by Henri Bosco
She shared my blood and, among the harsh Malicroix, she was the only one who seemed tender. I often thought of her, as one might about a live person, nearby. Then something of Cornélius’s violent heart would beat in me, and, fleetingly, I became something like an uncertain reflection of his shadow.
And so I would enter into a mysterious world of memories that I knew were not mine. Yet I recognized them, as if at some other time I had lived through events whose far-off but familiar images they brought back to me. I told myself that, most likely, they were little more than fictions inspired by what Dromiols had told me about the Malicroix. Yet they matched other recollections of which his tales were not the source. Images, words, thoughts, and feelings from my own memory mingled with them. It was as if these recollections of a lost life, cut off from an unknown memory within me, sought another memory—that of a living person—in order to take refuge there. They easily sank into my memory; and, strange to say, I recognized within them shapes, colors, and sounds I had never encountered during my earthly life. Even as I recognized them, I sensed that they came from someone other than myself, so much did the accent and tone of the accompanying voices, in their grandeur and wild passion, differ from the gentle, mild voices that echoed through my own memory. I was split by this double mental life, and at times it made me suffer. But this suffering was not mine; it was someone else who suffered within me, with forms of pain that were not my own. I felt the torment of an obsessive thought, the wrenching regret about an unfinished deed, but both thought and deed were nameless; no specific message came that might have cleared up this confusion of two souls.
Luckily, these moments of troubled reverie were brief.
I avoided staying out too late.
Exercise, cold, and the company of Balandran—always at his work—helped me to stay healthy. I was not alone. Near the huts we split wood with great ax blows. We piled it high. I have strong arms and a taste for movement. There is nothing like that to keep the soul within the bounds of a precise, reassuring life, one in which the spirit adapts to the body and stays connected to the mind, a mind that quietly focuses on a useful thought. I admired Balandran, who effortlessly contained himself like this; I judged him little inclined to indulge in vain reverie. He filled his endless silences, not with elusive images, but with one solitary and progressive thought. That was how he dreamt—one thought seized at dawn, unfailingly pursued until he entered the night’s peace, bringing sleep and self-forgetfulness.
From this, perhaps, came the value objects acquired in his presence. You saw them. In his hands, nothing went unnoticed. An ax was an ax, with its rough steel, sharp edge, and polished handle of finely grained oak. He made unseen objects—a wooden tray, an ordinary fork—come to life merely by touching them.
With his desires and thoughts—hunger, thirst, the need for light—he created the table, the glass, and the yellow copper lamp. I myself might have perhaps invented the meal, the drink, the flame . . . He, however, drew these concrete objects from a secret realm my lack of awareness did not allow me to enter. He touched his thought physically. He grasped his ideas, feelings, and sensations familiarly, and from those fleeting figures drew forth little shapes—hard and dense, heavy and gleaming—charged with magical power. His least words, his most ordinary gestures, acquired a strange force and an allusive power that kindled the imagination. Both the concrete object and the mystery were born from him; but the reality of the object was such that the mystery was manifest within it. And so he surrounded me with a real world whose presence was so clearly etched, with such strong demands, it seemed at times otherworldly, and I thought I was dreaming. Everything I had looked at until then without seeing was becoming visible, even what I had already seen. Indeed, I had seen nothing more than practical signs—there, where Balandran grasped the flaking porcelain of the plate, the grainy stoneware of the pot, the curved pewter of the goblet. His fingers brought things to life. Although sometimes this life unnerved me, most often I was enraptured; for I had the feeling that I was discovering a new world—solid, colored, weighty, whole.
“What a fine ax you have there, Balandran,” I said to him while we were chopping wood.
He answered, “The handle is boxwood.”
These four words, spoken quite directly, and in the easy tone of someone speaking about something real, highlighted the chief virtue of this large battle ax, with its haft of indestructible wood. You could not forget it.
Curious fact—it had not always been this way. These visions of domestic reality—I could date them. They had begun during that hallucinatory Christmas Eve, when I had seen the face, body, and friendship of Balandran emerge from his ghostly mask of ice.
Before then, the opposite happened. Balandran’s presence, so often ungraspable, made the world of objects insubstantial. Nothing held my gaze, and I used knife, chair, and candle without even noticing them. Objects have a friendship, and it may be that, like Balandran, all these things had kept themselves apart. Once Balandran’s friendship came to me, everything in the house that loved Balandran began to love me too, and I suddenly felt it. Through simple love, several humble forms of life emerged from nothingness, and their presence haunted me.
Balandran himself, often a worrisome presence or absence with abrupt comings and goings, lived more concretely. When he was present, I could see and touch him with my finger; absent, he left a gaping hole. Among the ordinary objects he had released from insignificance, he was the most evident, the most real. Not a being of flesh, but of hard wood. And yet he too was an object charged with latent power. His body and soul were one, bound together so tightly that the whole soul dwelt just where the body did. Whole, with nothing to distinguish one from the other. This frightened me. But he, who had devoted a stern friendship to me, sensing my fears and reticence, often hid from view so as not to muddle my sight with this obsession. And right away, I would miss the one person for whom I had any affection in this hostile territory. I would go in search of him, and, if he was on the mainland, I would wait for him on the landing as night fell. I was worried. Would he return? When I saw the black boat emerging from the reeds, I grew quite watchful, and my fear slightly increased. He landed. We would greet each other briefly.
“Nothing new at La Regrègue?”
“No, Mr. Martial.”
We would go in together without another word.
A little later, he would give me news of the flock, always the same.
How could it have been otherwise? The Malicroix solitude, the island, our wild and barren lands—all kept people away, and where people do not enter, nothing moves, except imperceptibly. Yet ever since Balandran loved me a little, I hardly suffered. He loved me like a Malicroix, an enfeebled Malicroix, to be sure, but still stamped with the seal. I had had my night of madness. And he had seen in it the strong blood of that old, wild lineage. From that moment on, he was my man, for this is a blood that binds and commands, even in me, who usually would not know how to insist on anything nor how to give an order, so much am I a Mégremut. Yet, through my innate gentleness, Balandran had scented the old, wild blood. He loved me because he expected from me the deeds of the master. But, only too aware of my own weakness, I looked to him to sustain me; sensing the hopes he placed in me, I thought anxiously about the inevitably approaching time of trial. Malicroix trial, the touchstone—absurd and immoderate deed, beyond my power, if I was to believe the words of the will—deed whose secret Balandran faithfully kept, now that he knew this puny heir capable of some madness. His trust sometimes filled me with terror. But I dared not flee. I loved my fear.
• • •
There was a spot Balandran especially liked. He prepared his fishing tackle there. It was the isolated cove where you could see the solitary beach I had dubbed the Waters of Repentance. A warm hollow, as I have said, where one was well-sheltered from the wind’s buffeting, a spot good for rest and observation—for the beach of Repentance, with its silty pool enclosed by tangled thickets that everywhere els
e go down to the river’s edge, offered the only open view of the opposite shore. The life of those thickets, inhabited by unseen creatures—rodents, reptiles, waterfowl—would have remained unknown to us had not a few of them sometimes made a brief appearance on the beach, especially at dawn or dusk. They would come into sight, and we could easily watch them. Protected from the land’s dangers by rushes, reeds, and samphire, they wandered freely over the gray silt, and we knew them well. In the evening, a dormouse, snooping around; in the morning, a heron, always the same one, solemn and thoughtful; toward noon, a wary otter every now and then. Harmless creatures all, with an easy, regular life, whose steady habits revealed the calm populace and ancient peace of the riverbank.
“From this spot,” Balandran would say, “you know what’s happening on land.”
It was a sensitive place. The least alien intrusion would inevitably be registered. Man or beast, newly arrived in this territory, would end up here and leave tracks. This ground, where the paw of a rat or the claw of a finch sank in clearly, would immediately betray the passage of a dog or a boar.
Which is why Balandran—always very touchy about our solitude, anxious about the least thing—never failed, each morning, to inspect the beach of Repentance. Content not to have found anything that might trouble our peace, he crossed the river, went about his business, and came back around noon, his face always calm, ready for other tasks.
“What’s the weather tomorrow, Balandran?”
“A little from the north, Mr. Martial, but not too much. Still another day. The Sacristan is doing well.”
“And Bréquillet?”
“He’s nosing around.”
This meant a clear, gentle wind, one of those winter breezes that draw scents from the earth and beasts from their burrows.
And so we lived simply from day to day, and little by little I let my confidence grow.
• • •
Suddenly, on January 6, I was gripped by anxiety.
Or at least, it seemed that some worry was troubling Balandran. Balandran, always with a worried look, did not present an open face. Whatever you could read there always led you to suspect the worst. Still, this worry, while it did not show on his face, was immediately obvious to me; I judged it to be strong. But I held my tongue. It would never occur to anyone to question Balandran about the state of his soul—it would have been both absurd and sacrilegious. I do not know how I saw what no sign disclosed, but I had a mute awareness. Between two people who live side by side without many words, silence takes the place of speech, and the slightest changes cross from one soul to the other and cause the subtle body to vibrate. Balandran, who spoke fewer than twenty words through the course of the morning, perhaps uttered one word less. And I felt it. Perhaps he gave a more severe inflection to his short sentences, already quite severe. An inflection, and no more, for the heart of what he said remained as I expected—factual, practical. But a secret anxiety informed his words. I was placed on guard, and I decided to keep an eye on Balandran.
He went out around three; fifteen minutes later I left in search of him. My instinct led me to the cove. Because I have a light step, he did not hear me coming.
I found him kneeling behind some bushes; he was studying the beach. The beach was deserted. But on the sand were large tracks that led from the thickets down to the water.
I retreated without a sound.
Balandran crossed the river at dusk and came back, as always, in time for dinner. He said, “We have three sick ewes. I need to spend the night at La Regrègue. I’ve made your coffee.”
He left around nine with Bréquillet at his heels. I went to bed almost right away.
•
I fell asleep late. A slight wind had come up, and I listened to it with a pleasure that soon muddled my thoughts . . . Those three ewes, most likely an excuse . . . This was the only thought that took shape, but it led no further; and so, rocked by the wind, between sleeping and waking, I drifted down the easy path of images. I was thinking of Delphine d’Or . . .
•
. . . We were at the Mégremuts’, and Aunt Philomène was speaking in her singsong voice. I saw nothing, but I heard the familiar voice. I perceived the tread of steps muffled by the wool of felted carpets; the rustle of heavy fabrics; and all that confused murmur of people who move about politely, greeting and complimenting each other before agreeing to be formally seated. Someone pushed forward an armchair. Someone mentioned the cold and wind, and Uncle Mathieu’s voice complained about the chimney, which was drawing poorly. No doubt about it, Aunt Philomène was entertaining someone. But whom? I wanted to know. Unfortunately, a large screen (I thought I recognized it) hid the entire room from me, and a mysterious force kept me on one side of its blue panels, where I saw nothing but streams of stars.
I was dreaming and I knew it, yet it was so sweet to dream and to realize that I was doing nothing to understand more and to dream less. I had never had such a dream—I did not see it, I heard it; and although unable to visualize even the reflection of these figures, I was present in a familial world, the world of the most affectionate Mégremuts, at a gathering of unseen but sweetly sonorous beings. Both Uncle Mathieu and Aunt Philomène were solely sounds, and yet what sounds! Colored, distinct, warm and pleasant words, in endearing accents, tender tones of love. “What a surprise,” cried Aunt Philomène. “Here we are, grown younger by a century,” she whispered just then to an unknown confidante beside the screen. “Yes indeed, what a surprise, and after such a long journey, here you are calm and collected, fresh as a daisy.” “Oh! Youth, youth!” sighed Uncle Mathieu, and the other Mégremuts sighed as well, but discreetly. (We were among well-bred people.) “Here time does not count,” Aunt Philomène went on. “We meet again after a century as if we’d said goodbye only yesterday.” “Our house preserves,” said Uncle Mathieu, a bit sententiously perhaps. Aunt Philomène answered right back, “No, Mathieu, it’s not that; we’re as old as our souls, which age less rapidly than our bodies.” Everyone seconded this comforting thought. A new wave of sighs and murmurs disclosed at least ten Mégremuts. It was a family council. But the person they were welcoming did not breathe a word.
All the same, that person was there and on a solemn visit, surrounded by a circle of the others. By the fire, Aunt Philomène’s large cat was purring. “He’s happy,” observed Cousin Bérangère. “How could he not be?” replied Aunt Philomène. “He has a fire and the whole family’s love. Even our relative must love him.” The relative was silent. But no one seemed to notice. They continued to question her. “And what does he do, all alone, so far from us?” asked Uncle Mathieu. I did not hear the answer, but the others must have heard, because the entire group bemoaned the fate of this unknown person about whom they had just asked. Aunt Philomène, moreover, commented on the situation. “He’s so sociable, my friend, and, all alone on that wild island with that dog and that shepherd, he must certainly be lonely. It’s so pleasant here, and we’re all together! If at least he loved someone there, if he had his little madness . . . But he loves no one but us, we know that. You’ll see him again. Tell him . . .” “Yes, that’s it, tell him, but very gently, in his ear,” advised Uncle Mathieu. All the Mégremuts agreed. They rose.
I understood that the visitor was leaving. There were then the rituals of departure, lengthy words at the door. Aunt Philomène ordered: “Go, Mathieu, accompany her to the gate, with Bérangère and Martine.” But all the Mégremuts, men and women, who had risen to pay their respects to the unknown one, fell into step with Uncle Mathieu. They went out. “Who is it, Aunt Philomène?” whispered a childish voice, the voice of Inès. “We will know,” murmured the aunt’s already distant voice, “we will truly know it when we are no longer of this earth . . .” Inès asked something else that I heard poorly, for I was already seeking a true dream. But as this half-real world plunged into its own abyss, I met nothing in my sleep but the fragments of another dream that shattered when it met these invisible beings, these well-kno
wn voices, these familiar phrases, and the silence of the creature whose name no one wanted to utter on this earth. Sleep fell over me and I forgot everything.
• • •
The next day, the morning was calm. I waited for Balandran—he would be here a little before noon, as usual. While I busied myself with household chores, I told myself I should prepare the meal. Balandran would grumble, and I rejoiced ahead of time, for it is pleasant to tease people we love. I started to cook. I was not at all put out, for the Mégremuts, very skilled with their hands, were brought up to use them—they can do anything in the manual realm. The work distracted me, and I took pleasure in it. Time passed quickly and it was noon. I set the dish to simmer and left for the landing.
It was mild winter weather, neither hot nor cold, an ordinary day, with filtered light. Nothing was stirring on the riverbanks. By the islets and lagoons, where Balandran would thread his way to reach solid ground, not one sign of life. I am patient; I waited for more than an hour. Finally, I went back to La Redousse and ate my lunch. “He will return this evening,” I told myself. A little anxious, perhaps, but I had faith in Balandran. Toward evening, I returned to the landing.
Still the same weather, but the light had dimmed, giving a faint yellow tinge to the deserted shores. Not a sign of human life, no more than at noon. Islets and lagoons were desolate, and the darkness was already giving a blue cast to the trees around La Regrègue.
I did not leave the landing until it was totally dark; I dined alone, quite forlorn.
I stayed up late, still waiting. Not one sound. I lay down and, since sleep refused to relieve my tiredness, I thought about my dream. From thinking to dreaming and from dreaming to sleeping is but one step. Unfortunately, my thought remained just on the outskirts of a dream, without entering and losing itself; I had only one subject to occupy my sleeplessness. It wore me out. Toward midnight a shower passed over the house. It did not last long. I heard its pattering on the branches of the old trees. The shower moved off toward the river and I heard nothing more. I did not fall asleep until dawn. And then I had a short slumber. At eight o’clock I was already up. No sign of Balandran. I passed this long day as calmly as I could. Balandran did not return. A little before nightfall, anxious, I went to the hidden cove to inspect the shoreline. It was deserted.