8. THE FIFTH LESSON

The implications of cannibalism can be most distressing to some...,

It was the day after the visit to the farm of Farmer Ted and they had taken out their tablets and turned to the dictionary app. Then they had looked up the word cannibalism and all become silent as the horror of new knowledge seeped into their minds. Then Els vomited, which set the two boys off, partly in mimicry and partly as genuine nausea.

“What you must try to grasp,” said Zoz somewhat fiercely in response to questions from his students, “is that your food comes from a very similar system of recycling its ingredients as it always has, even though Farmer Ted seems to farm in a very different way than they did in pre-history.”

“I don’t believe that our ancestors ate each other,” said Din forthrightly. “It can’t be true or we’d know it already and there wouldn’t be a horrible word like cannibalism for it because it would be normal!”

“In a way they did,” said Zoz simply.

“What do you mean, in a way?” asked Cun.

“Put simply, the elements of living flesh have always got to be recycled in nature,” sighed Zoz. “In past prehistoric times a man would die, call him aaa if you like, he’d most likely be buried in the ground, his flesh would eventually be consumed by all manner of other living things which in their turn would die until the original elements get sucked out of the soil and, after several reincarations form part of, oh, I don’t know, maybe an ancient green plant called a cabbage, and cabbages were valued food stuffs and so were eaten by someone and all the nutrients including those inherited from aaa become absorbed into the body of bbb or whoever chanced to eat it.”

“And that’s all life is?” queried Pul.

“Not at all. Life is what we do with the bodies we’ve been given us by the past,” said Zoz patiently, “and you lot are always on about the games you play when school’s out!”

“But that’s fun, not cannibalism,” protested Cun, “the games we and everyone else play together in the snugness of our little cells are substitutes for Michaelmas being only once a year. And,of course, a sign that we like each other. You couldn’t really play those games with someone you don’t like. I like Pul, he’s a really nice guy, but the last thing I’d want to do is eat him!”

“And you won’t have to. Not ever,” sighed Zoz, “let’s assume that the priest has to help Pul on his way because he’s very ill and you’re still hale and hearty, Cun, and when it’s over and done with and he’s no more Cul, his body gets taken to Father Ted to be added to the vat in which his tiny micro-organisms are working away until he emerges one day as gruel which us dished up to you, it’s no longer flesh that can hurt when you damage it and bleed when you cut it, but something very, very different indeed. So if you tuck in to a nice plate of sweetened gruel you mustn’t think that it’s Pul that you’re eating even though some of the ingredients were once very much part of him.”

“I’ll never eat gruel again!” wept Cun.

“The thing is,” said Zoz solemnly, “our bodies, even mine though I’m merely a perfectoid and consequently not considered a homoperp but manufactured in Clingle, gradually need renewing. That’s the story of flesh. You must know that, we covered it ages ago, in Science Studies. We renew them by consuming other materials that can be sorted out inside us into cells and the like, and those other materials have to come from somewhere, and as all life native to Terraful is alien to us and very toxic, the easiest way is for us to recycle the life that we have because that’s never going to do us any harm, and it’s good fortune that the bacteria involved, though not native to Terraful can exist here as long as there’s a supply of nutrients for them. We, when we cease to live, provide the nutrients in the form of a corpse and in their turn they provide the gruel which we flavour to our taste and enjoy eating.”

“It’s too horrible to think of,” moaned Els.

“It’s either that, or die,” Zoz told her. “Now attend for a moment, and then you can have an extended break for play in order to get over the shock of cannibalism! In a future session I intend to cover the subject of religion.”

“You mean Priests?” asked Els.

“In part, yes. But there’s a great deal more to ancient religion than Priests. In fact, priests don’t even enter into the story for a very long time. In truly ancient times there were many religions and some of them had a confusing number of deities. I think it may help your gruel go down if we think for a few moments about some of them, though I must warn you that there are many hollows in our knowledge of the birth of belief in invisible powers.”

“I might not be here tomorrow,” moaned Cun, twirling her hair between two fingers as though twirling her hair was about to go out of fashion.

“And why might that be?” asked Zoz, “you’re not thinking of taking a sickie, are you?”

“I don’t do that! But I’m never eating anything again,” she replied, her eyes open wide as she twirled away. “And then, when I’ve shrunk to death and they’ve carted me off to Farmer Ted’s, you’ll be able to explain to my gruel that somewhere in the great beyond there’s a god who hates cannibalism!”

“Now don’t be silly, Cun,” warned Zoz.

“Or what?” she asked, dully, her eyes like twin moons staring at him, “you’ll punish me? Make me write the old fashioned way, with a writing stick, I mustn’t say silly and impertinent things to Perfectoids, a hundred times until I get writer’s cramp?

“A writing stick was called a pen, and yes, I may do that!” snapped Zoz, “and then issue an order that you are not permitted to play any of your favourite games for, let me see, will a year do?”

That was too much for Cun. She burst into fresh tears, stared at her impassive teacher and wept, “I really wish I was dead! I really do!”

© Peter Rogerson 18.04.19