The Child Of The Swarm

The Child of The Swarm.


It was hotter than he could even imagine. His clothes had become completely stuck to him and encouraged him to sweat even more. It was seeping out of every pore in his body. He was drenched with the stuff. It allowed the endless parade of flies to become stuck to his skin. There were flies of all varieties. Blood suckers, fruit eaters, dung eaters, fat flies, thin flies, insignificant flies. He swatted at them all, but this activity just ended with their bodies being splayed across his skin, so that he had to scrape them off with his fingernails. He could not abide these conditions.

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The foliage, like the heat, was endless. He hacked away at it, in the manner of his guide, but with far less efficiency than the native was managing. It seemed to him that he was just mauling flora. He certainly wasn’t easing the hindrance that it posed.
He couldn’t keep this up for much longer. His mind went back to all the days and nights when he had shuddered against the cold. In the north of France he had spent many evenings praying for warmth. How he would love to be in that environment now.

“How much further?”
“Not so.”

This is what the guide always said. Not so. He had begun to realise that this could be anywhere between ten minutes and a week. Anywhere that you could walk to, whatever the conditions or length, was considered ‘not so.’
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The flies were beginning to drive him insane now. He could hardly breathe without getting them caught in his nose and throat. Any time he opened his mouth to speak they would flood in and his tongue would be thick with the debris of their bodies. There wasn’t any part of his person that they had not made their way to. It was all so invasive. And the sound. It was incessant. An endless wall of noise at a never changing monotonous pitch. He honestly believed that if there had been an elephant wandering past, just twenty feet from him, that he would have been unable to hear it. It was that great. It was the buzz of insects, but so many making the noise at once, that it was maddening.
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Conversation was impossible. Rest was unthinkable. They simply had to keep on moving. He was going to crack soon.
“Here we are.”
With one slice of his blade the guide opened up a wall in the jungle, as though it were made of a single sheet of silk, and beyond that lay the opening. And the village.
He couldn’t believe it. Forgetting that he was a visitor he half pushed, half fell past the guide and out into the open. He could feel the relief immediately. The pain of the heat was lifted. He started to walk towards the village. His head felt dizzy, as though he had been gassed. His feet skittered beneath him, the heels knocking together. He was surprised to see figures from the village running to him. He was busy wondering what all the fuss was about when suddenly his nose hit the ground hard.


It was blindingly light when he came to. He tried to shield his eyes from it but the sunlight seemed to be emanating from everywhere. From every rock and tree. Relief came from a shadow that fell across him. He looked up but could make out nothing more than a silhouette.
“Nearly thought we’d lost you there, what.”
He was dazed, but he could recognise English.
“Chap you came here with says you’re a bloody Frenchman. Pleased to meet you old boy.”
A hand was stuck in his face. He grabbed it and it shook his arm roughly.
“So, I hear you’re some kind of hunter. Good to hear man, what’s your game out here?”
It made him feel inadequate, trying to think of how to explain himself in English, but the words were there.
“I am not a hunter of animals. I am a… I believe you say, a ‘freak’ hunter.”
The Englishman squinted in confusion.
“I work for a circus.”
“Ah ha….” The Englishman’s face lit up with understanding, “you’re a big top boy. I say, good show. Makes a change having one of your sort out here.” Then he paused mid-sentence and eyed the Hunter with knowingness. “You’ll be wanting to see the boy. Is that it?”
The Hunter smiled. At least he knew that his journey had not been in vain.
“Is he still alive? I had feared that I would be too late.”
“Oh no old boy, he’s doing very well. Perhaps a little too well for some people’s liking. Seems that he has caused quite a stir amongst the villagers here, what. Apparently some Dago priest turned up here a while ago and whipped them up something rotten about the Bible and Lucifer and God knows what else. Left them with just enough knowledge to pronounce the poor boy as being Satanic. Of course, they’re all way off the mark, what. Still. It is quite jarring.” The Englishman looked off into the middle distance. “Yes, really something.”
The Hunter was ecstatic. When he had been told of this boy he had presumed it to be an exaggerated account of some type of skin disorder, but this was beginning to sound like the real thing.
“When can I see him?”
“Steady on old boy. The natives here aren’t terribly fond of ‘little Bob’ as a discussion point. You certainly won’t be able to see him during the day. Nobody is. That’s what first gave me doubt as to the authenticity of the phenomenon, but once I’d seen it I was convinced. I’ve been privy to all form of sham shamans and phoney fakirs, but I’ve never seen anything like that.”
The tremble that went through the Englishman’s moustache only made the Hunter more excited. The Englishman looked like he had gone into a trance. He simply stared into space again, as though his mind was wandering. Then, with a start, he came out of it.
“Anyway, let’s get you fed, ey.”
He hoisted the Hunter onto his feet. Dusted down the man’s jacket and led him into the village.


The rest of the day passed without incidence. They ate a meal together, the two foreigners. The villagers seemed less interested in the Hunter than most natives, but he put this down to the overbearing presence of the Englishman. An entire nation famed for their reserve and timid manner, he had to meet the exception to the rule in this place. At least it provided him with some conversation.
The Englishman kept most of their time on the topic of hunting, but not the sort that the Frenchman was interested in. He was here to bag an elephant; this was his purpose in life. No guides, no assistants, no second man. Just him and the charging beast. He had seen them from time to time, but he had not managed to goad one to attack him.
“I had understood the beast to be savage, but I have come to believe that it is actually quite a passive creature. Damn shame, I’m not the sort of man who is going to blaze away at an animal unless it is coming for me, and then, watch out, what.”
The Hunter found this topic difficult to maintain an artificial interest in. The Englishman’s use of language confused him from time to time, making it more difficult. He didn’t understand some of the idiomatic expressions that he used, and the use of the word ‘what’ was very confusing for him. He wasn’t sure of when he was being asked a question and when he was having a statement made to him. He bit into his food for the first time. As usual, the local cuisine was disagreeable to him. Instinctively he drew a hand up to protect his open mouth from the flies. Then he noticed. He couldn’t believe it. He had been a fool for not noticing sooner. He looked all around to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. The Englishman’s mouth continued to move but he couldn’t hear the words that were coming out of it. This was incredible.
“There are no flies!”
The statement fell into the stream that was flowing forth from the Englishman. The words caused him to stop. They echoed out, creating ripples. The Hunter repeated himself, out of incredulity.
But… there are no flies!”
The Englishman looked all around and then leaned in close.
“Well of course there aren’t, didn’t you know?”
The Hunter furrowed his brow.
The Englishman leaned back.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be as clear as crystal eventually, what.”


The Hunter had to be washed before he was introduced to ‘little Bob,’ as the Englishman called him. The villagers rubbed his skin with stone before pouring water over him while he stood in the river. He was embarrassed about receiving all this attention but the Englishman had told him that it would be best if he refused nothing. Afterwards the Hunter had to dress in a robe. Leaving his own clothes behind. This created the greatest feeling of reticence, but he went along with it.
The villagers played a number of instruments that he was unfamiliar with as he was prepared to be taken to the boy. Previously he had been excited about this meeting, but the prolonged series of preparations had begun to unnerve him. The concept that the villagers had of him was one that he had been unprepared for. He had considered the boy to be a curio, but their attitude was quite different. He seemed to lie somewhere between a God and a Demon for them. They had a great reverence for him, but there was also an air of fear and mistrust.
Finally, the time came when he was to be taken to see him. He followed a procession that made its way towards a hut on the outskirts of the village. The instruments rang out, the voices sang, but none of this could mask the sound that was coming from the hut. It was the sound of an insect. But such a ridiculously huge sound. It echoed through the ground and he felt it tremble in the pit of his stomach. It was mightier than any constant he had ever experienced. It reminded him of the hum of the jungle, but it carried so much weight to it. So much depth. It was a sound that he could feel in the air around him. It had a colour to it and it was as black as the night.
The procession made its way through two rows of villagers who sang as they passed. The Hunter studied each face carefully. They appeared to be in some sort of trance. Every face was different but the expression, the eyes, were the same. Then, from this sea of similarity, the rugged moustached face of the Englishman sprung up. He winked at the Frenchman, who found it difficult to hold back a grin. Again, he felt glad that this overbearing man was there.
As they arrived at the hut the villagers in the procession broke off and encircled it, singing and chanting all the time. The Hunter became increasingly full of trepidation as he approached the entrance; all of this build up was ruining his nerves. Finally, there it was. The doorway stood before him, covered with a sheet. There was no more waiting to be done and he entered the hut.


He pulled the cover back and stepped inside, only to face another hanging. The space between them was perhaps three or four feet. In this shallow space the sound filled him, it was enormous, difficult to concentrate. He caught a breath, tried to compose himself as best he could. This was the first time for a long time that he had been away from anyone’s eyes. He ran his hands through his hair, parted the material and stepped through.
Inside was a fire. And the boy. The source of the sound was instantly visible. Flies. Millions upon millions of flies. They swarmed over the boy, creating the illusion of a skin which flowed like a river. The boy’s eyes were rolled back in his head, he could just make out the vibrant white through the mass of black that crawled over him. The floor was thick with the bodies of dead flies. The corpses came up to his knees, but he barely noticed them. He had an instinctive feeling of repulsion and nausea at the sight of this boy, but he knew that he had to fight it back, bury it deep, remain calm. He couldn’t let the boy know how he felt. No matter what.
The boy’s mouth was open and the flies poured in and out of him. He seemed to be in a trance as well. The Hunter stood there, staring at him for what seemed to be an eternity, when suddenly he snapped out of it. He closed his mouth and his eyes rolled back to reveal his pupils. He studied the Hunter with curiosity before he spoke.
“Sit down.”
The Hunter did not hesitate for a moment, fearing that he would offend his host if he did so. He moved his weight through the corpses and knelt down, so that he did not have to immerse himself in these bodies. He ignored the feeling around his midriff and legs and concentrated on the boy.
The boy did not speak exactly, rather, he seemed to control the sound of the insects so that the noise formed the sound of words. It was only after he had knelt down that he realised he had been spoken to in French.
“What do you want?”
There was a momentary echo from each word that hung in the air for a time. Ebbing away slowly. The Hunter was struck for an answer. This was all a great deal grander than he had been anticipating and his usual sideshow patter was not going to be effective here. He decided, then, to placate the ego of the boy first.
“I… I came to see the great miracle that you are.”
He replied in the boy’s native language. A sentence that he had been practising since he arrived, especially for this meeting.
The boy smiled, but it was a grin for whose motive the Frenchman found difficult to place. Was it out of pleasure, or superiority?
“You do not have to condescend us with your platitudes.”
Again the boy had spoken in French.
“Your tongue is ill-mannered and fat when you speak in that language. Do not feel that you have to de-base yourself. Feel free to speak in a manner which you are comfortable with. We will make up for your stupidity.”
The Hunter did not know where to move from here, somehow he had to steer the conversation back to his purpose.
“Now, tell me, why are you her?”
The Hunter swallowed hard.
“I am here to invite you to my country.”
The boy smiled. It was at this point that the Hunter idly noticed that despite the enormous number of flies that filled the air, none of them had alighted on him once.
“And what does your country have to offer me?”
“I can offer you the utmost respect, welcoming surroundings and all that you may require.”
“For what purpose is this invitation given?”
“Why… nothing more than to give you that which you deserve.”
“Deserve? Here I am treated, and thought of, as a God. Are you offering me more than that?”
The Hunter thought for a moment. A place in his carnival could not compete with that, but the presence of this boy would make him the most famous showman in the world. He had to have him.
The boy sneered.
“Leave me be Frenchman. I will call you when I will.”
With that the boy set his head down again, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. The flies began to cease their noise. Within moments the hut was almost entirely without sound, save for the wheezing breath of the boy. The Hunter sat there blinking. His audience was at an end. He stood up. The bodies of the flies falling off him, and he made his way out.
Outside the hut the villagers were still lined up. Just as they had been when he entered. But this time they too were quiet. Their heads were bowed in the same fashion as the boy’s. He made his way through the, somewhat uneasily. At the end of the procession the Englishman was waiting.
“I say, what the devil happened in there? I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“I’m not exactly sure. I suppose I am to wait for an answer.”
“Well, let’s not dilly-dally in these robes, here, your clothes.”
The hunter eagerly dressed in his own attire, instantly feeling more comfortable.
The two men walked to the other end of the village, partly to be close to the fire as the night was cold, but also to get away from the eerie procession that stood in a trance. They sat down and the Englishman passed the Hunter some food.
“Well, I suppose this is what they call some kind of group hypnosis what! Isn’t the young lad remarkable though?”
“In all my years I have never come across anything or anybody that was even remotely similar. What do you suppose could have caused it?”
“Heaven knows. I don’t think that they even know who the boy’s mother is. It’s a delicate subject, but it was as though he appeared from nowhere.”


Just then, a noise started up, it was the sound of the flies. The villagers all seemed to come round, without any awareness of having had been asleep. From their seated positions the two men by the fire could just make out the curtain of the hut being pulled aside. A cloud of insects billowed out, followed by the wiry frame of the boy. There was some commotion and two men came running up to the boy with a goat that had it’s legs bound. They placed the animal on the ground in front of the boy and the flies descended on it, as one, like the form of a giant bird of prey. The sound of the goats cries were piercing, but eventually it fell quiet and there was only the mulching sound of the flies consuming the body. The cloud lifted, to reveal the smooth white bones that remained.
The villagers dropped to their knees and the boy raised his arms. This time he spoke in the native tongue. The Englishman, upon hearing the beginning of the speech, spun to give the Hunter a look of grave concern.
“If I were you, old chap, I would be running away. Fast!”
The villagers raised their heads and looked in the Hunter’s direction.
“Quick man, quick. Get out of here. Take my knife. Go!”
The Hunter stumbled to his feet and started to run for the jungle. He heard a great cry go up behind him, followed by the sounds of hundreds of feet chasing him. He burst into the jungle and tore his way through the thick foliage. The branches scratched at his skin and ripped his clothes, but he paid it no mind. He could hear the voices of the villagers behind him. He could feel the ground flying away beneath him. Somehow his eyes were not torn out, somehow he kept his footing, but he knew that all the same he would not be able to outrun these people. Not in this jungle, the jungle that they knew so well. He remembered how well his guide had known how to work the jungle, how to get through it quickly. He did not stand a chance. It was at this point that he fell. His foot had struck the root of a tree. He looked back at the tree as an instinct and saw an abnormality in the bark. There was a hole in the tree. He dived for it and pressed his body firmly into it. The sound of the villagers was almost upon him. What if they knew of this hiding place? What if they found him? He tried to remain calm, but it was all too much. He could feel a multitude of insects crawling on his skin, but he hardly dared to breathe, let alone brush them away. Just as the villagers reached the tree a centipede began to crawl down his face. He didn’t move. They spoke to each other as they ran, but they did not stop at the tree. They kept on running. He was safe.
He waited in the tree until he could hear no sound of his pursuers, and only then did he step out, even then he did so with great caution. He stole away into the night, moving carefully and stealthily this time, trying not to make any noise or leave any tracks. He listened carefully for sounds al the time, but there was nothing.
The foliage made it easier for him now. He could walk quite comfortably. Then, he felt something settle on his neck. Without thinking, his hand went to it and he felt the squirming body of a mosquito.
“How easily you kill my brethren.”
The Hunter span around. There was the boy. How had he not heard him? The host of flies, creating a roaring noise, like a river.
“This is how easily I will kill you.”
He fell backwards, crawling away as the boy and the swarm approached. He was desperate.
“You don’t have to do this. I will leave. No one will ever know I was here.”
“Ah, but I disagree. If I allow you to leave then more will follow. One of your kind begets another. You white men are like a plague. The only way that I can be sure is if I destroy you. Then the Englishman. Then we will be safe.”
The Hunter struggled to his feet and started to run.
“Maybe just a little taste first.”
The flies descended on the Hunter as a wave crashes against rocks. He was pushed to the ground by the force of them. They were all around him. He couldn’t move. The noise was deafening. They were biting him all over. The pain was incredible, his skin was on fire, they were everywhere, his head started to go faint and then, a thunderclap went out. There was instant relief from the pain, but the weight still pressed down on him. Through his swollen eyes the Hunter could make out the form of the boy falling back, clutching a shoulder.
“How about that ‘ey, old chap.”
The Englishman stepped out of the darkness, holding a smoking gun. The flies left the Hunter and rose like a cobra to fall upon the boy. The cloud lifted again and moved to the Englishman, he fired again at the boy, but the swarm was too thick. They took the shot. He fired repeatedly until he had made a hole and then caught the boy in the ankle. The flies flinched as if they had been struck.
“Run old boy, run!”
The Hunter got to his feet again, he had to have the strength. He flew through the jungle. Far behind him he could hear the gun firing until the jungle fell silent and he could hear nothing but the sound of the night.


The train pulled out.
An elegant couple made their way down the corridor until they reached a compartment. There was one seated figure by the window. At the sound of the door sliding open the figure turned.
“Madre del Dios! La criatura pertenece en un circo.”
The man cast his hand across his wife’s eyes. They slammed the door shut again.
The Hunter turned back to the window. The train passed through a tunnel and he was greeted by the uncomfortable sight of his own reflection. His face was bulbous and covered in weeping sores. Each part of him was touched. His eyes, his lips, everything. He squirmed with displeasure on the leather bench as he felt his sores rub against the seat.
Just then he noticed a fly settle on the window. Without hesitation he slammed his hand to it firmly, taking great pleasure in smearing the body along the glass.