A Packhorse Called Rachel

by Marcelle Kellermann

  I left the farmhouse thanking everybody for the lovely dinner, put on my skis (coated with hot resin this time, courtesy of one of the sons!) to make better progress in the fresh snow and made for my new abode with Jean carrying my rucksack full to bursting, weighed down further by a steaming loaf which Madame had just taken out of the oven. It continued to steam, that golden round loaf, as we waded through the snow towards my destiny. Jean didn’t like skis, he preferred his own seven league boots in which he could bound along and slide in spite of the load pressing on his shoulder blades. Nourse quickly got the hang of walking in fresh snow; he loped over it quite happily, now that he had a full stomach.

  The night was hard like metal, of a pale blue which darkened the shadows. The snow crunched with every step Jean took and the moon was full as on the previous night. We climbed and descended again and again, Jean ahead of me on the climbs, I leading him on the descents. We waited for each other sometimes in the hollows, sometimes on the hill tops. Too heavily burdened to talk as we went along, Jean said only a few words scarcely voiced which gave to the night a soothing lilt.

  The bothy came into sight, like a mirage in the desert. The snow…the sand, nature’s trompe-l’oeil playing with our senses. As centuries seem to recede at night, its walls seemed gallo-roman. It is perfectly rectangular, built in stone with a thatched roof, huddled in a valley, the fifth we had come to since we left the farm. Behind it I could see six poplars, rising up, waving their silver filigree arms against the night sky. There is no earthly reason for their threatening presence. Whoever planted them in military formation must have had the crazy idea that their formidable height would protect the bothy. As it was, they were more likely to attract lightning and threaten to burn the bothy and themselves in the process. Surely, there must be a guardian angel of bothys since they are still standing there, majestically erect and defiant. “When the sky is angry,” Jean says, “you ‘ave to get out, no two ways ‘bout it!” !

  Many years later I revisited the place with my family; we could see from the high road running between Murol and the Mont Dore that the Bothy was no more. The remains of burnt out poplars lay criss-cross upon blackened stones. The children tumbled all the way down the hill to see. I stayed on the road, watching them dancing round the remains of my former life, waving back to me.

  As I approached the bothy I saw that Gérard had not yet tried to get in touch with me. The surface of snow was unbroken and it had not snowed that day. Jean opened the heavy door of the bothy with an enormous rusty key which reminded me of the one used by Madame for the cowshed. He put his foot against the door, which creaked abominably - the noise echoed round the mountains in the deadly silence - and went first into the den to light two candles poised in an ancient candlestick which would have delighted the heart of any antique dealer.

  It was rusty and black but beautifully sculpted in what I thought was old silver.

  The scene which met my eyes almost suffocated me. Table, chairs three of them, straw bed, blanket - only one…And what a state it was in! Washbowl - broken; jug - broken; fireplace and cauldron, logs and sticks; tied up with a horse’s leather strap. Everything was covered with an indescribable dust which must have come in under the door. And the smell, friends! Enough to turn your stomach. I recognized the unmistakable stench of rodents. (I must tell you that one of my first tasks was to stop all holes, and there were many, with broken glass, and to fill the gap under the door with the old khaki blanket which couldn’t be made any worse than it was). Then I saw that the straw on which I was supposed to sleep was moving, and the stealthy departure of some creatures I hadn’t time to identify. I grabbed Jean’s arm; mice? Rats? “Both, Mamzelle’ he said calmly, “but don’t let this worry you, you know…they’re afraid of men.” What about women? Would they like them? I was soon to find out.

  Jean lit the fire in the fireplace after moving the cauldron which was full of maggots. I went outside. I had to! The moon made faces, it always does when you look at it with the sad soul of Pierrot Lunaire. It actually grinned! It always does if you look at it long enough!

  I began to search for the stream Raboullet had mentioned. It is, in fact, a spring coming out of the ground, warm and sulphurous, an underground spring for most of its meandering course. They say it cures ‘albuminous’ patients who seek a cure in the spa of Saint Nectaire.

  I saw it, my spring! Flowing freely, bordered with reddish tufts of grass and smelling sulphur. I plunged my hands into its warm waters and ran my fingers along the keys of an imaginary piano engulfed beneath it. Jealous of the poet never without his instrument, I promised myself to become a composer. Debussy’s La Cathédrale Engloutie played in my ears. I would compose a song entitled Le Piano Englouti for Flora to sing one day to her guitar, a song flowing warm and freely, like my stream…

  I returned to the bothy, revived. In the hearth, pine logs were blazing. I began to hum the first bars of my ode to Flora.

  The only view of the outside world from the bothy was through two tiny windows to which iron bars were fastened. Whatever for, I wondered? One at the front, the other on the east side from where I recognized the road which runs between Murol and Mont-Dore. It takes well over an hour to reach it up a steep slope. It is bordered by scattered trees, and on a clear night their long shadows move like the hands on a dial according to the movement of the moon. I can’t be seen from the road, I thought. I was wrong. With field glasses it is possible. What’s more, I hadn’t thought of the smoke from the chimney. (When Gérard came the next morning he exclaimed: “Really, Rachel, what are you thinking of ? Might as well tell the whole world that there’s somebody living here…more like in hiding! What’s more, that that somebody isn’t a shepherd …at this time of year!”) I spent the rest of the winter with no other protection from the cold than my fur and a woolen blanket, a gift from Raboullet without which, for sure, I’d have perished.

  My visits to Savignole became more frequent as days went by. Besides needing the company of humans and the warmth (I was glued to the stove whenever possible) I never failed to deliver enough food to feed hungry men (on average ten of them, often many more) and cook the vegetables as dutiful housewife…

  If this sounds easy to you think again! The countryside was patrolled by the gendarmes and the militia as I mentioned before; the storms could be as cruel as on Anapurna on a bad day; the short cuts from my bothy to Savignole had to be varied, thus ceasing to be short cuts (remember Gérard’s recommendations when he asked me to consult his ordnance survey map?), and my threatening boils which grew worse by the hour, and…and…and…

  But my visits meant also watching Clément-at-the-controls between his earphones, I waiting for a pause in the transmissions for him to stretch his whole body, arms reaching out, and if we were alone, seizing me by the waist for a passionate embrace.

  But I digress.

  Jean and I crouched in front of the hearth. He was sweating. His sweat had the musky smell of a young wild-cat over and above the fetid odour of vermin. Nourse was stretched out at full length in front of the crackling fire, pricking up his ears each time a log stirred with a shower of sparks. Jean felt that the moment had come to tell me a story, a story close to his heart which, he said, he had never told anyone. I have great difficulty, even today, in getting it out of my mind when I find myself in Raboullet’s presence. The sense of wonder which the fire had kindled in me froze as Jean’s story unfolded:

  Raboullet had been employing an old shepherd of seventy or more. His name was Arthur. As was the custom with the local shepherds, le Patron had given him a dog and a gun. “If you see anybody after the sheep, man or beast, shoot! You’ve the right, got it?” Since meat rationing had become more and more severe, thefts of farm animals were frequent, especially of sheep. It is enough simply to shoo them, and they run panic-stricken into the arms of their executioners. Then, badly killed on the spot, they are hurriedly thrown into trucks or carts. So the sheep had to be watched even at night, rounded up and c
ounted. The shepherds guarding them would sleep under the stars, with one eye open. Until the sheep were brought down to the valley for the winter, Jean and old Arthur lived together. They made their own shelter, their sheep grazed together up on the high bare mountains of the Dores. They took turns to guard them at night, gun at the ready.

  In the autumn, at the transhumance, they separated, Jean living at the Clairefontaine bothy, old Arthur retreating further down into the valley near Chambon. He had taught Jean the art of looking after sheep, of treating the injured ones, and how to train sheep dogs. Jean interrupted his narration to demonstrate for my sake the unhurried, yet strident dialogue between a shepherd and his dog. Nourse woke up and jumped to his feet at the sound of this audible telepathy which had revived in him an ancestral calling. It took a while before he settled down again. Then Jean spoke of his friendship with Arthur. He loved him more than the father who drank, more than his mother who killed herself with jobs her old man no longer did.

  It was the year before. At the beginning of autumn, Arthur noticed one day that four ewes were missing. He walked miles with his dog, Vautour, but found nothing. Arthur knew what had happened; they had been stolen! He asked an old shepherd from the neighbourhood to look after his flock and made for Raboullet’s farmhouse, calling first at Clairefontaine to ask Jean to accompany him, the reason being he was terribly scared of the boss. The two friends arrived at the farm at nightfall.

  Alas! Raboullet was blind drunk. Arthur began to shake in every limb. He stammered: “‘Boss…they’ve stolen me four ewes…I looked everywhere…I swear…with Vautour…I lost them, I did!”

  Raboullet seized his whip and shouted threateningly: “‘Tha’s stolen them! As if I didn’t pay thee enough, bandit!” He shook Arthur, yelling: “Confess! Confess tha’s stole ‘em!”

  Arthur was overcome by a sudden spasm - Jean said to me: “T’was like a hiccup” - and began to weep like a child. Jean was afraid for his old friend who by now was choking and tried to intervene, saying that he’d seen men prowling about, that it could easily have happened to him too. Raboullet shouted even more: “Shut thy gob! Nowt to do with thee!”, then he drove Arthur away, hitting him with the whip: “‘Tha’ll pay for yon sheep, d’ye hear? Tomorrow, no later, or I’ll have thee in jail…in jail, that’s for sure!” Next morning, at dawn, Arthur was found hanging from a tree. Jean said to me, huskily; “Prison, for Arthur, was worser than death”.

  He went back to the farm to give Raboullet the bad news. The whole family was there, sitting at the dinner table. Raboullet said: “That proves he did it! I was right…he was a thief !”

  “No one said nowt” said Jean.

  No one ever spoke about the affair again…no one, except Jean, that night, in the bothy.

  Jean and I each ate a beautiful russet apple, all golden and juicy. Raboullet had chosen the best apples from his winter fruit reserves and had said: “Tell me what you think of these!” They were very, very good. As I ate, I felt I was becoming purified, a strange sensation which I can’t easily describe, I sometimes get it when I play the piano, or when I hear Flora singing her Polish songs to the guitar. Jean was obviously happy, his face was serene; it bore the first downy traces of a beard. When he had eaten his apple he got up and said: “Well, I’m going” and shook hands with me with his left hand. I hugged him and thanked him. He said: “You won’t be frightened all alone, Mamzelle?” I said: “Of course not, Jean…I’m used to being alone. But where will you sleep?”

  “There’s a shelter not far away… “ he said.

  I couldn’t let him go. I said: “Won’t you stay here? Its warm and we can put some straw on the floor?”

  Jean blushed! I had embarrassed him with my invitation …

  He made for the heavy door and said: “I’ll be all right Mamzelle. Good night” and off he went into the darkness. I saw him go past the little window and disappear behind the bothy. Then I lost sight of my wonderful companion. Not for long; about fifty yards away I saw his broad athletic shoulders dig a large hole in the snow, making it into solid ice. After that he settled himself into the hole with his head between his knees. Then he was still.

  Jean, the Eskimo, was cosy and warm in his igloo. He was guarding me. I was receiving, through him, Nature’s purest message of love.

  It was complete.

  Nourse sniffed frantically under the door, enough to flay the skin off his nose. I reassured him, telling him that I knew there was a man outside and it was all right. He lay down again in front of the fire, a dog on guard, his eyes fixed on the door. To reassure him I lay down beside him on my fur. The straw mattress in the far corner of the Bothy would become my bed in the days ahead. Not to-night, though… Not to-night…

  Next morning when I opened the door I saw that Jean had gone. His igloo shone in the still pale rays of the rising sun. The unbroken, solitary landscape which stretched before me made me forget why I was here. I made for the stream and washed as best I could, making sure no-one was watching. I had no soap but realized that the sulphur replaced it beautifully. The sweat of yesterday’s long journey was swept away, unbelievably so, cleansing the boils under my arms and breasts which had grown bigger since I had left Clermont.

  Climbing the slope to regain the bothy, breathless from the contrasting cold air, stark naked …I saw Gérard. He had been waiting for me to finish with my ablutions and had tactfully turned his back to me by sitting on a little mound not far from the bothy. After a hearty “Bonjour mon colonel!” I walked straight into the bothy to cover myself with my (only) thick pull-over reaching down to the knees. I’ve already mentioned his quick reaction at the sight of the fire in the chimney… Not of my own reactions. Hear this: I hit the still burning logs with a large poker till the fire went out showering me with white ash. I can still hear myself flying into a foul temper and swearing at my irresponsibility…at my thoughtlessness…at Gérard’s inhumanity …at the cold February wind.

  Gérard had stayed outside to give me time to cool off. A couple of minutes, not more. Then he burst in, seized my arm and said: “Listen!” I listened. I heard the rumbling of engines which heralded the appearance of the early enemy convoys, the continuous noise reverberating over Clairefontaine. “We’ll get them, Rachel! It won’t be long now!” At these words I began to shake off the ashes and my vexation. My body felt warm. Gérard turned his green eyes towards the sack which was beginning to fill the room with the intoxicating scent of a larder from distant years. Seized with wonder, almost delirious with joy, he took me in his arms, swung me round crying “You made it Rachel! You made it!”

  10.

  Love and Chlorophyll.

  Clément Vallette, our radio operator whom everybody except me calls ‘Prof.’ has shed the trappings of university life and of life in Strasbourg before ‘42. He wears a thick, bottle-green pullover frayed at the elbows, washes and darns his own socks with enormous concentration (“Don’t talk to the great man while he’s thinking”, says Gérard to the boys jokingly). He shaves only when his nascent beard makes him feel uncomfortable, addresses everybody by his first name or nom-de guerre, takes orders from the colonel unflinchingly, eats out of his mess-tin with his personal wooden spoon (some of us use forks and knives as well), and leaves the bothy almost every day at dawn carrying his radio equipment, playing a cat and mouse game with the enemy patrols and detectors, mooring his apparatus in half a dozen hideouts, choosing suitable inclines to get better reception.

  With the first buds of Spring, Clément and I have become lovers. The seeds of our love were sown before we left the university. I remember him bending over my notes in the lab, taking a long time to go over them, leaning over me, oh so slightly, but I felt the warmth of his body invading mine, my body drifting off like a raft while I analysed a solution or made measurements. He would then hold my hands to steady them and pronounce words of encouragement.

  But I was not doing very well and I knew it. He had put me onto the synthesis of chlorophyll, a hopele
ss task which made me wonder whether he had done it on purpose, just to keep me there for the eternity it would take to get some results. Presently, I dared to complain. The task was daunting, I said. (The synthesis of a substance as complex as chlorophyll was in my humble view experimentally unattainable ‘avec les moyens dont nous disposons AUJOURD’hui’, I quoting dear Lavoisier’s famous statement on the impossibility of splitting the atom). Not so, replied Clément; he had worked it out in his head. It was possible to assemble the near-infinity of combinations of atoms and get, “in the end, the miraculous deep green liquid, God’s greatest creation”. For an agnostic like him I found this formulation rather strange, but then agnostics do perhaps carry God secretly in their pockets, invoke Him, work in harness with Him. At least, this seemed to apply to Clément for he refused vehemently either to negate or to accept a priori the existence of what could not be seen, proven and measured. A scientist’s task, he said repeatedly to his students, was to look for proofs, to use the tools available to him and to invent new ones.

  I insisted: “Was it then the scientist’s prerogative to search for proofs of the existence of God?”.

  “No. Never!”

  “So, should he search for the existence of God and not find it, is it his right to deny His existence because he can’t prove it”?

  “It is the scientist’s right to doubt it” he answered with authority. “Scientists demand proof. Most of us prefer knowledge to blind belief, that’s all…not being Pascal” he added with a slight tone of regret…or was it irony?

  It is the beginning of April. In spite of what it costs me, and it costs me a lot, I have decided to stay away from Savignole, just for a few days. Rachel is ill, but shush! no-one must know. More important matters to worry about in that highly-charged atmosphere than health ones. Here, at Savignole, win or lose is paid for equally in human lives! Clément was gradually driven to criticize Gérard’s high risk military actions taken on impulse, coloured by his obsession to get results, Now is the time, or NEVER he’d retort.