Malicroix

by Henri Bosco

  Please find here, Sir, the humble expression of my gratitude, for you have delicately sought in this manner to somewhat alleviate the weight of my first solitude, in offering me the pleasure of admiring a rare plant and of sharing with you, too poorly, alas, far more of this admiration than the little knowledge I possess.

  La Redousse, this 10th of December,

  Jean-Martial de Mégremut

  Having signed and dated my letter like the notaire, I was satisfied.

  Balandran bore the message away.

  The weather remained fine. The sun was slowly declining in the West and I was entering into a state of lucid drunkenness.

  • • •

  Purely physical drunkenness: a pulse scarcely quicker, yet keen; a jittery heart and dry palms. It was most likely the feeling of having engaged in ironic combat with Dromiols. I daydreamed about it a little. He would be sensitive to the thorn’s prick. And I saw him there in Roussillargues, his brow creased, his cheek heavy, warily rereading my polite reply. An unmoving block of anger, but a deeply patient, watchful anger; hidden, restrained—the slow, stealthy rumination of the body more than the soul—a circuitous revenge . . .

  Still—and I say this without the least boast—I had no fear. I was simply impatient. For I knew implicitly that Dromiols would play on my impatience, and that I should not expect any further signs of his anger. He had awakened my spirit of suspicion, my penchant for fear. He knew how imaginative forces are let loose in a soul that is suspicious, fearful, or expectant. To frustrate this expectation is to scatter the suspicion, fan the fear, deepen the delirium, sap the strength. And so I thought he must be planning to frustrate me in this way; and already, despite my insight, I was anxious.

  Anxious—even while my chest was broader, my breathing sharper. I inhaled more life; I burned more air.

  I remained in this state for four days, then I slowly relaxed.

  Warm winds, gently rising from the south, continued to keep winter at bay beyond the delta, in distant valleys. As if by some miracle, these winds brought with them only mists, not the great, cold, seasonal rains. In the evening, these mists descended with the sun’s gold over the lagoons, and sometimes it was mild even at night. The prolonging of this warm autumn through mid-December favored gentleness. Bréquillet, watchful of the winds like all his kind, sniffed the breeze; and although Balandran, still brooding, seemed indifferent to this languor, he still acknowledged the temperature. With a sullen look, he kindled the fire a half hour later. It was clear, though, that he had softened a bit, for on December 11 he said to me of his own accord, without my having questioned him, “Mr. Martial, I need to go to the land.”

  In his dialect, this meant “leave the island.” Up until now, he had come and gone without asking my permission. I replied, “But you’re free, Balandran.”

  He frowned. My remark displeased him. I immediately added, “Balandran, I have to stay here for the time being.”

  He did not react. Having muttered a farewell, he left, Bréquillet at his heels.

  • • •

  I had just eaten; it was one o’clock. It was even milder than usual, and, inspired with great confidence by the good weather, I decided to go to the river on my walk. I was alone. I felt it distinctly, not as I had during the first days of my stay at La Redousse; this time I was physically alone. There was no one but me on the island, and I was sure of it. This certainty enchanted me. On all sides, wide waters separated me from other people; delivered from their disturbing presence, I moved freely through the peaceful trees with a feeling of primordial innocence. Pure feeling, free from thought, unshadowed by the least dream. I was a body, a solid body, in which everything—flesh, soul, woods, soft sky, scents of bitter bark, breeze—created a living whole, wonderfully caught up in the joy of walking in true solitude. I was sensuously alone. No spiritual presence replaced the absence of humans; nothing haunted me. My thoughts were nothing more than my steps and my easy breath, and I approached the river without dreading it.

  I found my way back to the landing. I chose a good bed of leaves under an elm and stretched out, entirely at ease, to watch the water.

  The river had dropped. It was gliding swiftly by. Fearsome as ever, but indifferent to its shores. I could see the bank across from me. Brush and spindly bushes flourished on crumbly gray silt. No trace of man or beast. Farther in the North rose the thick woods that shrouded the roofs of La Regrègue. But these roofs could not be seen from the landing, only the fleecy trees, soft and dark.

  I sank happily into the leaves of my hideaway. Within this shelter, hidden by tall grasses and barely open on the river side, I was invisible. This invisibility struck me so forcefully that it strangely affected my silent, secret life; my whole being drew from it a strange voluptuousness. Someone, from the heart of an inaccessible retreat within myself, was watching me—I who was perhaps watching only myself as I spied on the other bank from my shelter. This peculiar feeling troubled me for a long time and dispelled the solitude. From the moment I had hidden, my thoughts turned to suspicions. The more invisible I felt, the more the bushes and desolate banks of the opposite shore seemed to harbor unseen watchmen, spying on the island. This feeling brought an uneasy pleasure, filled with anxiety and a desire—perhaps unhealthy—for immobility. I was not moving, not even by a thought, especially not by a thought, for it was from the inner watchman that I had the most trouble hiding my presence and my voluptuous anxiety. I was waiting for someone on the other shore to betray himself. Reassured by the unchanging peace of the island’s banks, some huntsman would leave his blind or stir behind a bush. All I had to do was wait. Whoever was most patient would end up seeing without being seen . . .

  But, other than the river’s impersonal flow, no sign of life appeared. Not even a flight of birds. The birds had disappeared, and, despite so many suspected presences, not one movement, whether fleeting shadow or furtive sound, arose from beyond the water. Nothing was moving—neither those imaginary creatures nor I.

  I remained on the lookout until evening.

  Reluctantly, then, I rose from my leafy bed, cast a last glance at the river, and shook off this watchful torpor.

  Night was falling. In the north, the sky, cold and tinged with blue, was beginning to descend onto the plain. The silty brown waters were rushing toward the sea in one dense, gliding stream. In the west, day was disappearing behind the sun, already faded from the cloudless, rapidly darkening sky. The island had weighed anchor and slipped from its mooring; the distant shores were beginning to drift as they blurred in the evening’s mists and shadows. Soon these mists and shadows merged with the lowland, and the nighttime bank, mournful and uncertain, loomed beyond the river.

  Before leaving my shelter to return to La Redousse, I took a moment to contemplate the opposite bank, for an evocative power emanated from it. It was the phantom shoreline of an unreal world of familial faces, peopled only by the fancied creations of my idle mind, and from which no human shape would ever call to me.

  This sober thought saddened me; I would gladly have traded the banal common sense that inspired it for the emergence of some soul from the stillness and silence into which this already distant land was sinking, little by little, mist upon mist, shadow upon shadow—unformulated yet somehow perceptible desire, wistful call to the hidden life and to unearthly returns toward the familiar . . . Always, in me, this same penchant for dreams . . . For, over there, was I not inventing that vague floating shape, moving along the bank? . . . A boat perhaps, emerging from the branches, and seeming little by little, to catch the river’s current . . . a black boat, gliding, barely visible in the darkness, carrying three figures. But what were those three imprecise shapes, the one that seemed to be standing, and the other two, low? . . . Balandran, most likely, or some fisherman delayed on the river, hurrying through the night on these vast, cheerless waters, steering toward the island. Because the craft was approaching, and for a moment I thought it was about to come ashore beside me, beneath the
beams of the landing. But a hundred yards out it changed course, and, skirting the bank, disappeared behind a small promontory covered with willows.

  I managed to vaguely make out the three passengers: in the stern, a man handling an oar; in front of him, two beasts.

  I returned to La Redousse by the shortest path.

  • • •

  Balandran arrived fifteen minutes after I did.

  I said to him, “A good trip, Balandran?”

  He answered, “Yes, Mr. Martial. The moon will be full.”

  Enigmatic reply to which I did not respond. I confined myself to observing Balandran.

  Restrained as always yet animated by something livelier. He served me, seemingly without haste, but a little more swiftly than usual. I would have liked to have held his gaze, but this gaze, without fleeing, was elusive. It shone. Its brightness eluded all efforts to capture it. For Balandran was not looking at anything visible. He was gazing within himself. With inexplicable ardor, he directed this flame toward an inwardly compelling, hidden vision; and although he kept it secret, his impassive face suddenly blazed. He was burning to be done with this brief meal. And I marveled at his self-control. All his movements began with too much momentum. But he reined them in. Briskly, the plates arrived over my head; then, as if stricken by remorse, they hovered for a moment before coming down onto the table with surprising slowness. The more the meal drew to its close, the more Balandran slowed his movements; it was with an almost majestic step that he carried the meager plate of dried fruit back to the storeroom.

  Throughout the meal, Bréquillet appeared, disappeared, then reappeared at the door. Anxious, impatient, he thrust his muzzle forward. When his master took his leave, Bréquillet clung to his heels, displaying a discreet joy he had never before shown in my presence.

  They both left the house around nine. At first I thought they had returned to the hut, which is why, intrigued, I also went out—but the hut, closed as usual, looked empty. Already lighting up the island, the moon was rising low and large just above the horizon. It was easy to see clearly. I chose a path. It led southward, from where, every now and then, came the soft, verdant, freshwater scent that rises from the banks of old rivers stirred by a warm breeze. It was mild for the season, and walking at night beneath the moon brought me a new pleasure. The path was easy to see, bordered by low hedges that, by good fortune, made my walking much easier. I passed through several clearings. I was in unknown territory, for I had barely explored the island, especially downstream.

  As I moved forward, the path widened and the trees seemed to reach unearthly heights. The woods grew bushier, the copses denser, the leaf beds thicker. As the rising moon lit up more trees, the full breadth of the forest, filled with unmoving branches, emerged from shadow. An extraordinary silence made the stillness strangely palpable. Softened by the mossy ground, my light, furtive steps did not disturb this vast silence.

  This silence disoriented me. For although we were silent at La Redousse, it was a domestic silence, the silence of my household ghosts. Here, the very heart of things was mute.

  After a half hour’s slow, painstaking walk, the path curved and led me to an embankment crowned by dense thickets that rose like a wall around a hidden, deep, wide dell. At the center stood a hut built from branches, like the one where Balandran lived at La Redousse. A sort of leafy brown bonnet, with a primitive look. All around it, the circular clearing, carpeted in white moss, rose toward the slopes of the wooded embankment. Much of the dell, along with the hut, was bathed in shadow. As the moon rose, this shadow, already translucent, shone with a new clarity and a few figures appeared, perhaps alive but still uncertain. Someone was speaking, or at least a human voice was making sounds I poorly grasped; then the voice was silent. Gliding over the treetops, the moonlight descended into the hollow of the clearing. A limpid blue stream enveloped the primitive hut in its electric flare, while long, calm waves of light spread toward the dark crown of tall timber.

  Within this wreath of light, at the center of a bare space in front of the hut, stood a solitary beast, grazing. A few feet away, Balandran, unmoving, leant on a staff, watching the beast. Beside him, Bréquillet sat in the grass, regarding the scene and raising his tender muzzle toward the moon. The moon was casting a spell over the hidden valley, Bréquillet, Balandran, and the beast. When a breeze touched them, the acrid smell of wool wafted through the woods.

  I lingered late into the night, gazing at these three ghostly creatures. The wind blew from them to me; the dog could not sniff out my presence. And so, beneath a full moon on a still-mild winter night, I savored this strange scene in peace. It took some strength to tear myself away.

  My sleep was peaceful.

  • • •

  If I speak often of my sleep, it is because I attach great importance to inner events, which arise freely only when the body is at rest. For the body’s rest is not the soul’s; it is, rather, the surrender of all vigilance. Reason yields to the surge of latent images, and the clear realm of spirit dissolves in disarray. Time and space continuously create and then destroy fictive dimensions; the soul’s structures float above the void. Among so many possibilities, thought no longer exists, and nothing within us is beyond belief. Without fail, this universe evolves toward unease. Which is why, when we awaken, the re-found world looks so beautiful. Rearranged in all its order, returned to stability, it is too reassuring to be believed, and we think we are still dreaming even as we exit dreams. All of a sudden, the most ordinary sights and sounds, words and beings grow lighter and take on a new character—they become unreal.

  So, if by chance our re-found life presents an unusual sight, we do not judge it, we accept it. And our awakening enchants us.

  It enchanted me, that morning of December 12, when I awoke in full sun. The south-facing door was wide open, and daylight was streaming into the room. The brisk air, this brightness, the scent of warm bread and the wood fire, a brown bird hopping on the windowsill—all united to create a happy awakening. I heard the faint bark of the dog outside, soberly urged to quiet by old Balandran. From time to time, a bleat interrupted Bréquillet’s barks. Another appeal for silence, issued with authority, lent pastoral solemnity to the fresh morning voices. “They are here, all three of them,” I thought. “I need to see them. They must be waiting for me.” I dressed and went to the door.

  They were indeed there. Balandran in front of the hut, leaning on his long staff. He was looking at Bréquillet. Bréquillet, his muzzle turned toward the house, his eyes ablaze, was struggling to restrain himself. Closer, the beast. A great ram, a male leader, a sire. I had never before seen one so tall or so strong. His loins were huge, thick; his chest deep. Tawny wool rolled in thick curls from his rump to his warm, vibrant neck. Around his pointy ears, his horns spiraled three times, vigorously crowning his thick, woolly temples. His wide, hairy brow was boldly thrust forward, ready for combat; his eyes sparkled.

  “This is the Sacristan,” Balandran said solemnly, “our master ram.”

  I was overcome with emotion. “Yes,” I said to Balandran. “I remember. After the rain, we were supposed to go to the land, to see him.”

  Balandran answered simply, “He has come.”

  That very night, he returned him to the mainland.

  The next day, winter arrived.

  • • •

  During the night, the wind from the sea died down. The temperature dropped. In the morning, the horizon had paled. A fine, light breeze arose. It whistled through chinks in the windows. The fire blazed. On December 14, the sky, veiled in mists, turned gray. Toward evening, a flock of crows flew over the island. Icy currents flowed down the river, and the water rushed between already desolate banks. On December 20, the air having grown milder, it snowed.

  The snow reached the island at nightfall. It was already dark and Balandran had not yet returned. I was standing in front of a window watching night descend. That was when the snow appeared. At first a few flakes drifting in the wind. T
hey dispersed. Then a dusting that followed a whirlwind. Finally, a deluge of downy white fluff that bloomed through the shadows by fragile myriads. When Balandran returned to the house a little later, his shoulders were covered. He said, “It’s good, seasonal weather. Christmas is coming.”

  I had been thinking about that for several days, on account of my family.

  The Mégremuts, the gentle Mégremuts . . .

  •

  In a calm countryside, six roofs, some thirty souls. A bit of snow on those roofs, and already great wood fires to warm those souls . . . I could see them, the Mégremuts. Little get-togethers each evening, with Aunt Philomène presiding. It was time to prepare for the holiday. They were expecting me. No Mégremut had ever willingly missed this family gathering, the most intimate of the year. Indeed, the Mégremuts all share the keen taste for the cold and the fire that give winter holidays their penetrating warmth. Six roofs, six plumes of smoke in the sky, thirty prayers. By tacit agreement, all uttered at the same time, so that a column of praises and ritual requests rises above the countryside with a collective piety, in which both heavy and light voices speak softly to the heavenly host of their simple sorrows and delicate dreams.

  Speaking not to God, because God is too great, but to his pure intermediaries, who, covered in shining feathers, still lean their human faces earthward, especially toward the Mégremuts, who have sent up to heaven so many confessions, fond words, and pious expressions of gratitude. For the Mégremuts are pleased with God, who has made them as they are, and as they love themselves. But it is He whom they love within themselves, innocently, believing they love only themselves. Their self-love opens onto heaven, that heaven with so many Mégremuts among the stars.