The Mysterious Force

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  “There’s no doubt about it. Notice that there are variations in color, surely produced by the various movements of our group.”

  “And which are probably the result of variations in diameter!”

  He fell silent, overwhelmed by a flood of suggestions and images. Although the presence of these “filaments” was no more extraordinary than communication at a distance would have been, they painted a clearer picture of the imperious energy that connected individuals. Countless dreams made their heads spin.

  “These links are obviously very elastic,” murmured Meyral. “And that’s what explains the relative freedom of our movements.”

  “Just as the limit of their elasticity explains the area of circulation!” said Langre. “But why does anyone who goes out of the area die?”

  “Would he die if he drew away very slowly?”

  “It seems so, since there has been no report to that effect. The deaths are more or less instantaneous, that’s all.”

  After a further pause, Langre muttered: “Why is the revelatory effect produced by the red rays? Is it certain that it can’t be produced by others?”

  “Let’s try.”

  In succession, they produced intense beams of violet, blue, green, yellow and orange light. Until the yellow, nothing was revealed. The yellow occasioned the rhythmic movements, but did not display any filaments. Only orange had the same effect as red, but less powerfully—the aerial filaments were scarcely visible.

  “Evidently, the effect of the red rays extends—considerably—even to the orange,” Meyral concluded. “That’s doubtless connected to what we observed during the catastrophe: as the superior rays were extinguished, the red became more intense.”

  “A further demonstration that the patches are similar in nature to the energy that ravaged the Earth. I’m sure now that it was an energetic flux.”

  “You don’t think that the entire flux was alive?”

  “No.”

  “But you think the patches are?”

  “I’m sure of it. The phenomenon to which we are victims is organic in kind. Each group, in my opinion, is annexed within a single being.”

  “With the result that terrestrial life is presently a double life.”

  “A double life, yes. That’s the right expression—for the phenomenon isn’t purely parasitic; it has increased our power of extension.”

  “How exciting that would be, if the future weren’t uncertain!”

  “It’s worse than uncertain. Frightful perils are threatening us.”

  After another pause, Meyral remarked: “I think the visibility of the filaments signifies that they’re enveloped by a luminous sheath, for they’re evidently invisible in themselves.”

  V. The Paroxysm

  Communications were becoming increasingly slow and difficult. Trains were only running on the major lines, and scarcely served any other purpose than transporting food, merchandise, letters and printed matter. The postal service functioned erratically; correspondence and newspapers were subject to considerable delays, or went astray. The era of sensuality was over. After an indifferent period, people began to feel a lassitude that rendered them almost incapable of work and prolonged the time they spent sleeping.

  This torpor only let up in districts where carnivorism developed. There, a fever reigned: a murderous excitement; a demented intoxication that increased to the point of paroxysm.

  Carnivorism began with a period of exhaustion. The affected person or animal shivered, remained lying down, in the position of those afflicted by meningitis, and uttered moans that it was impossible for them to suppress. Their temperature fell to 36 degrees, sometimes 35.5. It rose again abruptly to reach 38 degrees, often 38.5. That was a period of excitement and delirium. In animals, it was characterized by frenetic movements; in humans, it gave rise primarily to manias, phobias, delusions of grandeur and delusions of persecution. Soon, the “specific hunger” manifest since the outset of the crisis, became intolerable.

  In the regions where there were reserves of meat, carnivorism scarcely existed; a copious meal cut the crisis short. Unfortunately, if vegetable provisions were superabundant, others were run down. There were no more conserves; game became almost impossible to find, either because it was annihilated or because it took refuge in places inaccessible to groups—for individual hunting had become impossible. As for domestic animals, apart from herds sacrificed long before, they all belonged to one group or another; their death caused frightful suffering. In any case, no one would touch an animal of his community; the carnivorous crises, far from destroying the links of solidarity, seemed to render them more invincible. Only the flesh of other groups was coveted.

  One Thursday, the inhabitants of the Villa des Asphodèles were waiting impatiently for the newspaper. They had finished their frugal breakfast of peas, fried potato chips, grapes and pears; the chambermaid had begun to serve the coffee.

  “Hasn’t the paper arrived yet?” Langre asked.

  “Monsieur knows that it hasn’t!” the domestic replied. “The postman’s group makes enough noise!”

  That was true; the postman circulated in a numerous company. His retinue, which included numerous young boys and dogs, advertised itself with shouting, laughter and barking. For a fortnight, he had only brought bad news. The Westphalian sickness had spread throughout Prussia, Hungary, Poland and south-western Russia; it had spread to the United States, along the Pacific shore, and the advance symptoms were manifest all over the planet. In Paris, the infection of Montmartre, Belleville and Ternes had been observed; several villages in the Lyonnais region seemed to be afflicted. The Mediterranean coast gave considerable cause for concern.

  In Westphalia, carnivorous warfare had decimated the population. In Prussia, the conflict was getting worse by the hour. It had begun in Russia, Poland and Hungary. It was raging in Chicago. Thus far, no “carnivorous homicide” had occurred in France.

  The villa’s inhabitants remained unaffected. If they aspired to a meal of meat, it did not seem to be in an unusual manner; they merely suffered, slightly, in the manner of people constrained to renounce an old habit. Outside of the sensations of solidarity, which were mostly pleasant, they enjoyed normal physical and mental health—but they feared that terrible events might be imminent.

  When Sabine had poured the coffee, Langre and Meyral drank it in silence, slightly feverishly. Suddenly, a rumor became audible in the direction of the village.

  “The postman!”

  The rumor drew closer; they could make out children’s cries, dogs barking, and sometimes the bleating of a goat and the cawing of crows—the postman’s house had a derelict tower in which those black beasts had taken up residence.

  Five minutes later, Catherine brought in Le Radiographe and Le Journal. The former only had two pages, the latter four. Langre unfolded the latter feverishly. The news was bad. Carnivorism continued to spread; riots and homicides were multiplying. In some areas, groups were forming alliances against other groups, which gave massacres the semblance of battles.

  “Listen to this!” said Langre, abruptly. He read aloud: “Crises of carnivorism have been reported in several garrisons in Russian Poland and Latvia. This is the first time that the disease has run rife among European troops; the reason for that immunity is that soldiers—whose numbers have been considerably reduced by the planetary catastrophe, have stores of meat at their disposal almost everywhere. In Germany, France, England and the other countries of Central and Western Europe, these stockpiles are so large in quantity that governments might be able to surrender a part to the public. It is true that the military personnel are strongly opposed to this, and that the senior and junior officers have sided with the men.” He stopped reading. “It’s fortunate that these supplies are in the possession of the army,” he remarked. “Distributed to the pubic, they would scarcely delay the crises, whereas, if the soldiers did not have them, the carnivorous war would become much more terrible.”

  Meyral, who was h
olding Le Radiographe, released an exclamation. “Carnivorism is getting worse in Paris and the Lyon region!” He handed the paper to Langre.

  The latter read, from the Stop Press: “Murders due to carnivorism have been reported in the Butte aux Cailles and the Boulevard Rochechouart. More than 100 people might have died; details are lacking. Circulation is difficult and the reportage groups are not sure. On the other hand, several villages in the vicinity of Roanne are in bloody chaos. The Council of Ministers is in permanent session, but the presence of groups associated with each member of the Cabinet is confusing the deliberations. The Prefecture of Police is almost powerless, for analogous reasons; the Paris garrison is refusing to march against ‘the sick’.”

  “Why is the garrison refusing to march?” asked Sabine.

  “It doesn’t say,” Gérard replied, “but I have a suspicion—the soldiers are in a privileged position; they’re afraid it might be compromised.”

  “What about the officers?”

  “You know full well that the officers are in accord with their men, when anyone suggests touching the reserves. It’s only to be expected that the officers have become attached to groups of soldiers. The army probably fears that, if it intervenes in the disorder—which will increase from one day to the next—it won’t be ready to defend itself when the carnivorous war reaches its climax. You can be sure that the officers know that even better than the men.”

  Sabine looked at the children fearfully. “What will become of us?” she sighed.

  “It’s time to think about our own defense!” Langre growled, nervously. He had been thinking about it since the advent of carnivorism; Meyral had given it as much thought as him.

  “We’re caught between two fires,” the old man continued. “If the disease spreads through Paris, the city will precipitate itself upon the countryside; we must expect to see carnivorous hordes arriving. The Lyonnais are no less of a threat. Anyway, who can guarantee that the peril won’t arise from the region itself!”

  “At any rate,” Georges interjected, “our zone is strangely peaceful. Although its provisions of meat are exhausted, there’s no evidence that anyone has yet sustained any harm from a vegetable diet.”

  “I’m suffering from it!” Langre declared.

  “Not in terms of your health, or your humor.”

  “I agree. Thus far, it hasn’t exceeded the annoyance that the deprivation of a habit causes. Nevertheless, far from attenuating, that annoyance seems to be intensifying. Sooner or later, we’ll contract the disease—and we need to be able to defend ourselves against that, too.”

  “How?” demanded Sabine, feverishly, having drawn her children closer to her. “Given that there’s no more meat!”

  “Perhaps meat isn’t indispensable!” Meyral murmured.

  Everyone turned astonished faces toward him.

  “I have an idea!” he said. “Permit me to keep it secret for a few days.”

  VI. In the Forest

  Two days later, Gérard felt exhausted. He had spent a night replete with hectic dreams and feverish awakenings. In the morning, he complained of an intense cold; he was shivering. At the same time, he was tormented by a fervent desire to eat meat. As the hours went by, that desire became unbearable.

  “This is it!” he declared, with revulsion. “I’ve been infected with carnivorism.”

  At noon, Césarine was gripped by weakness and shivering in her turn. After lunch, it was the turn of little Marthe; she was shivering, and clung to Sabine or Meyral. Her illness got worse more rapidly than that of the two adults. Her eyes turned back, and she was subject to sudden fits of terror; her shivering was exaggerated into convulsions.

  At 2:30 p.m., Meyral instructed the gardener to hitch up the donkey.

  “Why?” asked Langre.

  “We’re going into the forest,” the young man replied.

  “You must have an idea!” the old man persisted.

  “I don’t know…I’m not sure. We’ll see, out there.” His features expressed uncertainty and a sort of apprehension.

  Langre shrugged his shoulders, and resigned himself to await developments.

  Georges was giving instructions to Catherine when the gardener came to announce that the rig was ready. The rig consisted of the donkey and a cart that was light, but fairly spacious; it served various purposes, especially transporting provisions. Seats had been installed therein for Langre, Césarine and little Marthe.

  At any other time, the caravan would have seemed strange, and in some ways absurd. In addition to the family, the servants, the gardener and his grandson, the cart was accompanied by the hens and the cockerel, the guard-dog, three cats, rabbits, a sow and six piglets, a flock of pigeons, sparrows, bullfinches, starlings, titmice, warblers, two magpies, a fat toad, a dozen frogs, two dormice, a hedgehog and a few field-mice—but no insects or crustaceans, invertebrate animals having escaped the mysterious empery, or being submissive to it in a different manner.

  The journey through La Roche-sur-Yonne did not excite any curiosity. Such incongruous groups were seen every day, and it was not the first time the residents of the villa had gone out.

  The horde—for it was definitely a horde—went through the deserted fields and reached the edge of the forest. The forest was also abandoned. Its rare human inhabitants—those who were permanently resident there—had either fled during the planetary catastrophe or died. The immense wealth “liberated” by the disaster had then retained the fugitives in towns or villages; the forest only offered its eternal fortune—the fortune of primitive times, which humans did not hesitate to abandon for social benefits. Even animals were rare; they had been ruthlessly hunted down to replace the livestock annexed by the groups; in the universal relaxation, no authority had intervened. Furthermore, all the gamekeepers having emigrated, there would have been no one to provide the law with definite sanctions.

  “It’s virgin forest!” said Sabine, dreamily.

  “Without guests!” growled Langre.

  Here and there, however, flocks of wild birds escaped into the branches. They were usually disparate mixtures of starlings, robins, greenfinches, wood-pigeons, jays, magpies, blackbirds, pheasants and bullfinches. They were only glimpsed from afar; their various vigilant capacities had been combined. Only crows and starlings appeared in homogenous flocks; even they were more often accompanied by birds of other species. It seemed that these coalitions had given the birds new abilities; their flight from the human beast had a more concerted and sagacious—one might almost say intelligent—appearance.

  “They’re not easy to reach!” Meyral remarked.

  “Inasmuch as we can’t track them without immediately revealing our presence—there are too many of us!”

  The rolling of the cart was muffled on a roadway invaded by wild grass. The vegetation was prodigious. No one had seen anything comparable to that immense profusion of foliage, those seemingly arborescent ferns, those dark thickets, those millions of plants which, having strewn their seeds, started flowering again.

  In spite of the anguish of the occasion, Sabine and Georges were subject to the magic of the spectacle.

  “It’s the magnificent vitality of primitive times!” whispered the young man.

  The sow and the dog often disappeared into a thicket for several minutes; Meyral watched them carefully.

  A clearing appeared, where the grasses were engaged in a fierce battle. It widened out; they saw a house appear, invaded by wild plants, with strange outbuildings and covered areas behind it, some of them veritable caverns.

  “Where are we?” Langre asked. He was shivering more forcefully and his face was livid.

  “In Vernouze’s mushroom-farm,” Georges replied.

  They were all familiar with it. It had been created five years before by Mathieu Vernouze and his two sons, who had planned a large-scale and original cultivation of mushrooms. It had swallowed up the greater part of their fortune, but its success had begun to pay them back when the planetary ca
tastrophe had burst forth. All three had perished, along with most of their assistants. Since then, the immense mushroom-farm had led its own life in the deserted forest. After the cataclysm, it had not tempted anyone; it belonged to distant heirs who had not hesitated to put it up for sale. Throughout the Period of Exaltation, it had not attracted any interest; people were preoccupied with more comfortable properties. When groupism had modified existence and social relationships, it seemed more negligible than ever; it had shared the fate of many other lands abandoned by anxious humankind, diminished and eroded by degrees. Finally, now that a new cataclysm threatened the nations, it was incapable of attracting any interest at all.

  “Why have you brought us here?” asked Langre, in a weary voice, adding, in a whisper: “If I could only eat a cutlet, it seems to me that I might be saved…”

  The little girl was also experiencing a paroxysm; she was shivering in every limb.

  “We’re stopping here!” said Meyral. Then, addressing himself to Gérard, he said: “Excuse me, old friend. I have to leave you for a few minutes.”

  He armed himself with a basket and set off into the labyrinthine mushroom-farm. Like the entire forest, it exhibited an excessive fecundity. In the cavernous or arborescent shade, the mushroom population was growing mightily. Monstrous caps were visible everywhere, fairy rings of pink, scarlet, coppery, russet, bluish and silver flesh. Equivocal, like viscous beasts or bloody lumps of meat, or bursting forth like flower-heads or seashells, the mushrooms seemed endowed with an inexhaustible life. There were 100 species; the spring varieties had grown for a second time in that astonishing early autumn; others had made an early appearance. Georges, who knew them, made out orange agarics, porcinis, white and black morels, milk-whites, red, spotted and hairy agarics, chanterelles, button mushrooms, red amanitas, columellas, field mushrooms and fallow-ground mushrooms—enough to feed a little town for several months.18