The Mysterious Force

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  “No, I believe in effort; it’s commanded of us…nevertheless, we’re in the care of the Almighty.” In a marvelously touching voice, she sang: “For thou has always been my rock, a fortress and defense to me!”39

  His soul saturated by love, he forgot the obscure menaces and drank his fill of the sweetness of a magical moment.

  II. Water the Creator

  “The animals are thirsty!” said Guthrie. “And I’m as thirsty as they are.”

  There was no more water. The travelers had divided up the dregs of the waterskins. Now, in the limitless plain, they were advancing through the violet grains, the blue trees and the scarlet patches of ground. The desert gripped them like a prey, and the Sun, having vanquished the clouds, was darting forth a ferocious light that dried up the blood of humans. They had to keep going, though. The buzzing of the colossal flies accompanied the music of the grass, which was becoming sinister. It seemed more and more like the vibration of distant bells. When the breeze blew, they heard the peals of the tocsin.

  “I think we’re getting near to the river,” Hareton affirmed.

  “So you believe that there really is a river?” Sir George queried.

  “I believe so, yes. It has been described to me.”

  Sir George scanned the horizon with the aid of his binoculars. “Nothing!” he said.

  There were no more trees to be seen. The grasses grew thick and strong.

  “There’s water under the ground—and perhaps it’s there that we’ll need to look for it,” Philippe remarked.

  “We’ve lost a lot of time,” Ironcastle replied. “I ask for a few hours more.”

  “So be it, Uncle Hareton,” said Guthrie. “But how many days can one resist thirst?”

  “That’s very variable. Camels can go for three, four or five days…some say more. Men…two or three days, depending on their constitution and the state of the atmosphere.”

  “The atmosphere is frightfully dry!” Guthrie moaned. “My skin’s beginning to harden. I fear that I might be the man who resists for the shortest time…”

  A bleak horror enveloped the caravan. The Sun, as it sank, took on the color of virgin gold, and then swelled up and became orange. The day’s end was near.

  The animals advanced painfully, the donkeys and goats giving signs of distress. Dread and suspicion had overwhelmed the men, preliminaries of a rebellion that was still muted. The great faith that the westerners’ victories had established within them was crumbling away in this strange world. The lack of water made them particularly anxious, not only because it was a redoubtable threat, but because they perceived the impotence of the masters in that respect.

  Hareton saw Kouram coming toward him. “What are the men saying?” he asked.

  “They’re afraid, Master. This is the land of death—the grass here is the animals’ enemy.”

  “Tell them not to be afraid, Kouram! We know where we’re going.”

  Kouram’s eyes, which bore a slight resemblance to those of a buffalo, were lowered toward the ground. “Is there far to go?” he asked, with a tremor.

  “Everything will change when we reach the river.”

  Kouram’s fatalistic soul accepted the Master’s word, and he went to talk to the men.

  The Sun was about to disappear when the caravan reached an islet of red soil. Several times, while they were preparing to make camp, they saw giant batrachians emerge from a fissure in the ground, which did not linger long before disappearing therein.

  “Those animals need water!” Muriel remarked.

  “Thus, there must be a subterranean pool of water,” Sir George concluded.

  “Let’s find out,” said Guthrie. “My thirst is becoming intolerable.”

  The goats were bleating plaintively, the donkeys sniffing the ground impatiently.

  Philippe, Sir George and Sydney examined the fissures. They were narrow, and gave no evidence of any trace of moisture.

  “We have to dig,” said Philippe.

  “That’s what we shall do,” declared Guthrie. “Let’s find some movable ground.”

  Eventually, they found a place where the soil could be worked. Guthrie went to fetch the excavator. After an hour, they had dug a deep hole. The earth soon became moist, but that moistness did not increase and then began to diminish.

  “That’s strange!” exclaimed Philippe. “The dampness is obviously due to infiltration. There’s probably a body of water in the vicinity.”

  “In the vicinity!” muttered Hareton. “Even if it’s only 100 meters away, it’s inaccessible to our feeble forces.”

  They attempted a few horizontal forays, which yielded no result.

  “It will be a miserable night,” Sydney concluded. “We’ve only succeeded in increasing our thirst.”

  The travelers slept badly and got up before dawn. They felt one of those threats that no valor can overcome; the peril was in their own arteries. The atmosphere, like an immeasurable leech, was drinking them drop by drop. Water, the mother of life, was abandoning their blood and vanishing into space.

  “Let’s not waste any time,” said Guthrie. “We’ll make progress more easily by night and in the morning.”

  “It would be a good idea for two of us to scout ahead,” Sir George suggested.

  “I thought of that,” Hareton agreed.

  “Sir George and me!” Guthrie exclaimed.

  “Sir George and Philippe would be better,” said Hareton.

  “Why?”

  “Because of their weight,” said Hareton, with a pale smile. “The caravan can spare two camels for the expedition, but they’re weak.”

  “All right,” said Guthrie, churlishly.

  They divided the loads of two camels selected by Kouram between the other animals; they were the fastest of the group. “They’ll be good guides,” the man affirmed. “They’ll scent water a long way off.”

  Ten minutes later, the two men had left the caravan. The camels went at a good speed, as they had understood that they were being taken in search of water.

  The Moon turned orange as it descended into the west; it became enormous, but its light decreased, while that of the constellations became more vivid. A slight phosphorescence rose from the ground. The atmosphere was mild, and the vegetal carillon seemed to be announcing some mystical ceremony in the depths of the savannah.

  “It’s as if we were on another planet!” murmured Sir George. “Here, I no longer have the impression of our past—nor of our future.”

  “No,” Philippe replied, pensively. “We’re a long way from the Promised Land.”

  The Moon took on the color of virgin copper; there was an almost imperceptible twilight, and the fiery Sun rose over the plain. Avidly, the travelers explored the horizon. Nothing—nothing but the interminable ocean of blue, indigo and violet grasses!

  “Frightful!” Sir George said. “A vegetal tomb.”

  Thirst tortured the two men, augmenting as the Sun climbed higher in the sky. They followed a south-western heading scrupulously, as Hareton had recommended.

  They were two strangely dissimilar souls. Sir George was one of those Englishmen who can live alone, if necessary, with a dog, in a desert region. He had a latent imagination, which burst forth in an unexpected manner, while Philippe’s imagination always remained active.

  Thirst! It corroded the two men’s throats. Philippe, in a semi-vertigo, was subject to all sorts of fresh images: springs emerging from the ground with a lively murmur, alcarazas in the shadow of a patio, carafes of lemonade covered in condensation…

  Eventually, he began to murmur in a low voice: “Fountains, streams, rivers, lakes…”

  “Oh,” said Sir George, with a melancholy smile, “I’m thinking, most of all, of a nice public house!”

  The camels were beginning to show signs of distress.

  “As long as they keep going!” said Philippe.

  “They’ll keep going!” affirmed Sir George. “They know we’re looking for water. They underst
and that it would be dangerous to stop.”

  The Sun became ferocious; the colossal flies were buzzing around the two beasts and the two men frenziedly.

  “At least we can be glad that they aren’t attacking us!” Philippe remarked.

  “I suspect that we’re poisonous to them,” his companion suggested. “The camels too.”

  “Why are they keeping us company, then?”

  “They’re following their instincts.”

  Silence was restored—a silence that the carillon of the grass rendered fantastic. Nothing. Still the grasses, blues and violets, with the occasional feeble clump of trees.

  “What will become of them, back there?” Philippe murmured, thinking about Muriel in spite of his thirst.

  Sir George shook his head. He seemed impassive, but, as a man from a damp climate, he was suffering more than Philippe. “They’ll drink two or three goats, if they have to,” he finally replied, “or even a camel. A camel generally has a pocket of water—more than 20 gallons of blood!”

  The Englishman looked down covetously at his mount. “No, we can’t!” he sighed. “We have to wait for the water!”

  There was a long silence. Dry, hard and miserable ideas dragged themselves through the two men’s minds—and the Sun continued to drink them…

  Suddenly, one of the camels raised its head, and uttered a strange and ridiculous cry. Its companion rendered a long snort. They both accelerated their pace.

  “What’s the matter with them?” Philippe muttered.

  “I dare not hope what I think!” replied Sir George.

  The terrain became uneven; on a low hill they saw green grass and bushes. The two men gazed at them, dazzled; the ancient vegetal color delighted their hearts; it seemed that they were re-entering real life: the life their innumerable ancestors had led.

  Now the camels were galloping recklessly. They climbed the hill. A raucous cry—a loud cry of deliverance—sprang from Philippe’s breast. “Water! Water!”

  She was there: the sovereign mother; the mother of everything that lives; she was there, the water of Genesis, the water of origins.

  A river: it ran broad and slow, entirely enveloped by trees, reeds and grass; it spread an indomitable fecundity into the expanse.

  Vertigo had gripped the camels. They galloped like thoroughbred racing camels; in five minutes, they reached the edge of the river, and were already leaning forward to drink untiringly.

  The men leapt down on to the bank and, plunging their cups into the current, they slaked their homicidal thirst.

  “This is imprudent!” Sir George eventually remarked.

  “But delicious!” Philippe retorted.

  Sir George offered him a gray pill. “Against the microbes! Wow!”

  The Englishman stood up, alarmed, while his index finger pointed to a long islet 20 meters from the bank. An extraordinary animal had just emerged. It had the physical structure of the huge crocodiles of ancient Egypt—the vast elongated jaws, the monstrous teeth, the short legs and the muscular tail—but instead of scales, long hair grew all over its body and skull, and its eyes, shining like those of a panther, were not at all reminiscent of the vitreous eyes of reptiles.

  A third eye gleamed at the summit of the cranium.

  “What is that monster?” exclaimed Philippe. “Even in prehistoric times, no saurian resembled that…”

  “Nothing, at least, licenses the claim! But our knowledge is fragmentary.”

  The beast studied the camels and the men; instinctively, they reached for their rifles.

  A kind of barking caused them to turn round. Its head tilted back, a blue antelope was coming toward the river at top speed. The predator that was pursuing it—a lithe beast with beige fur dotted with small pink patches, was making bounds of 30 feet. It was as large as the great tigers of Manchuria.

  “It’s a leopard, though!” muttered Sir George.

  Distracted by the arrival of this formidable beast, they did not see the hairy crocodile plunge into the river.

  “Look out!” said Sir George.

  The antelope, and therefore the leopard, was running directly toward the promontory on which the two men were standing. They retreated toward the upstream section of the river. The swift animals had already reached the bank. The leopard hastened its course, and the antelope was on the point of hurling itself into the river when it stopped, terrified.

  At the tip of the promontory, the hairy crocodile had just surged forth, its yellow eyes fixed upon the fugitive animal. Paralyzed by terror, the latter turned its slender head toward the plain. In its obscure brain, the images were swarming: over there, the long grass, the sweetness of movement and life…here, eternal night…

  The leopard pounced. It knocked the antelope down with a thrust of its muscular paw.

  In spite of the peril, the two men experienced the savage curiosity that caused the Romans to flock to the circus.

  “Two magnificent brutes!” Sir George remarked, examining his carbine.

  The leopard, with one foot planted on its panting victim, looked at the reptile, which only hesitated momentarily. Opening its immense mouth, and rearing up on its short legs, it was ready to do battle. Its mass was three times as large as the leopard’s. Its three eyes were gleaming. The leopard uttered a deep cry, which resembled a roar. It advanced at an angle, seeking to surprise its adversary by leaping on to its back, but the latter had none of the stiffness of its scaly ancestors. It turned round, and charged. The enormous feline rolled on the ground. Two heavy feet maintained it there. Too short, they impeded the action of the long mouth.

  Then, flattening itself out and squirming through the grass, the leopard succeeded in getting away. Frightened by the superiority of its adversary, however, it fled. The other disdainfully set about devouring the antelope alive, and its victim’s cries of agony mingled with the hoarse grunts of the victor.

  While it was beating a retreat, the leopard perceived Philippe and Sir George. Its amber eyes fixed themselves avidly upon the two men.

  “I’ll aim at the head,” said the Englishman, coolly.

  “That’s preferable,” Maranges agreed. “I’ll do the same.”

  The leopard hesitated. Fear, rage and hunger agitated its rude body. Then, seeing those singular silhouettes, the eyes of the two men fixed upon it, and the carbines that seemed a prolongation of their limbs, it went in quest of a more familiar and timid prey.

  III. Life or Death

  Death was hovering over the caravan. Occasionally, the hoarse and quavering breath of the donkeys or the baroque plaint of a camel was mingled with the strange carillon of the plants. The large flies continued to harass the animals—and the men, in spite of the faith they had in the chief, darted anxious glances around, which spoke of nascent rebellion and entertained gleams of folly.

  “Bad!” said Kouram, who had just harangued his men. “They’re losing their heads, Master.”

  Hareton examined the bleak silhouettes. His own throat was on fire, and the colossal Guthrie was suffering unspeakably. Muriel was holding up better than the men.

  “Tell them to wait one more hour,” Ironcastle replied. “If nothing turns up, we’ll sacrifice a camel.”

  Kouram went to convey the chief’s promise to the men. Because hope took on a clear form, the men rallied. The mysterious fluid of the nerves circulated less heavily.

  Hareton scanned the horizon. Where were they? Had they reached the river, or were they wandering, like the caravan, in a desert that was all the more abominable for producing plants in abundance.

  “It’s disgusting!” Guthrie grumbled. “I really don’t know whether I can hold up for another hour. I’m having hallucinations, Uncle Hareton. My head is full of springs, waterfalls and streams. It’s a vile torture. An hour!” He took out his chronometer and considered it distractedly.

  Hareton had turned to the young woman.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Muriel said. “I can wait an hour, if necessary.” Philippe�
��s absence, however, filled her with apprehension and affliction. Had this mysterious and hostile land caught him in some trap? In spite of her own suffering, she thought about that which her faithful soul loved, with an ardor that would never fade.

  The hour passed. The cruel light dazzled the men and animals alike. Guthrie had the impression of circulating through an immense furnace.

  A man lay down on the ground, uttering plaintive cries. Another waved his knife. They all began groaning.

  Then Hareton darted one last desperate glance at the horizon. Nothing! Nothing but those blue and violet grasses, those giant flies, that intolerable sound of bells.

  Are we finally doomed? Turning to Muriel, his heart ripped by remorse, he added: What madness persuaded me to risk that young life?

  To gain time, he called a halt and had the tents set up, saying: “In ten minutes, we’ll be gorging ourselves on a camel.”

  Beneath the hastily-erected tents, they all sought a fugitive coolness. Hareton sadly designated the two men who were to carry out the sacrifice. They went forward, armed with sharp knives.

  “Not yet!” cried Kouram. Lying on the ground, he stuck his ear to it, attentively. “I can hear a trot,” he said. “The trot of large animals.”

  Everyone listened, breathless.

  “Don’t move until I give the signal,” Hareton said to the sacrificers.

  They stood beside the condemned animal. The blades threw off silvery reflections. Kouram continued listening, with his skull to the ground. Two other men imitated him.

  “Well, Kouram?” Ironcastle demanded.

  “The trotting’s coming closer, Master—and I think they’re camels.”

  One of the other natives agreed: “Yes, camels.” But the other said, in a low voice: “Perhaps warthogs…”

  “Where are the footfalls coming from, Kouram?”

  Kouram pointed toward a long bulge in the ground to the south-west, whose crest could not have been elevated by more than 20 meters, but which was sufficient to shrink the horizon.

  “Come on!” said Guthrie, mounting the largest of the camels. “If it’s them, I’ll raise my arms!”