you’d better swim like a sonofabitch, because I’m holding my own down here, and the current’s bringing you right into my arms. Upstream I hear the coyote panting and gurgling as he windmills those skinny legs through the water, trying to beat the current and make the shallows on the other side. I put more effort into it, making headway against the current, angling also for the far bank. The coyote hears me now getting closer as the current carries him nearer to me. Just to help him along I raise my muzzle clear of the water and utter a roar that would scare me if I heard it from the outside. The coyote thrashes even more wildly, making less headway than ever, for now his fright has ruined his coordination.
As I am about to put on some extra steam and grab the critter, a driftlog with several yards of exposed roots almost catches my rear, and I have to let the current carry me , down a ways. The coyote finds the shallows and begins leaping high through the water for the bank. My feet hit bottom and I go crashing after him, roaring like seven fiends. I see the poor thing wobbling with terror as he scrambles and clambers up through the sand, trying to get to the top and the willows that grow on the east bank. But I am stronger, can leap farther at one jump, and the sliding sand does not hold me back so much. Just as the terrified .wild dog reaches the top, I am close enough to slap his hindquarters with one paw.
He goes spinning over into the sand like a top off its string, and I leap sideways, staying near but not landing on him. This is no jackrabbit. He has teeth, although they are nothing like my own. He lies on his back in the sand, his legs tense, fangs bared, great hard pantings coming from his muzzle. His eyes are mad with fright and determination. 1 stand there growling at him, looking down at the ridiculous little scavenger, a part of me wanting to bat him over and break his neck with a quick bite.
And then the most astounding thing in my whole life happens. I am crouched there over the panting and terrified coyote, one paw raised, and it is not a coyote but a snake! I leap back, my mind flashing warning: a sidewinder! And where is the coyote? The snake is writhing away into the brush before I realize what has happened: the coyote is a shape-changer. I leap into the bushes, dancing about to avoid the snake’s fangs, stepping on the wretched thing several times, and then I see its head. I grab, fast as lightning before he can strike, hold him just back of his jaws and give him a few good shakes. His coils are around my neck now and I claw them off, toss the snake in the air.
An eagle, falcon, some large bird, takes the place of the snake, flops uncertai nly in the air, and I knock it to the sand and pounce on it, where it becomes a jackrabbit, then a prairie dog, a turtle, a snake again, a lynx. And at that i seize the creature firmly in all four claws and send a strong thought:
Hold your shape or I will snap your neck.
The lynx is suddenly a panting coyote whose body I’ll hold tightly in my claws. I drop the creature to the sand and put one paw on its belly, claws extended.
Get it over with, damn you.
What are you?
The coyote lets his legs relax so that the paws droop over, the fangs disappear behind the lips, the head turns to one side, exposing the neck. He rolls onto his side, tongue lying in the sand that blows out with his rapid panting.
You are intelligent?
You think you own this desert?
The finding of this being has thrown me completely off. I cannot imagine what it means. The creature looks up at me out of dull eyes and then looks away.
You are of the Great Cats. I await your death blow.
I will not kill an intelligent being, I say to it. I must know more. How are you capable of shape-changing?
The dog looks up at me with a flicker of surprise. I am from Outside, even as you are. You do not look like a young one. But you are toying with me. The eyes go shut and the coyote pants, getting sand in its nose and sneezing.
How does this creature know these things? It seems to know more about my—our—condition than I do. My mind itches with curiosity.
You are a human also? I ask. You have a Person?
?
What form do you wear usually to live in the world?
You play with me, Big Cat. Damn your arrogance. / have not made my conjunction, and now l will never make it. I am here, forever a coyote, an animal, living an animal's life. Go ahead, kill me. He stretches his neck out as if he were home in his den and closes his eyes, giving a great panting sigh.
I must ask you more, I say, my curiosity getting the better of my good sense. What is conjunction?
The coyote pulls his legs under him and eyes me strangely. I think a word of surprise comes from him, but then it is veiled. He looks at me from a resting position, his paws stretched in front of him.
You are a young one, then.
I am three years aware, almost, I say defensively. I do not like the condescending tone of this stupid wild dog whom I have captured fair and square. He is, after all, mine to kill.
And you have identified with the humans, the creature 12
says, as if considering my sins in the light of his superior morality. I am getting irritated.
You are talking nonsense, I say rather stiffly. You are trying to throw me off. You are nothing but a kind of creature / have not run across yet.
Yes, / am only an animal. He nods his head toward the river. Like those out there.
I want to know what this creature apparently knows, but I hate putting my own ignorance on display. The coyote flops his ragged tail, like a friendly house-dog.
We are fellow Outsiders, he says in a conciliatory tone. We should not destroy each other. And you are a young one who has not mated, and so you know nothing. I can tell you much.
I hate his superior air, this draggly, desert panhandler. But I want to know more.
If you will not keep so tight a hold on me, the coyote says, I can think and tell you about our world. You want to know about that, don’t you?
I nod and sit back on my haunches, sheathing my claws.
Are you comfortable now?
I nod, eyeing the creature with distaste.
Now I will tell you about yourself, he says, sitting up and trying to look intelligent. Do you know of the moon?
I know it is important, but not why.
You have no understanding of The Leap or when it will come?
I don’t know what you mean.
You have not attempted a mating?
I have never met another like myself. I have many times shared the sexual experience of my Persons.
The coyote looks disgusted. That is not mating. It is obvious you are a late bloomer. But first, about the jump, for that tells you where you will go and where you come from.
I lean forward, trying to believe this miserable dog, fighting against my instinct that dogs are liars and flatterers and cheats. He is telling me something I want to believe.
You will fix on the moon and two stars, he is saying. That star, and he lifts his muzzle to point directly overhead at a bright star. And the one over there, in the south, and he points again, this time to one behind my head.
I turn, looking in the direction his nose is pointing.
Where?
There! comes his triumphant cry at the same moment that I feel a vicious bite on the side of my neck. I twist hard, my claws snapping around to kill the creature, but there is nothing there. A rush of wind goes by my face and I leap, but I am off balance. The big bird is already higher than I can jump and pumping rapidly upward into the night sky.
Stupid cat! comes the fading cry as the bird flaps away into the dark.
On the way home I feel afraid for the first time in my existence. Around me in the desert, in the world, perhaps, are others like myself. The world is more complex than I had thought. There had been times when my Persons felt that, and I had shared it. Once Charles wondered if he were unique in the world, and concluded that he was. Now I know how he felt, for I watch the desert creatures —the owl, the snake, the prairie dog—and wonder if they are shape-changers like myself, out for a night’s run. On the bank of the river I stand in the late starlight, feeling the cruel bite on my neck and the mocking words of that rotten coyote, and I look down on the sleeping town of Albuquerque. How many are there in this town, I wonder. Where are the others like myself? Will I meet another like myself and mate? Or was that miserable dog lying to me? But he said when I first grabbed him that he had missed his conjunction and now would never make it. And what is The Leap?
As I slide down the bank and head for the adobe house in the north valley where Barry’s family is sleeping, I feel more strongly the truth of those hints. Perhaps that is why I feel so bored and unsatisfied with everything. As I approach the yard where the car is parked under the big cottonwood tree, I resolve to be more aware of my own existence. I have, after all, for these last six months been too concerned with Barry and Mina and Renee—and now the baby. I have been turning into a house pet, I think with some mild surprise, a tame house pet. As I walk in through the back door and pad through the silent house to the bedroom where Renee sleeps with the crib beside the bed, I make this resolve: I will regain my identity. The coyote may have said some true things. I will find out.
I shift.
Barry crawls into bed beside his sleeping wife. From the crib beside tbe bed a pair of bright eyes watches what has happened, but the baby makes no sound.
Barry flipped on the heater in the cold bathroom and ran some shaving water, listening to the sounds of his family around him in the house: Mina was getting dressed and talking to her goldfish, Renee had little Martin on the bed changing his diaper and from the kitchen came the smell of bacon and coffee. He hardly remembered the night’s surprises, since he usually slept through the Beast’s excursions, but there was a sense of unease inside him, and he recalled getting bitten on the neck. It still hurt this morning, although the skin was not broken. He put that out of his mind for a time. Today he would talk with the Indian, John Strong Horse, about the new series he was planning.
