The Yark

by Bertrand Santini

  But horrors! The bed is empty!

  “How can it be?” In a panic, the Monster rummages at the covers. At this hour, all good childen are snuggled under their covers! Where the dickens is that Lewis?

  He bends over and takes a look under the bed…

  There’s no one…

  A smell, however, tickles his nostrils. A whiff of little boy wafts around him. He sniffs again… His powerful nose distinguishes the scents of little eyes, little fingers, little feet, a little liver, and even, sniffing again, the bloody smell of a little heart hammering inside a little chest.

  Suddenly, the Yark sees movement.

  There!

  In the blanket tent set up beside the bed.

  Slowly, silently, the Yark opens the flap…

  Inside, a little boy is staring him right in the eye.

  “Who are you?” asks the kid, without a hint of fear.

  Such coolness astonishes the Monster. Still, at least he hasn’t been recognized. This child won’t erupt into bad language or take a poop in his bookbag to make himself inedible.

  “And what are you doing here?” the small child insists.

  “Whatever you do, don’t answer!” the Yark tells himself, biting his cheeks. “Don’t let yourself be bamboozled or weakened!” He’s actually a softie, the Yark! How many times, because he stopped to chat with his prey, has he been stirred by pity as he munches? It’s no fun hunting for your food, let alone feeling sympathy for the meal!

  Killing a fellow creature is a rotten job and no Monster finds joy in these carnivorous crimes, with the exception, of course, of vampires, zombies, and toreadors.

  “What’s your name?” the child asks in an innocent tone.

  But now, without standing on ceremony, the Yark opens his powerful jaws lined with sharp teeth and, snap! the little Englishman disappears down the gaping maw.

  “Hurray! Tra-la-la-la-la!” the Monster whoops as he takes an elegant dance step or two. That little Lewis really was a scrumptious morsel!

  He starts laughing and wiggles his hips.

  “Ah, how delicious! Oh, what a feast! Ah, how nice to have a full belly!

  But all at once, the Yark freezes. Sobs sound in the darkness. He pricks his ears… The sounds are coming from the wardrobe…

  “Is someone in there?” the Monster whispers as he creeps over.

  “Yes! For pity’s sake let me out,” begs a childish voice.

  “And who are you?” the Yark demands.

  The small voice responds with these two tragic words: “I’m Lewis!”

  7

  JACK

  Lewis? What do you mean, Lewis? The Monster fiddles nervously with the key to the cupboard, then with a sharp yank, pulls on the handle. The little boy who springs from the wardrobe throws himself into his rescuer’s arms.

  “Phew! Thanks! I was about to suffocate!”

  “But who locked you in there?”

  “My brother.”

  “Which brother?”

  “Jack! My very bad big brother!”

  “Very bad?” the Monster stammers, increasingly uneasy. “What do you mean by very bad?”

  “He’s a louse! A rat! He’s the scummiest scumbag in England! Every night he locks me in the wardrobe so he can play with my toys!”

  At this point, the Yark realizes his terrible blunder.

  “Ye gods! I’ve just eaten a scoundrel!”

  “You ate Jack?” Lewis asks, incredulous.

  “By mistake!” the Monster yelps. “It was a dreadful misunderstanding! It was you I was meant to eat! Now, I’m going to be sick! I’m allergic to brats and bullies!”

  The truth is, the Yark already feels ill. His legs are trembling, his stomach is gurgling, his ears are buzzing, and his buttocks are starting to itch. He coughs, he drools, he suffocates, he breaks out in pimples, pustules, and blisters.

  Without warning, he lets out a thunderous, flaming fart.

  The fireball blasts through the room and chars Santa Claus’s list into a shower of sparks.

  “My list!” yells the Yark.

  “Poor Monster!” sobs Lewis. “None of this would have happened if you’d gobbled me up instead!”

  The Yark thinks that this child surely has a good heart, and he’d love to have eaten him with a little butter. But there’s no time to daydream. Driven by a natural need, the Monster hurls himself out through the window once more and bounds off like a gazelle.

  Propelled by a demonic case of diarrhea, the Yark shoots through the forest like a skyrocket.

  At each stride, the poor wretch composes a symphony of farts. As he goes by, animals start up in surprise, afraid that the explosive reports signal the start of hunting season.

  A mighty eruption launches him off the ground. Like a space rocket, he takes off straight into the sky. His gas-propelled bottom shoots him through the sound barrier. And like Pegasus, the Yark disappears amongst the stars, at full throttle.

  Sick of his life, of himself, and of this loveless world, the Yark wishes for only one thing: to dissolve into space for eternity.

  As if to grant his wish, death appears before him. It takes the form of a chasm of light, a cool, glittering sun, a nuclear whiteness. The supersonic Yark hurtles into this fiery bowl with an explosion of shattering glass.

  This spectacular shock, however, is by no means fatal. It’s not in the afterlife that the Yark has run aground. He has crashed into the lantern of a lighthouse.

  8

  MADELEINE

  No matter how long the night, it passes. A few days later, the Yark wakes up in a snug bed, tucked under a quilt of handsome purple velvet.

  Sitting at his bedside, a child watches him. Silently, the Yark sniffs at this little girl with her big juicy eyes, her almond-scented skin and sugary breath.

  “Where do you come from?” she asks. “What happened to you?”

  “Poisoned,” the beast replies in a whisper.

  Little by little, his spirits revive, and the Yark looks around him.

  His bed is in the middle of a round room with glass walls. Around the windows, clouds coil like languid ghosts. You’d think that the room was floating in the air.

  “Where am I?” the Monster stammers.

  “In an abandoned lighthouse. This is where I live,” the little girl murmurs, slipping a handful of herbs into the convalescent’s mouth.

  “And what’s this?” the Monster asks in surprise.

  “Mint, basil, and chamomile… All you need to cure a sore tummy.”

  This is the first time the Monster has ever tasted such a salad. But in the presence of so much innocence, he dares not say a word, and he munches in silence.

  “My name’s Madeleine. What’s yours?”

  Clearly, the little girl doesn’t realize that he is a Monster. The Monster in question decides it’s pointless to inform her of the fact and pretends to go back to sleep. He discreetly sniffs at the little girl to find out more about her, and he isolates her three main olfactory components. Violet and anise are the heart notes that reveal an underlying melancholy. The base notes of cotton and fresh rice attest to her goodness. Last, the Monster discerns a blend of blood orange and milk sugar, top notes that emanate only from the purest souls.

  Moved to tears, the Yark wonders at this combination, which proves her to be the most wonderful little girl in the world.

  “Poor little innocent!” he muses, choking back his saliva and his shame. “This angel has no idea that she’s saved a demon! Ah, if she only knew the risk she runs in being so kind to me!”

  A murmur from Madeleine interrupts his thoughts: “I thought you’d never wake up!”

  Then she adds with a smile: “You gave me a scare, you know.”

  This is hardly the first time the Yark has scared someone. Fear of the Yark is to be expected. But Madeleine’s fear is quite different.

  He thinks her fear is for him.

  “For me,” the Monster repeats to himself in disbelief, for this is
first time he’s received such a feeling as a gift. At that, a wave of emotion sweeps over him. A sensation so new that he can’t find a name for it.

  After a lengthy silence, the Yark opens one eye.

  “I don’t frighten you?” he asks timidly.

  “No!”

  “You don’t find me ugly?”

  The little girl shrugs, as if the question is absurd.

  “Actually, I find you beautiful!”

  Beautiful? This word, which has never been used to describe him, gives him the shivers.

  “Ordinarily, humans find me repulsive,” the Monster whispers.

  “Humans don’t have a great deal of imagination. They see beauty only in what looks like them.”

  “But you’re human yourself!” the Yark exclaims.

  “True! And since I find you beautiful, that’s proof that we look alike!”

  With these few words, the little girl thinks she’s said all she needs to. She smiles at the Monster, kisses him on the forehead, and leaves the room, wishing him good night.

  The Yark finds himself alone with his exhaustion, the noise of the storm, and stirrings of happiness.

  And now, he dreams… On an immense oval table, a constellation of dishes and bowls spreads out to infinity: boys in bacon, orphan gratin, chicken-fried children, breaded babies, leg of twins, brats in a bun, paté of little girl, stuffed schoolchildren, tandooried toddlers, choirboys in bundt cake…

  But suddenly, a shock! The Yark discovers Madeleine’s decapitated head lying on his plate. The child’s big eyes stare sadly up at him. The Monster shrieks and wakes up in a cold sweat. For the first time in his life, a feast of children ends with a cry of horror!

  9

  TWO

  FEELINGS

  Although no scientific explanation can be given for it, the Yark and Madeleine became the best of friends in no time at all.

  Their happiness, then, could have been perfect.

  As perfect as galloping through the forest accompanied by wild creatures, soaring over ocean cliffs, and sweeping up into the sky to quench their thirst on clouds.

  As perfect as those nights without speaking, or just spent laughing, nestled in the hollow of a shoulder, listening to another’s heart beating.

  Yes, everything could have been perfect.

  But perfection is not of this world, and that happiness was soon to crumble away.

  For the Monster was prey to two opposing feelings, two temptations so violent and contrary that they condemned his heart to torture.

  Madeleine was so sweet and kind that he wanted with all his heart to cherish and protect her. Unfortunately, those very qualities also made him every bit as eager to eat her! He had to struggle relentlessly against himself, struggle against all he’d been since the dawn of time, struggle against the child-eating Monster that he was.

  Ah, the dreadful dilemma! For the Yark would have preferred to die a thousand deaths than to hurt Madeleine.

  The Yark resolved to subdue his instincts. No, his hunger would not triumph! No, his stomach would not dictate his fate! And for the ennobling of his soul, he told himself, art offered the ideal medium.

  And so, the Yark became a painter.

  His brush first sketched out lovely apples, handsome pears, then all of a sudden, DECAPITATED CHILDREN’S HEADS!

  He immediately abandoned painting for sculpture. His chisel first carved out lovely spheres, handsome blocks, then all of a sudden, DECAPITATED CHILDREN’S HEADS!

  He decided that pottery might suit him better. His fingers first shaped lovely vases, handsome bowls, then all of a sudden, DECAPITATED CHILDREN’S HEADS!

  The Yark put an end to his artistic career by furiously trampling his leftover clay.

  Seeing her friend downhearted, the little girl decides one evening to make him a dainty dessert.

  “Here you are,” she says, handing him a platter of buttery madeleines. The Monster lifts one of the tiny cakes to his trembling lips. The madeleine dissolves on his tongue and the Yark bursts into tears.

  And so he confesses his terrible secret.

  He tells Madeleine the extent of his shame. He tells her what a danger he is to her. He tells her he must leave. And he tells her how very frightened he’s been of eating her!

  A shudder runs through Madeleine. But it’s not the threat of danger that makes her tremble. It’s realizing all the love the Monster feels for her.

  Distressed at the thought of him going away, she offers her hand to his jaws, without hesitation.

  “Take a bite! Just a few fingers! I have plenty… Eat a few if it will calm your appetite!”

  For a head-spinning moment, the Yark is tempted. But he gently folds the little pink hand and kisses it.

  “Hunger is one form of suffering,” he tells her. “But to hurt you would be a far worse one.”

  There. Everything has been said. Now the Yark must leave. When he opens the windows, Madeleine tries to hold him back.

  “Don’t leave me!”

  The Monster pushes her away with a desperate growl.

  “Are you really so eager to be eaten?”

  In a single leap, he springs onto the roof and Madeleine implores him one last time.

  “If you love me, stay…”

  The Yark smiles sadly at her.

  “You still don’t understand? It’s love that’s making me leave you…”

  He rises into the sky and, her eyes filled with tears, Madeleine watches her friend disappear amongst the stars.

  Lost in space, the broken-hearted Monster lets himself fall. His sorrow weighs a thousand tons. He plummets like a rock, straight toward earth.

  And he lands with a crash in the depths of the forest.

  10

  THE WILD

  CHILDREN

  The birth of a baby is always an important event. The child’s arrival into the benevolent world of people is rightly celebrated with cigars, champagne, and—for the lucky ones—the opening of a savings account.

  But how fleeting is the golden age!

  Because with the passing of the years, it becomes impossible not to admit that the child loses much of its charm. Physique and personality deteriorate with each birthday. Time thickens, disfigures, stupefies… And whose fault is that? It’s the fault of the Beast that grows within the child, like a weed taking over a garden.

  The age of reason marks the start of this spectacular deterioration. The faded cherub begins to ask questions, express ideas, and negotiate agendas. Capricious, gluttonous, and none too hygienic, the growing child’s taste for raucous music and faddish clothing is an inconvenient and costly burden.

  Yes, the golden age is fleeting!

  And when cooing and baby talk have faded away, the parents are left with the prospect of a pimple-faced teenager.

  Abandonment becomes necessary, in order to preserve pleasant memories. And so it is that a considerable number of children are abandoned every year in forests. In France alone, the number is estimated at sixty thousand. It is never with a light heart that parents hand over to Mother Nature the fate of their progeny. But they’ll always find consolation in the resale of clothing and toys, a profit that will allow them to enjoy a few days of well-deserved rest and relaxation.

  Lost in the depths of the forest and left to their own devices, these unfortunate wretches gradually return to their natural state. Far from school, they forget language and express themselves instead in rumbles and grunts of rage.

  By observing them, we can get a basic idea of what humans were like at the dawn of our era: small starving bands in a permanent state of war, without faith, law, or toothbrushes, wandering the forest in search of fresh meat and blood.

  This observation isn’t of great interest because humanity has hardly evolved since the Iron Age.

  Imagine the excitement of these wild children when they find the dying Yark on a path.

  The snot oozing from their noses betrays their joy. This colossus will make a succulent treat! And w
hat a windfall to satisfy their thirst for cruelty! Because the little beasts are well acquainted with the Yark’s weakness. They know that their wickedness will keep the Monster from defending himself, much less from gobbling them up. The Yark denies their presence. The smell of these brats makes him nauseous. But, stunned by his fall, he’s too weak to escape.

  Like a thunderclap, the horde of children falls upon him. There are more than a hundred of them to bite, wrench, strangle, cling to his fangs, and yank on his wings, trying to tear them off. The Yark roars in pain.

  “My time has come,” he thinks, with a wave of sorrow and a hint of relief.

  And so the huge hairy Monster stretches out on the ground to let them eat him raw. Certainly, he could shorten his ordeal by decapitating his diminutive adversaries with a snap of his jaws. Their venomous flesh would kill him on the spot! But the tender-hearted Monster pities his assailants. Would they be so nasty if they hadn’t been abandoned? Would they be so cruel if they had ever truly been loved? And then, the Yark thinks of all the children he’s eaten. And as if to gain some smidgen of forgiveness, he finds it hardly unjust to be eaten in his turn.

  But the wild children don’t mean to finish off their prisoner right away. Even though they’re famished—for weeks they’ve subsisted on spider droppings—their thirst for cruelty is more intense than their hunger.

  The Yark is tied upside down to a tree trunk and the little beasts dance around their prisoner with bloodcurdling cries.

  A little redheaded boy, as skinny as a nail, approaches the Monster. He yanks a few hairs from his own head and stuffs them into the Yark’s mouth. The colossus utters a hideous cry. This wisp from a naughty child burns like a white-hot needle. Amused by the spectacle, the children burst out laughing.

  Then, taking turns in front of the Monster, they thrust down his throat small portions of their bodies: knee scabs, torn-off toenails, nose boogers, and things like that…