“One thing I have frequently observed in children, that when they have got possession of any poor creature, they are apt to use it ill.”
—John Locke, 1693
1
THE
YARK
Of all the various Monsters that teem upon the face of the earth, the Human species is the most widespread.
There’s another, though, more rare, less known.
It is the Yark.
The Yark loves children.
He loves the crackle of their little bones between his teeth, and to suck on their soft eyes, which melt like chocolate truffles.
He adores their tiny fingers, their tiny feet, their tiny tongues, which he chews with a sprig of mint for a sweet and deliciously sticky treat.
He is a discerning gourmet, who also enjoys sipping their brains, which—it seems—taste somewhat like marshmallow.
Without a shred of racist bias, he gobbles down children of every hue. Whatever their shade of brown, beige or pink, all children in the world have red blood and juicy hearts.
Beware of his jaws…
This mighty ogre has powerful fangs!
He glides silently over sleeping houses with the smell of fresh meat guiding him like a beacon through the night.
Listen closely!
He’s turning the handle on your door…
And even if it’s locked, his hooked nails are all he needs for keys.
Poor you! While you dream, he creeps up on velvet paws, careful not to make the floorboards creak. Looming over the bed, he leans in to sniff you.
Yum yum! Your almond and butter scent makes his mouth water…
His presence wakes you and you wonder: “Is it breakfast time already?”
That will be your last thought.
You blink your eyes, then open them wide. No! It’s not a dream! He’s here! Immense, like a black moon. Drool streams from his fangs as his jaws swing wide…
And that’s that. It’s over.
Without pain. Without a cry.
You’ve just been crunched up, under the helpless gaze of your terrified teddy bears.
The Yark also loves animals. But he considers them really too adorable to be gobbled up, so he never eats any.
2
THE WEAKNESS OF
MONSTERS
Still, beneath their ferocious appearance, Monsters always conceal some weakness that might ultimately lead to their ruin. King Kong was tender-hearted, Dracula was afraid of sunlight, the Colossus had feet of clay… As for the Yark, he has a delicate stomach.
This delicate stomach can tolerate only the flesh of very good children, in much the way that old people are able to digest only soup.
Numerous medical studies have shown that naughtiness modifies a child’s chemical composition. When children do something wrong, their hearts ferment a violent poison and their flesh becomes more toxic than a viper’s venom.
Listening only to his stomach, the Yark has occasionally eaten a bad child. But he soon regrets his indulgence. Liars give him heartburn, bullies and brats damage his teeth. As for little sadists, they tie his guts in knots.
Such a deplorable weakness of the digestive tract!
The Yark would a hundred times rather feast on bullies and spoiled kids, like a goat that chomps away happily while ridding the world of stinging nettles, weeds, and crabgrass.
But noble sentiments have never filled anyone’s stomach. And certainly not a Monster’s.
Nature, which has no moral code, is indifferent to matters of good and evil.
And since time out of mind, it’s always been clear that the nicest are first to be eaten.
3
MODERN
CHILDREN
Ah, how Monsters yearn for the good old days! Once upon a time, children were tender and innocent. Masquerading as a grandmother was enough to lure them within the swipe of a claw.
A steady diet of these little angels brimming with innocence ensured an iron constitution, year round.
Sadly, modern times have curbed the Yark’s diet. Modern times produce practically no edible children.
These days, brats thrive on the earth like warts on a witch’s chin. Schoolyards teem with brutish and nasty small persons who are the spitting image of their parents.
When still knee-high to a grasshopper, children already possess all the faults of adults. They play superheroes, boast and brag, but wet their pants the minute the hall light is switched off.
Garrulous, gluttonous, capricious, cowardly, good-for-nothing, lazy … truth be told, if they didn’t make excellent stews, children would serve no purpose at all. Their primitive brains allow them to perform only the most rudimentary tasks. Eating, telling lies, and snickering is all they can accomplish in a day.
If only they had a shred of wit!
But resistant to deep thought or poetry, children of today laugh only at jokes about farts.
How long ago they now seem, those happy days when the Yark could gorge on vitamin-rich children. For the present day has adulterated not only the child’s soul. Laden with industrial products, the modern child has lost its nutritional value.
Its soft and flabby flesh now consists for the most part of cholesterol.
As for hygiene, deplorable is the word that leaps to mind. Children have become a hive of microbes, and prudence dictates that they be thoroughly boiled before serving at the table.
No, modern times are by no means easy for an ogre with a delicate stomach. And just as some species have fallen victim to the ravages of pollution, the loss of tender loving care and proper upbringings have pushed the Yark into the ranks of Monsters on the verge of extinction.
4
THE
LIST
Night has fallen. Like a tormented soul, the Yark wanders about in a forest buffeted by an icy wind. Exhausted, he seeks shelter.
Poor devil! Again tonight his empty stomach rumbles in despair.
No matter how long he spends hovering over schools, town squares, and orphanages, he catches only whiffs of indigestible brats.
“Where are edible children to be found?” the Monster laments. “There must be a few left somewhere!”
But in this world of scoundrels, it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack!
One flake, then another… It’s starting to snow. The Yark reckons he will certainly starve to death before Christmas.
As tears well up in his eyes, he suddenly lifts his head and cries out: “Santa Claus’s list! Of course, that’s the solution…”
This flash of genius makes him dance with joy.
“A feast! I just have to get my hands on that scrap of paper! That will give me the names and addresses of all the well-behaved children in the whole world! Ah, what a fool I’ve been! Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”
Streamers of saliva drip from his chops as he thinks of that list, more enticing than a menu from the finest restaurant. And without a moment’s delay, the Yark soars high into the sky, heading straight for Santa’s home.
A few hours later, the Monster sets down near the North Pole. On the edge of a forest, he glimpses four twinkling dots of light: it’s Santa Claus’s house!
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“What’s this? Who’s visiting me so late?” the old man wonders.
When he opens the door of his cottage, Santa Claus comes face to face with a polar bear.
Of course, it’s none other than the Yark! The sly devil has rolled in the snow to deceive this white-whiskered friend of children everywhere.
“Good evening, Santa Claus. I’m just a poor bear who’s lost in the forest. May I come in to warm up?”
The good man welcomes his visitor with open arms.
“Come in, my friend! You’re welcome in my home!”
The old man shuts the door and points his guest to a table decked with pastries smothered in whipped cream.
“You’ve come in the nick of time!” the kind man smiles. “We’re about to serve dessert!”
“Yum… My mouth waters at the thought!” The Yark salivates as his eye lights, not on the pastries, but on the list of good boys and girls lying on a desk.
Cautiously, he sidles over. But as he edges past the fireplace, the snow melts and the Yark’s disguise vanishes into a puddle. Santa recognizes the villain and his beard bristles like a big, angry cat.
“Get out of here, you foul beast! You child chomper!”
“A Monster has to eat!” the Yark retorts, quick as a flash.
“Sure, but not good little boys and girls! Do you want to put me out of a job?”
In one bound, the Monster lunges for the list before Santa can lift a finger. The old man fights back with the first weapon that comes to hand, a whipped cream dispenser.
“Back to Hades with you!” the old man shouts, strafing his visitor with powerful jets of cream.
The gooey geyser coats the Monster, turning him back into a polar bear. Blinded, he stumbles into a shelf, which collapses and buries the precious list under an avalanche of paper.
“The list! I can’t find the list!” the Yark wails.
Foiled! Thwarted on the brink of victory!
The greasy Monster is forced to retreat into the black night without further ado.
When he runs out of breath and silence falls around him, the Yark bursts into sobs and flops down onto the snow.
“The list was my last best hope. This time, I’m done for!”
Just then, he feels something tickling his bottom. Reaching around and groping at his sticky back, his fingers pinch onto a piece of paper.
Surprised, he yanks at it. The paper comes away, tearing out a few hairs with it. The Yark stifles a cry of pain. But when he discovers in his hand the much-coveted list, his shout of victory echoes to the stars.
5
CHARLOTTE
The Yark hovers joyously. Above the seas, forests, and villages, his immense shadow looms over the sleeping world.
By the light of the moon, he feverishly skims through the list in search of the name of world’s best-behaved girl. The description of a little girl named Charlotte, from Provence, in the south of France, whets his appetite: Excellent pupil, impeccable hygiene, says prayers every night, clears the dinner table without being asked. P.S.: What’s more, she sorts the recycling!
“A culinary perfection!” the Yark cries in ecstasy.
It is true that those who top their class taste exquisite, reminiscent of the aroma of cherry pie.
In a frenzy of impatience, the Monster lets his full weight send him plummeting into the heart of Provence.
And now here he is. Already inside Charlotte’s house.
On tiptoes, the ravenous visitor approaches her bed. His enormous bulk moves without a sound. As he gloats over his prey, a bouquet of aromas tickles his nostrils.
“Oh, yum!” purrs the Monster. “This good little girl smells absolutely scrumptious!”
Now he regrets not having brought accompaniments to round out his banquet. Because if green beans go with mutton the way mashed potatoes go with ham, nothing is more succulent than a leg of little girl garnished with a handful of peanuts.
His razor-sharp claw strokes the sleeping child’s pink cheek.
“Hey there,” he whispers, to wake her gently.
The one thing he mustn’t do is frighten her! All good Monsters know that terror chills the blood and strips the flesh of its delicacy.
Charlotte opens her eyes. A shaggy mountain smiles down at her with all his jagged teeth.
“The Yark!” she shrieks.
But she adds a succession of senseless phrases: “Ah, how wonderful! Thank you, Lord! The Yark has come!”
And Charlotte throws herself into the Monster’s arms and showers him with kisses.
Flabbergasted, the Yark repels her with an indignant shove.
“But you should be afraid of me, silly girl! I’m a Monster!”
“Oh, but not just any Monster!” The girl smiles mischievously. “You’re the Yark! And I read in a book that you can’t eat naughty children.”
“Oh, really? Hmm… That may be…” mutters the Yark, embarrassed to have his personal difficulties brought up like this. “But you’re so nice, you’re going to make a delicious meal,” he continues in his big voice.
“Precisely,” whispers the paragon of good conduct. “I’m sick and tired of being a good example! I badly want to misbehave… Only I never dare!”
There’s a strange gleam in her eyes.
“But tonight, thanks to you, I’m going to have to!”
“What are you talking about?” asks the Monster, vaguely uneasy.
Whereupon Charlotte takes a small book from the drawer of her bedside table.
“This very instructive volume offers a thousand and one ways to defend oneself against Monsters. Several chapters are devoted to you…”
She leafs through a few pages, then reads a passage aloud:
In case of Yark attack, it is imperative that you immediately start misbehaving in order to make yourself inedible. If you do so, this Monster, which is allergic to bad children, will be unable to gobble you up. A swear word, a bare-faced lie, or pouring milk over your little brother will make you toxic for several hours. And if you pee on a carpet, you will remain inedible until daybreak.
“Shut up, shut up!” shrieks the Yark in a fit of rage. “That book doesn’t know what it’s talking about!”
But in fact the Monster’s fury confirms that all this is true.
“All right then, let’s see!” Charlotte says in triumph. “Where shall I start? Shall I say some swear words, pee on the floor, or murder my dolls?”
“No! Have mercy!” begs the Monster, down on his knees. “I’m so hungry! Don’t make yourself inedible!”
Charlotte shuts the book with a determined look.
“I’m going to start with the swear words.”
“You’re too well mannered! You’ll never be able to do it!” the Monster roars, beside himself.
“Poo! Pee! Fart!” the little girl bawls defiantly.
“My meal is ruined!” the Yark chokes between sobs.
The frenzied child leaps onto a table to chant this deplorable refrain: “With every fart, my Granny lets…her false teeth clack like castanets! Olé!”
“All that delicious food, gone to waste!” the Monster moans through his tears.
Drunk with delight, Charlotte races to the four corners of the room, tipping over furniture, ripping the hair from her dolls, stamping her teddy bears underfoot.
“What fun!” she whoops, pulling down her pajamas with the intention of taking a poop in her bookbag.
“No, no! Not that!” the Yark yells, indignant.
Suddenly, a commotion from the hallway interrupts their dispute. Alerted by Charlotte’s cries, her father and mother have woken up.
“Your parents!” the Yark cries. “Ah, when they see this carnage, they’ll give you a well-deserved spanking!”
“No, they won’t! I’ll tell them that you attacked me!”
“Oh, you will, will you? And how will you prove you’re telling the truth?”
“With this!” Charlotte yanks a handful of hair from the Yark’s bottom.
“Ouch!” shrieks the scandalized Monster. There really is nothing more sadistic on this earth than a well-brought-up little girl!
With a crash of breaking glass, he hurls himself through the window that he unfortunately doesn’t have time to open.
The shock is such that a section of wall collapses.
At that moment, the girl’s parents burst into the devastated room.
“What’s going on?” asks her panic-stricken mother.
A first-rate actress, Charlotte melts into tears and throws herself into her father’s arm
s.
“The Yark! He attacked me!”
“The Yark?” Her parents shudder.
“Yes! And I was forced to misbehave frightfully, to keep him from devouring me!”
“My poor darling!” Her mother moans and pulls the child to her.
Her father gravely examines a hank of hair lying on the floor.
“This is Yark hair, without a doubt!”
“You won’t punish me will you, Papa?” Charlotte begs, turning her great doe eyes in his direction.
“No, my daughter. You did the right thing! And rest assured! After this fine lesson, that infamous Monster won’t be back to bother you again!”
“You think not? Charlotte murmurs sadly, looking out at the stars through the devastated wall.
6
LEWIS
Horrid, horrid, horrid girl!” the Yark thunders as he zigzags through a sky crisscrossed with lightning. Furious at his misadventure, he scratches out Charlotte’s name with great scrawling Xs.
“Next!” he mutters.
For a hungry stomach never gives up, and the Yark has already singled out his next meal. This boy called Lewis lives in an old suburb of London.
“Sweet! An English child!” The Yark is delighted. He dotes on those little creatures, with their clear complexions, red hair, and hamster teeth.
With gaping maw and flapping tongue, the Monster plunges straight down toward English soil.
As he lands in front of Lewis’s house, the Yark vows not to engage in a word of conversation.
No! This time there’ll be no knock-knock at the door or how’s it going, blah blah. He’ll rear up like a demon in the bedroom, stride across the floor straight for the bed and lunge at the child. Unseen, unheard, he’ll crunch him up raw.
Arriving at Lewis’s bedroom, the Yark takes a deep breath. “No knocking at the door, no how’s it going blah blah…” he tells himself again, to bolster his nerve. “Now go!”
The Yark rears up like a demon in the bedroom, strides across the floor, straight for the bed, and lunges at the child…
The Yark Page 1