However, they were on the only road to Kerentran, and since they did not seem to have any objections, I no longer hesitated and elimbed into the back of their carriage. Almost instantly I was overcome by a noisome stench of burnt meerschaum and the foetid smell of rotten leather. Right at my teet, lying down on the loose planks of the floor and seemingly indifferent to the surrounding stink, a human form was sound asleep. I did not have the leisure to examine it any closer; with a thrashing lash of his whip, the driver abruptly set his horses in motion, and I had to grab onto the sideboards to avoid being thrown out onto the road.
We drove on at such a speed that despite my efforts, I was shoved several times against my sleeping companion. As he did not awake, I suddenly became frightened that the driver and his strange acolytes might well have perpetrated a crime. But I did not have time to entertain this thought much longer, for what happened next proved to be even more mystifying. We had covered about three miles when our vehicle unexpectedly left the main road. The dexterity of the driver was beyond belief for in the hands of anyone else the carriage could not have accomplished such a right-angle manoeuvre without overturning.
A few hundred yards ahead I saw the lighted windows of a huge farmhouse. We stopped so suddenly that I nearly cracked my skull against one of the iron posts. The driver's attendants quickly dismounted and ran toward the house. They flung the door open and entered a large room. Inside, a few people were gathered around a wide brass bed upon which slept an old woman. But to my surprise, no one in the room seemed even to acknowledge the presence of the two intruders. They both walked up to the bed and grabbed the woman by her feet and her shoulders. She woke up with a start and tried to resist, but after uttering a few raucous shouts she quickly stopped struggling. Silent and lifeless, she was then removed from the house, whisked away to the carriage, and unceremoniously heaved over the sideboards. She fell beside me with a nauseating thud and remained as motionless as the other sleeping traveller.
As if they had been suddenly awakened, the people standing in the farmhouse drew nearer to the bed and started to moan and cry, while the dogs, who had not even noticed our tumultuous arrival, began to howl from inside their kennels. In utter dismay I then distinctly saw the old woman, still lying on her bed, unconcerned by the tears of her grieving family, as pale as if she were dead, while she was in feet also lying at my feet.
I was aghast. I tried in vain to jump out and run away, but the two attendants had already remounted their horses, and in an instant the coach was rattling its way back onto the dirt road. I pleaded with the driver and begged him to let me go, but he continued to ignore my presence. We drove on through the night for hours before he finally stopped his horses on the outskirts of a small village. Still gazing at the road, the driver consented to talk to me for the first time.
"You asked me to drive to Kerentran, therefore I will, but be patient. I can only go there two days from now, and by then the young lady of the manor should be ready for us..." he said with a growl, as if his words were the muffled menace of a cornered animal. And as he raised his arm to whip the horses, the brim of his hat lifted for a brief moment. I caught sight of his face, of his wasted and gaunt features, his mouth wide open, and the whites of his eyes, in which no pupils could be found.
I jumped out of the carriage and escaped, running madly through the fields in search of the nearest house.
The eerie equipage was already far away when I reached the first house of the village. There I stood, banging in vain against a door that was as muted and hostile as the night. Yet I knew that behind that door someone had heard me, for a cry of surprise, quickly muffled, had answered my first knock.
In a panic I rushed to the next house, where I resumed my frantic rapping on its door. (Today I must confess it was only the hope of finding the protection of four solid walls that kept my blood miming in my veins.)
"Open up, for God's sake, open up," I finally screamed in despair, having recovered the use of my voice. To hear me so distraught suddenly changed the minds of those barricaded inside. Someone cracked the door at last, and the faltering light of a candle revealed a man's face, contorted with fear.
"Who... Who are you?" he stammered, while trying to identify me. I answered that I was a guest of the earl of Kerentran and that I had become lost on my way to the manor.
The door finally opened wide enough, and I was ushered inside. A few minutes later, standing by a huge hearth, I was still trying to collect myself as my host reawakened the choking, yet comforting, smoke of a dormant fire. His wife brought me a kitchen glass full of brandy. I drank it in long draughts, but I was so shaken that I barely felt ils bite. I had to disburden myself of this nightmare, and I proceeded to tell them my story. But as I was speaking and gradually pulling myself together, I noticed that my hosts were growing even more apprehensive.
"I knew I had recognized the rattle of that carriage," sighed the man. "When you started knocking at our door I thought it was He who was coming for one of us." Lowering his voice to a whisper, he told me I had travelled in the company of the Ankou, the dreaded death labourer and his two servants from the nether world.
I was so astonished that I even mustered a smile, thinking he had chosen to allay my fears by making me the butt of a practical joke. But to my dismay I soon realized that my host was not the least inclined to be humorous. Retracing the events of my journey, he informed me that we had stopped in the village of Remoter to "take charge" of Mrs. Loarrer, an old charwoman sapped by an incurable disease. And since the carriage had also passed through the town of Plougouvest after my escape, it could only mean that Death had snatched away the soul of Christophe Ropartz, a local lumberjack who had been agonizing all day after being felled by a young and vengeful oak tree.
Still unconvinced although I could not find a more reassuring explanation for the events that I had witnessed, I chided my host for what I took to be a local and ridiculous superstition.
"Surely you don't expect me to believe this," I answered him. "At worst we are dealing here with a team of unscrupulous thieves, the kind that would desecrate an isolated tomb for the mere gain of a few gold teeth." And in the hope of comforting them I proceeded with a meticulous description of the carriage and its bizarre, but definitely earthly, proprietors. As if to exorcise my own childish fears I described the driver in as many details as I could. Despite his rude behaviour and his frightening looks, I assured them that he was quite alive - indeed, too much for my comfort. I even told them of his intentions to drive to Kerentran in a couple of days. My host immediately crossed himself and shrank deeper into his seat.
"By the Blessed Virgin, you did see him!” he shuddered. "The man you have just described is Hervé Lena from the hamlet of Plouzedené, who died in December, and since he was the last one of the year to pass away, he is now by right the Ankon of the entire county for one year. You have provoked him," my host continued. "He allowed you to escape with your life, but now he is forced to claim someone else's, according to the precepts of his charge... The young lady from Kerentran is foredoomed; there is nothing anyone can do about it."
Stunned by the distress of this man and by the grief of his wife, who punctuated his story with mournful nods of assent, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the frightful truth of this tale, as I slumped in an armchair and abandoned myself to the grim reality of their rustic fears. We spent the rest of the night around the crackling glitter of the hearth, frantically poking its embers. We looked at one another surreptitiously, each time rekindling our fears, each time deepening our restlessness. It was no use trying to sleep, for we all had a desperate need to feel that we were indeed alive, still alive among the living. The slightest noise from outside would suddenly make us stare at the door with such intensity that the mere settling of the burning logs was enough to startle us.
Dawn came at last. I was freed by the first rays of the sun, as if a thick, dark yoke had been lifted from my shoulders. I took leave of my hosts without a word, abandonin
g them in a shelter still enmeshed by the lingering shroud of night. I walked back through the fields and soon reached the road, trying to collect myself as I strode toward Kerentran. But in spite of the invigorating smell of freshly cut grass and the soothing ebullience of a nearby brook, the words of Hervé Lenn, the Ankou, continued to torment me, darkening my soul as I walked under the morning sun.
I was exhausted when I arrived at the manor. Upon discovering that I had made the journey on foot, Joceline's parents wondered if I had all my senses. As previously arranged, they had sent a coach to Landivisiau Station, and the driver had waited in vain for me to get off the morning train. I managed to explain my actions by pretending there had been some sort of misunderstanding, and I only told them a half-truth when I said that in fact I had arrived the night before, and thinking that I still was quite a good walker, I had decided to do without the coach.
At last Joceline appeared on the threshold, and I became oblivious of anyone else. Departing from her usual self-restraint, she almost ran across the living room, and I took her in my arms as if I were already protecting her. The warmth of her yearning and the tenderness of her attentions finally broke the spell of helplessness that had taken hold of me the night before. Indeed, the reality of her presence reawakened my natural inclination to hold my ground and defend myself. After lunch, I felt so completely restored in my strength that I started planning a strategy. Since I knew of the plans of the Ankoti, I could easily deceive him. In fact I had two whole days ahead of me to take Joceline away from this entire accursed province and guard her against this hell-born reaper and his archaic ways of harvesting the lives of frightened peasants. This primitive ritual was well-confined within the borders of Brittany, and besides, Hervé Lenn was only the Ankou of a small county, lost amidst the reality of modem-day France.
I had long decided to keep this incredible adventure to myself and not to alarm anyone with a secret only I could comprehend. Thus I waited until after dinner, and pretending a pressing need to return to Paris for an important business transaction, I told Joceline's family we would be leaving in a few hours. The earl of Kerentran, accustomed to the strict manners of the old French nobility, scowled at my audacity. I quickly added that by a happy coincidence this journey would also allow Joceline to visit with my mother for a few days, before she left for her summer residence on the Riviera. I sensed that the earl was not entirely convinced, since he still appeared to be quite displeased. Yet his wife came unexpectedly to my aid, for she could readily attune herself to the heart and wishes of my mother. With a few soothing words and an indulgent look, she finally won her husband's reluctant approval.
That night, even though I felt reassured after we had boarded Ite train, listening to the power of mechanical horses that could have easily outdistanced the Ankou's carriage, I sensed only too well that from this moment on, Joceline's destiny would be measured according to my strength.
Two days later we were in Paris, and even though I could have eased my vigilance, my mind was still weighing each of the alternatives that I had retained in order to better thwart the Ankou's plans. Finally I decided to contact an old friend who owned a discreet penthouse in the heart of the capital. Soon I had in my hands the keys to what would become our shelter. Situated on the top floor of an old building on Saint Louis Island, the place looked impregnable. It also had the distinct advantage of resembling many similar penthouses that crowded the crests of the surrounding buildings. Seen from afar, the apartment was lost amidst an intricate maze of roof tiles and chimneys. Even a bird flying overhead could not have recognized it.
Niched at the top of the building, its entrance had been painted the same colour as the staircase, and when I reached the very last floor, I even had some difficulty finding my way to the penthouse, since its access door blended perfectly into the wall, as if it were a secret passageway.
That night we dined early in an out-of-the-way restaurant, and at the end of our meal I told Joceline that we would spend the evening in the company of old friends who resided on Saint Louis Island. I hailed a hackney, and in my haste I pushed Joceline into the cab. She sat down silently with a look of stupefaction upon her face, but as we drove on past the riverbank she was no longer able to contain her indignation. For the past two days Joceline had stoically endured my decidedly odd behaviour, but this last turn of events was more than she could tolerate. She stared at me and insisted that I explain my actions. I evaded her questions and curtly mumbled a vague and irritated reply, which brought sparkles of tears to her eyes. How I wished I could have taken her in my arms and comforted her dismay. But to tell the truth would only have meant to torment her even more.
I did not want to betray my own increasing anguish, and I had to force myself to remain silent.
It was already dark when we reached our destination. Looking onto a narrow street, the building was a high stone-made structure, lost among the accumulated mass of marble and granite that protects the heart of Paris as if it were a vault. As I looked back upon the complicated and exhaustive schemes I had elaborated for the past two days, including my most pessimistic expectation of the night yet to come, I had to admit that even the splitting asunder of the six bridges that linked the island to the
rest of the world would have been a superfluous precaution. Hervé Lenn, the backward Ankou of Plouzenedé, would have become utterly lost outside of his uncivilized county. He could not even have driven any closer than two hundred miles from the gates of Paris.
When we reached the last floor, I had to use all of my matches in order to find the keyhole in the recessed entrance. Expecting to see my friends welcome us, Joceline became frightened and started to step back. I had to pull her inside as I slammed the door behind us. The heavy wooden panel felt as massive as a graveyard slab. I wanted to retain the protection afforded us by the darkness, and thus I resisted turning on the lights. Joceline was appalled. She freed herself from my grip, took a few steps, stumbled against a piece of furniture, and fell to the floor with a muffled cry. She trembled as I took her in my arms to try and calm her fears. I swore to her that against all appearances I had not taken leave of my senses.
I did all I could to convince her: I said there was a last secret left within me, something I could not explain at the moment, but I beseeched her to trust me, to remain there until midnight, and for the duration of that time not to ask me any of the questions to which she was more than entitled. I begged her to stay, insisting that there was indeed reason enough for my aberrant behaviour, and I assured her that soon after midnight I would readily explain the motives behind my conduct. With reluctance she finally acceded to my request, and after much groping about I found a large sofa where we both lay down. Joceline cuddled against me, gently sobbing on my shoulder, while an impenetrable darkness draped our shelter like a veil.
Minute by minute the hours were slipping by, each one greeted by the pounding of my heart, each once sanctioned by the soft and crystalline chime of an invisible clock. There only remained half an hour until midnight when suddenly, cutting through the night, the sound of loud stamping echoed from the street. I stood up in a frenzy and violently shook Joceline from her sleep, pressing my hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming. My heart was thudding with fear, as if it were following the rhythm of the hooves that at once I had recognized. The stampede stopped as abruptly as i I had begun, and it rendered the ensuing silence even more petrifying. The Ankou had come! Against all odds he had found us. Nothing could possibly deter him: neither the distance nor the place nor the time could keep him from his appointed rounds!
But despite my horror, I was not one to be vanquished so easily. It was obvious that no man-made weapon would have any effect on the ghost of Hervé Lenn or on his two attendants from beyond the grave. However, I sensed that perhaps I could propitiate them, offering myself in the place of Joceline, thereby ensuring the Ankou that he would leave Paris with the exact number of souls he had come to gather. I then frantically searched in the
dark for a hiding place, and at last I found the panels of a high cupboard. I opened it at once and tried to force Joceline to hide there, but she desperately fought back to remain by my side. I had no time left to argue - I pushed her inside with a violent heave and locked the cupboard behind her.
I hurried back to the door, stumbling in the dark against unseen pieces of furniture, finding my way by groping alongside the wall. There I waited, shaking like a leaf but resolute in my heart, bracing myself against the moment to come. I was not so much distraught by the imminence of my death as I was by the thought of leaving Joceline behind, confronting alone this incomprehensible nightmare. And yet, after a few agonizing minutes, the impossible took place. Like a sudden squall sweeping across the street I heard the night horses resume their baleful stampede. They were leaving . .. they were gone! The Ankon had run out of time before he could find the door! I stumbled back into the room, catching my breath and crying like a child. I located the cupboard, unlocked the panels, and reached for Joceline.
My hands found nothing. Yet my eyes and ears unravelled at once this mystery. Screaming with despair, I realized I was facing the night itself, the deep and frozen void concealed behind this window through which I had hurled Joceline to her death.
Selected Bibliography
Short Stories and Novels
Le Bahut noir. Paris: Le Terrain Vague, 1958.
La Brume ne se lèvera plus. Paris: Le Terrain Vague, 1959.
Les Chevaux de la nuit et autres récits cruels. Verriers (Belgium): Gérard, 1967.
Le Chupador. Paris: Editions Pédagogiques Modernes, 1960. (With twenty-two illustrations by Sergio Moyano.)
Contes macabres. Verriers (Belgium): Gérard, 1966.
Contes sorciers. Verriers (Belgium): Gérard, 1974.
Un Corbeau de toutes couleurs. Paris: Denoël, 1962.
Delphine. Paris: Editions Morgan, 1971
The Nightcharmer and Other Tales Page 10