The Mysterious Force

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  The young man selected morels, porcinis and domestic mushrooms, which he piled into the basket methodically. When the harvest was complete, he became thoughtful. Primitive sensations, strangely seductive, filled his thoughts. He thought about the many forests, plains and hills, throughout the planet, that had been liberated, and the many others that would be, in their turn…

  “If we survive,” he murmured, “we’ll see the world of our ancestors again!”

  The links that attached him to his group became imperious; he made his way back. The condition of Langre, Césarine and the little girl had worsened; they had plunged into a sort of tremulous torpor. In addition, the gardener had begun to shiver and Sabine was pale.

  At a signal from Georges, the gloomy maidservant had taken a small oil-stove from the cart, along with a saucepan and a packet containing butter, salt and pepper.

  Ten minutes later, the butter was sizzling in the pan.

  “What’s cooking?” Langre asked, in a dull voice.

  “Porcinis!” Catherine replied.

  He shrugged his trembling shoulders and fell back into his torpor. Time passed; the cook supervised the preparation of the dish. Sabina and Meyral maintained a pensive silence. The little girl whimpered occasionally, and the forest rustled like an immense dress.

  “It’s ready!” said the maidservant, finally.

  The porcinis gave off an appetizing odor. Georges placed his hand gently on his former master’s shoulder. “Would you care for some porcinis?” he said.

  “Why?” the other retorted, looking at the young man in surprise.

  “I hope that they’ll give you some relief.”

  Langre shook his head bitterly. “All right!” he growled. “It might as well be porcinis as anything else!”

  Except in the periods of coma, carnivorism stimulated the digestive system.

  Langre was given a large plateful of porcinis, which he ate with a hearty appetite; the little girl and Césarine ate some too. All three of them chewed and swallowed the nourishment without emerging from their dazed state. When their plates were empty, it seemed at first that the torpor increased. The child, especially, seemed ready to sink into a coma, and Meyral, gripped by anxiety, dared not look at Sabine.

  Suddenly, Langre murmured: “I’d like some more.”

  Immediately, Catherine filled his plate.

  This time he ate almost greedily, sitting up, with his eyes wide open. “That definitely seems to be doing me good!” he muttered.

  At the same moment, the little girl, raising her head, said: “I’m hungry! Porcinis!”

  “I’m hungry too!” murmured Césarine.

  Sabine hastened to defer to their desire.

  “That’s odd,” said the old man. “At first, I didn’t like the porcinis…I would have preferred bread or eggs—but now it’s almost as if I were eating meat.” He finished his second portion with an avid and astonished expression. “If I’m not mistaken,” he declared, “I could eat more.”

  “Perhaps it’s better to wait,” Sabine put in.

  “I think,” said Georges, “that we might risk another half-portion.”

  “That’s delicious!” Gérard declared, this time. His shivering was becoming imperceptible; a slow feeling of well-being seeped into his heart and brain. His eyes, formerly dull, resumed their aggressive vivacity. Césarine and Marthe also revived, even more rapidly than Langre. Joy returned to the little body full of creative force; Marthe laughed at the branches, the flowers and the profound woods.

  “It’s paradoxical that mushrooms should have that virtue!” Langre remarked. “How can they replace meat, when milk, cheese and eggs can’t? A mushroom, after all, is merely a sponge full of water, with so little nourishing substance! It’s almost equivalent to a turnip or a beet!”

  “Do you think,” Georges asked, “that carnivorism is provoked by insufficient nutrition, in the banal sense? Isn’t it rather the lack of some substance characteristic of flesh, which is found there in minute quantities—perhaps even the lack of a certain form of energy that the others are extracting from our organism? If that substance or energy exists in mushrooms in appreciable quantities, what does it matter that they’re sponges?”

  “Why should it exist in mushrooms?”

  “A mystery, alas—like everything that has enveloped us since the origin of the catastrophe. Note, however, that a mushroom is a plant parasite. It lives in a manner similar to that of animals, not at the expense of the mineral but at the expense of life. Given that, one sees more than one analogy between the flesh of mushrooms and that of animals. A similar substance or a similar form of energy might be common to both!”

  “All right!” said Langre, who was still too tired to pursue the discussion ardently. “I’m also wondering why you thought of mushrooms.”

  “I didn’t think of them spontaneously. It was the recent avidity of the dog for the rare mushrooms in our gardens that first attracted my attention. I then observed the same avidity among the chickens, the pigeons and, of course, the sow. That gave me pause for reflection.”

  “I understand!” Langre replied. “I even understand why you hesitated to make us party to your hopes…” He turned his agile gaze in every direction. When he saw little Marthe smiling at him, he had a fit of tenderness, and planted a large kiss on her silvery cheek. Then, observing that the gardener was shivering, he muttered: “There’s an opportunity to confirm the experiment—are there any more porcinis?”

  Catherine plunged a large ladle into the saucepan and replied: “There are still three or four platefuls.”

  “In that case, give some to Guillaume.”

  Guillaume wanted nothing more—not because he particularly appreciated mushrooms, but because what he had just seen had made him want to eat some. He swallowed the portion without enthusiasm, but, like Langre and the little girl, felt no effect at first. After a few minutes, however, he asked for more porcinis, and this time devoured them. His shivering, less intense than the old man’s had been, had already disappeared. “That does you good when it hits the spot!” he said, laughing loudly and naively.

  “It’s evidently a specific remedy for carnivorism!” said Langre. “What surprises me is that no one else has discovered it.”

  “Is it really the case that no one else has discovered it?” asked Sabine, thoughtfully. “The observation must surely have been made on occasion, but those who have made it didn’t think it appropriate to spread it around! They preferred to hoard stocks of mushrooms.”

  “One can’t blame then,” said Meyral. “It wouldn’t be in the general interest to divide up the cryptogams; everyone would have too small a share. Moreover, as we know very well, the solidarity of groups invariably outweighs general solidarity!”

  “But what are we going to do?” Sabine asked.

  “That’s another matter. This mushroom-farm, I think, can’t compare with any natural or artificial reserve—it’s sufficient for the needs of a sizable town. Chance permits us to be altruistic, and our interests command us to be, in this respect. Thanks to this mine, we can form a coalition with the inhabitants of La Roche-sur-Yonne, and organize ourselves for the carnivorous war.”

  “Be careful!” cried Langre. “We’ll need to employ cunning and prudence. Human covetousness is full of traps and immeasurable stupidity!”

  “We’ll operate stealthily,” Meyral agreed.

  There was no need to demand secrecy from the gardener, the servants or even the little boy; their sentiments reflected those of the group They agreed to load up the cart with a large cargo of cryptogams, which would be converted into conserves in order to guard against the unexpected, for throughout the autumn—which is, strictly speaking, the mushroom season—they would grow abundantly.

  “Superabundantly!” said Langre. “That’s not what worries me. It’s just that, in La Roche-sur-Yonne, we’re too far away from the mushroom-farm—and besides, mushrooms need to be eaten fresh. It isn’t practicable—in fact, it’s al
most impossible—for us to make the journey continually. People would notice eventually.”

  “We can do something quite simple,” the gardener put in.

  “What’s that? Take up residence here?”

  “There’s no lack of buildings!” the other retorted, with a snigger. “But that wouldn’t be very clever.” The gardener had a bovine face and sleepy eyes, but his thin-lipped mouth was indicative of a certain guile. “There’s the hunting-lodge,” he continued. “Monsieur knows that it’s well-built, in a clearing, with a big garden around it. It has seven rooms, plus a thatched cottage and a stable, all with cellars attached. It can certainly lodge us all, and a few more besides.”

  “But it’s not ours, Père Castelin!”

  A sly smile, sardonic and knowing, creased the man’s right cheek. “True! But no one’s living in it. The owner’s gone to the devil, with the group he belongs to, you can be sure! Although, if you have scruples, there’s a middle way. It’s for rent. That idiot of a steward will give us permission to spend a few months there, for a small fee. Come on—I can arrange it, I tell you!”

  “Where is the steward?”

  “Over in Maufre, with his group. They don’t go anywhere any more!”

  “Won’t he suspect something?”

  “Well, Monsieur, you know how it is. I’ll explain that it’s one of your scientist’s whims. Perhaps Monsieur doesn’t know…”

  “That these people take me for a crackpot?”

  “Exactly!” replied the gardener, jovially—for, although he could not read his master’s thoughts, he participated, like all the other members of the group, in his sensations, and he perceived that Gérard was amused. “Good, for the time being, that’s okay. I’ll tell him that Monsieur wants to do experiments. I’ll wager that neither he nor anyone else will have any suspicion.”

  “That’s what comes of having a good reputation!” said Langre, laughing.

  Catherine prepared another dish; this time, she cooked the morels.

  VII. The Attack of the Carnivores

  Père Castelin had not exaggerated. He rented the hunting-lodge for a minimal price, and the Langre-Meyral group installed itself therein diligently. In addition to furniture, they transported all the laboratory instruments and products.

  This installation in the forest was doubly advantageous. It put the group within range of the mushroom-farm, and assured them of a partial security against the invasions of carnivores. It was scarcely probable that such groups would waste their time searching the sylvan wilderness; their prey was to be found in the villages.

  For a few days, the servants, Sabine and even the men manufactured mushroom conserves feverishly. Those that were destined for the family were prepared straightforwardly, but Langre, mistrustfully, had vegetables added to those that were to serve the needs of the villagers.

  “They have to believe there’s a recipe,” he claimed. “If not, they’ll come to pillage our stores—and I’m also fearful of indiscretions that would expose us to other dangers.”

  “I don’t think there’s much danger of indiscretions,” Sabine replied. “The solidarity of groups is too strong.”

  “And each group contains naturally-discreet individuals, who dominate the others,” Meyral added.

  In the village, carnivorism manifested its symptoms everywhere. After accumulating provisions at the villa, Langre and Meyral resolved to help the sick. They presented themselves at the postman’s house first, where the disease was becoming perilous. After a period of coma, the postman was exhibiting an ominous excitement. He received his visitors with a sly air, and it required Sabine’s intervention to persuade him to take the “medicine.” The effects were both more rapid and slower than in the forest—more rapid because, after the first mouthfuls, the postman felt a sort of intoxication and developed a passionate fondness for mushrooms; and slower because it required considerable doses to make the irritation disappear. After he had devoured several jars of conserves, the man was seized by an enthusiasm that expressed itself in joyous whoops. Applied to the other members of the group, the remedy revealed itself to be infallible.

  All the inhabitants of the village were treated, in succession, without a single failure. Then confidence overflowed; the “sorcerers”—as Langre and Meyral were familiarly termed—acquired an influence that, in the formidable mystery of the moment, took on a religious aspect. That influence extended to the hamlets of Vanesse, Collimarre and Rougues, which were like the village’s advance forts. It spread no further; as Sabine had foreseen, the groups kept the secret.

  In any case, communications were increasingly rare and difficult. The mail, the telegraph and the telephone were no longer functioning at all. Sinister rumors spread obscurely from one parish to the next. There was talk of grim invasions; formidable events were anticipated.

  Heedful of the advice of Langre and Meyral, the village was fortified; ditches were dug, makeshift barricades erected. Rifles were polished, along with pitchforks, axes and knives. In the forest, the gardener, aided by a group from La Roche-sur-Yonne, had blocked the exits and made a careful study of the mushroom-farm and its caves. Langre and Meyral manufactured explosives and, having dug holes, set up mysterious traps.

  A month went by; their fears eased; people enjoyed a health more stable than usual.

  One night, Sabine, Langre and Meyral were snatched from their sleep by gunfire, which the directions of the wind rendered more persistent.

  “One would think,” said Meyral, leaning out of a window, “that it was coming from Rougues.” Rougues was the hamlet most distant from the village, adjacent to the forest three kilometers from the hunting-lodge.

  The night was stormy. Immense clouds were racing over the treetops; a wan Moon shone amid the chaos; the shadows, sometimes ashen and sometimes silvery, made the woodland palpitate strangely, their moving soul seemingly fleeing through the sky.

  The watchers’ anxiety was growing by the minute; it was communicated to the group; the gardener went out on to the granite step; the dog was barking frantically; the goat was bleating and the donkey’s hoarse braying was audible, while the birds fluttered around in the darkness.

  “The horror’s approaching!” whispered Sabine.

  “What shall we do?” asked Meyral.

  There was no possible doubt: the hamlet of Rougues had been attacked by the carnivores. The intensity of the fusillade testified to the large number of the assailants.

  “We can’t let them be massacred like this!” the young man continued. “We must try to do something.”

  Langre looked at Sabine. “Yes, we must!” she said.

  The whole house was awake, even the children.

  “It would be futile,” said Gérard. “It’s certainly too late.”

  As if to confirm these words, the fusillade, after a few fits and starts, died away. The forest fell back into its dream.

  “The drama’s ended!” murmured Langre.

  “But how?”

  “In the defeat of the hamlet.”

  “Is that certain?” Meyral demanded. “Even if it is, should we remain inactive? Our own safety requires a reconnaissance.”

  “I don’t have any complaint about that,” Gérard said, “except that a reconnaissance would require the complete abandonment of the lodge. None of us can cover three kilometers alone—nor even two of us.”

  “Let’s try. I’ll be the scout. The gardener and his dog can form a relay to facilitate my movements. I certainly won’t be able to reach Rougues, and I won’t attempt it—that would be putting the whole group at risk—but I imagine that some of the unfortunates will have been able to run away, and their first impulse must have been to come to us.”

  Two minutes later, Meyral was heading towards the hamlet, with the gardener and his mastiff. Their progress was relatively easy at first; it became difficult 500 meters from the lodge, and then painful. The gardener stopped a kilometer away, bathed with sweat. Meyral continued on his way with palpitations
and choking sensations; a thousand attachments held him back, with so much force that he could barely travel two meters a minute. At 500 meters, he stopped, exhausted. His head was buzzing, rent by a migraine; he felt stabbing pains all over his body.

  At least I’ll have done my duty!

  In spite of the forces pushing him back toward the house, he waited for ten minutes, his ears pricked. Finally, he heard footsteps. Soon, he was sure of it. Two men and a woman were running through the ashy glimmer.

  They’re running! How can they be running? Georges asked himself, bewildered—for he imagined that they were linked to a group.

  Soon they were nearby. In the moonlight, which streamed through a gap in the clouds, Meyral made out two middle-aged individuals with bristly hair, one of whom was vaguely reminiscent of King Louis XI. The woman, who was younger, had a crazed and funereal face.

  They recognized Meyral and began to utter hoarse laments.

  “They’ve all been killed…all killed!” the woman cried. “And we’re going to die!”

  The men, in their turn, shouted even louder; their pupils were dilated like a cat’s; their lips were drawn out in a mad rictus; it was evident that their physiology had been disrupted by the fracture of the group.

  “Try to follow me!” he said.

  All four of them started running toward the lodge. The run seemed to have a calming effect on the fugitives from Rougues; it was a delight for Meyral. They found the gardener, who—without asking any unnecessary questions—joined the party.

  The lodge appeared; Meyral had got back to it in a quarter of an hour, and would have taken even less time without his companions.

  The fugitives were taken into the room that served as a drawing-room. Their faces seemed more haggard, their rictus smiles were accentuated. It was impossible for them to stand still; one of the men paced up and down near the wall; the other marched around a table; the woman stamped her feet with sudden jumps, and their eyes revealed an intolerable terror.