The children know no life other than that of the cave they accept it as normal.
They function almost as one organism, moving and breathing in harmony. The children have no names but their jaws are strong. Once the Beanes start to procreate, things get sketch as eff. Our numbers will increase. We have only begun.
And so then will the fear they can cause in the others. till he realizes: their numbers can increase. The baby's birth makes Sawney squeamish he can't watch and he certainly can't cut the umbilical cord! Even looking at this mewling creature is beyond him. Then the inevitable occurs: Meg becomes pregnant. This filth is merely one of the necessary accompaniments of progress. If a clean town does not exist for them, then this town is not dirty. The townspeople have no experience of any alternatives. There are the houses basically made of mud and straw, the miasma of garbage and human waste, the scavenging creatures animal and man alike, the cathedral filled with light and wealth. A straightforward tale of supposedly historical events: a preface declares the factual ( meh) basis of the novel, and Morse spares no ugly detail in describing the sheer shittiness of life in 15th-century Edinburgh.
Me, I had some idea of what I was getting into, but even so I was somewhat astonished-and impressed-at the darker turns the narrative took. This story of legendary Sawney Beane and his unholy clan is a master class in unsettling the unwary reader. As you'll see, this is an altogether good thing.
Morse, operates in that unwholesome arena of dead-eyed depiction of graphic, taboo-obliterating violence with not a whiff of concern for taste or restraint. Behold the Frazetta glory that adorns this paperback! Inhuman brutes, their flesh gone grey-green from their ghastly diet (yet somehow they're ripped as hell), drag along another hapless victim to their lair hidden by great rocks in a misty, nightmarish landscape-what self-respecting horror fan could resist reading this book? Why it promises terrors beyond imagining! Slim, grim, and altogether grimy, The Flesh Eaters (Warner Books, Dec 1979), an unheralded vintage title by one L.A.
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