The women recall the story of the one who lived for a long time where the camels pass. Bareheaded beneath the sun, Clemence Maïeul incessantly invokes Amaterasu the sun goddess, cutting her abundant hair, abasing herself three times on the ground which she strikes with her hands, saying, I salute you, great Amaterasu, in the name of our mother, in the name of those who are to come. Our kingdom come. May this order be destroyed. May the good and the evil be cast down. They say that Clemence Maïeul often drew on the ground that O which is the sign of the goddess, symbol of the vulval ring.
The women say that any one of them might equally well invoke another sun goddess, such as Cihuacoatl, who is also a goddess of war. Thus on the occasion of the death of one of their number they might use the song of mourning which is a glorious song. Then they sing in unison, Strong and warlike daughter, my well-beloved daughter/valiant and tender little dove, my lady/you have striven and worked as a valiant daughter/you have overcome, you have acted like your mother the lady Cihuacoatl/you have fought with valour, you have used shield and sword/arise my daughter/go to that good place which is the house of your mother the sun/where all are filled with joy content and happiness.
The women leap on the paths that lead to the village, shaking their hair, their arms laden with dog-faced baboons, stamping the ground with their feet. Someone stops, tears out a handful of her long hair and lets the strands go one by one with the wind. Like the balloons that little girls release on holidays, rising into the sky, light unsubstantial filiform and twisting, they are blown upward by the wind. Or perhaps the women sing in unison a song that includes these words, Who till now sucked at my nipple/a monkey. Then they throw down all the baboons and begin to run, chasing them into the shade of the wood until they have disappeared in the trees.
They say, how to decide that an event is worthy of remembrance? Must Amaterasu herself advance on the forecourt of the temple, her face shining, blinding the eyes of those who, prostrate, put their foreheads to the ground and dare not lift their heads? Must Amaterasu raising her circular mirror on high blaze forth with all her fires? Must the rays from her slanting mirror set fire to the ground beneath the feet of the women who have come to pay homage to the sun goddess, the greatest of the goddesses? Must her anger be exemplary?
IDO BLANCHE VALENTINA
GILBERTA FAUSTA MONIMA
GE BAUCIS SOPHIE ALICE
OCTAVIA JOSIANA GAIA
DEODATA KAHA VILAINE
ANGE FREDERICA BETJE
The women say that references to Amaterasu or Cihuacoatl are no longer in order. They say they have no need of myths or symbols. They say that the time when they started from zero is in process of being erased from their memories. They say they can barely relate to it. When they repeat, This order must be destroyed, they say they do not know what order is meant.
What was the beginning? they say. They say that in the beginning they are huddled against each other. They are like black sheep. They open their mouths to bleat or to say something but no sound emerges. Their hair their curls are plastered against their foreheads. They move over the smooth shining surface. Their movements are translation, gliding. They are dazed by the reflections over which they pass. Their limbs gain no adhesion anywhere. Vertically and horizontally, it is the same mirror neither hot nor cold, it is the same brilliance which nowhere holds them fast. They advance, there is no front, there is no rear. They move on, there is no future, there is no past. They move flung one against the other. The movements they initiate with their lower limbs or with their upper limbs multiply the changes of position. If there had been an initial change of position it would be a fact that contradicted their unchanging functioning. It would be a fundamental variation that contradicted the unitary system, it would introduce disorder. They come and go ensheathed in something black and glittering. The silence is absolute. If sometimes they try to stop to listen to something, the sound of a train, a ship's siren, the music of XX, their attempt to halt propels them from one side to the other, makes them sway, gives them a fresh departure. They are prisoners of the mirror.
The women say that the feminary amuses the little girls. For instance three kinds of labia minora are mentioned there. The dwarf labia are triangular. Side by side, they form two narrow folds. They are almost invisible because the labia majora cover them. The moderate-sized labia minora resemble the flower of a lily. They are half-moon shaped or triangular. They can be seen in their entirety taut supple seething. The large labia spread out resemble a butterfly's wings. They are tall triangular or rectangular, very prominent.
They say that as possessors of vulvas they are familiar with their characteristics. They are familiar with the mons pubis the clitoris the labia minora the body and bulbs of the vagina. They say that they take a proper pride in that which has for long been regarded as the emblem of fecundity and the reproductive force in nature.
They say that the clitoris has been compared to a cherrystone, a bud, a young shoot, a shelled sesame, an almond, a sprig of myrtle, a dart, the barrel of a lock. They say that the labia majora have been compared to the two halves of a shellfish. They say that the concealed face of the labia minora has been compared to the purple of Sidon, to tropic coral. They say that the secretion has been compared to iodized salt water.
They say that they have found inscriptions on plaster walls where vulvas have been drawn as children draw suns with multiple divergent rays. They say that it has been written that vulvas are traps vices pincers. They say that the clitoris has been compared to the prow of a boat to its stem to the comb of a shellfish. They say that vulvas have been compared to apricots pomegranates figs roses pinks peonies marguerites. They say these comparisons may be recited like a litany.
OTTONE RAMALA POMARA
SIGISMUNDA MARCELINA
GALATEA ZAIRE EVELINA
CONSTANCE ANNUNCIATA
VICTORIA MARGUERITE
ROSE JULIA AGLAË LEDA
Anemone Flavien tells them the story of the woman selling pins who knocks at the young girl's door. When the young girl opens the window and leans out the white cat glides before her face, which makes her cry out. Her hair hangs down on the side towards which she leans. Then the merchant woman presents her with pins in her open hands. They have green red blue heads. When the woman catches her foot she drops all the pins between the separate paving-stones. The young girl complains loudly that her attire will be ruined. A little girl passing by sets about picking up the red green blue pins, when she gets up she puts them in the hands of the merchant woman. The pin-seller lifts her head to heaven, she begins to run opening her hands, laughing with all her might, scattering the green red blue pins everywhere, the little girl hops along behind her, while the young woman begins to utter piercing cries at her window.
Or else the women play a game. There is a whole row of toads with staring eyes. They are motionless. The first to feel a kick rolls over on its side in one piece like a mannequin stuffed with straw and without a sound. The others go jumping away. Their backs can be seen from time to time above the lucerne and the pink clover. They are like fat hens, heads lowered, pecking and looking at the ground. They do not progress evenly. Some of the faster ones are far ahead. One of them disappears in the hedge. It is soon followed by others, except for one solitary one that continues to roam in the fields.
Or else three cats are caught by the tail in a trap. They each go their own way miaowing. The heavy trap jerks forward slowly behind them. They scream, they lash out, scratching the ground with their claws. Their hair is on end. One of them stands still and begins to arch its back grinding its teeth and shrieking. The two other cats strive to shake him off by tugging at the trap. But they only succeed in making him turn a somersault in the iron collar. Then all three fight each other, they fling themselves against each other scratching and biting, they wound each other's eyes, their muzzles, they tear the hair from their necks, they can no longer stop fighting and the trap which gets between their legs only adds to their fury.
Fabienne Jouy tells a story about wolves. It begins thus: The glazed snow glistens. She says that it takes place at sunset. It continues like this: The sun is red, low in the sky, enormous. The stretched-out bodies do not stir. A feeble gleam of light comes from the weapons piled nearby. The first howls of the wolves are heard before sundown. They are far away scattered far apart. They are howling. They are nearby. Shadows come and go, flitting under the trees, leave the shelter of the woods, approach, retreat. The howling of the wolves never stops. The still bodies lying on the snow are joined by the hesitating moving mass of wolves. Ears erect, paws aquiver, they are above the faces, they sniff at the cheeks, the mouths, they come and go, they make a rush. The faces are torn to ribbons. The white face of the beautiful Marie Viarme hangs detached from the trunk, torn across at the throat. One sees the sudden streaming of blood on her cheeks. Clothes are torn, half-eaten bodies swim in a vile red-black lake, the snow is tinged by it. The wolves pant, they come and go, abandoning a body, seizing it anew, running to another, paws aquiver, tongues lolling. The wolves' eyes begin to shine in the half light. Fabienne Jouy has finished her story when she says, It is not known which way the wind was blowing. Comment is not advisable after someone has told a story. Despite this Cornélie Surger cannot refrain from saying, To hell with stories of wolves, now if it had had to do with rats, yes if only they had been rats.
The women break the walnuts to extract their oil. They take the fragments to the press where they are crushed. The kernels are arranged on the grindstone. The long wooden screw that turns the grindstone is iron-tipped. Trickles of oil overflow. At the same time they crush sesame poppy seeds. The petals of macerated flowers, pinks herbs mallows are crushed by the grindstone. The white perfumed flowers of the myrtle also serve for the preparation of an oil which is the water of the angels. It is collected in a stone flask. Oily vapours move about in the overheated room. The walls are greasy, sweating. The women let down their hair, they soak it in the aromatic baths. Their hands and arms glisten, their breasts are bare.
AUBIERGE CLARISSA PHÆDRA
EUDOXIA OLIVE IO MODESTA
PLAISANCE HYGEIA LOUISA
CORALIE ANEMONE TABITHA
THELMA INGRID PRASCOVIA
NATALIE POMPEIA ALIENOR
The banks of the river are muddy. The black water seems deep. It is not possible to touch the bottom with a stick. Pale blue water-irises, red water-lilies cling to the roots of the trees that overhang the bank. The heads of the swimming women appear down below in the middle of the river, they are confused with their reflections in the water. A black barge moving up-river is always on the point of touching them. The swimmers touched, so it seems, sink. But their heads reappear, round, bobbing in the wash. The long strident whistle of a lock-keeper makes itself heard. There is smoke somewhere upstream. The sun is no longer visible. The water becomes darker and darker until it has lost its fluid appearance.
The women look at the old pictures, the photographs. One of them explains. For instance the series of the textile factory. There is a strike that day. The women workers form a picket line in the field where the buildings are sited. They move in a circle one behind the other singing stamping their feet on the ground clapping their hands. They have black blouses and woollen scarves. All the windows, all the doors of the factory are closed. One or other of them carries at arm's length a placard on which slogans are written, painted in red on the white paper. Under their feet in the field is a circle of beaten earth.
Or else someone comments on the series of photographs of demonstrations. The women demonstrators advance all holding a book in their upraised hands. The faces are remarkable for their beauty. Their compact mass bursts into the square, quickly but without violence, borne by the impetus intrinsic to its size. Great commotions take place at various points in the square when the demonstrators attempt to halt around groups of one or more speakers. But they are immediately pushed dragged along by the thousands of young women who follow them and who stop in their turn. Despite the disturbance of the general order created by individual movements there is no trampling underfoot, there are no shouts, there are no sudden violent rushes, the speakers are able to stay put. At a certain point the whole crowd begins to come to a halt. It takes some time for it to come to a complete standstill. Over to one side speeches have commenced, voices over the loud-speakers claim the attention of the demonstrators.
The cranes have laid bare the rootlets of a tree. With grabs they have unearthed the brittle filiform curled extremities. Shrivelled shrunken decaying leaves are attached to them. Systematically demarcating the zones from which the tree is nourished they have arrived at the centre of the tree, the trunk. They have freed the buried tree completely, branches leaves trunk roots. The eroded whitened trunk seems almost transparent. Branches and roots look alike. From the main branches and roots there come off twigs that form a complicated tangled network, sparsely cluttered in places by a few leaves, a few fruits.
The water party is heralded by a rattle of very hard wood, box or sandalwood, which, shaken, makes a discordant noise. The water is collected in vats of enormous capacity. Others are situated in cellars invaded by the tide. As a general rule there is always plenty of water. It is used to soak the ground before undertaking any construction. It is thus that the outlines of secondary roads can be laid down, trenches dug, new terraces built, roundabouts constructed.
Laure Jamais begins her story with, Plume, plume l'escargot, petit haricot. It is about Iris Our. Laure Jamais says, is she or is she not dead? Her nerves relax. She moves more feebly. The severed carotid releases gushes of blood. There is some on her white garments. It has flowed over her breast, it has spread, there is some on her hands. Though bright, it seems thickened and coagulated. Clots have formed crusts on her clothes. Iris Our's arms dangle on either side. Her legs are outstretched. A fly comes and settles. Later it can be heard still buzzing. The window is open, on its other side there stir the branches of a pale green acacia. The sky is not to be seen. Iris Our's eyes are closed. There is a sort of smile on her lips, her teeth are bared. Later the smile broadens, it is the beginning of a laugh. However the severed carotid allows no sound to form at her lips, save for a gurgling attributable to the swallowing of blood.
The first women to swim up the river make the flying-fish jump. They have rounded saffron-coloured bodies. They are seen rising up out of the water, lifting themselves. They fall back noisily. Everywhere the fish begin to leave the water. At a certain point the swimming women find themselves in the shallows. Their hands and feet encounter fishy bodies, make them leap up. Between the pale blue sky and the ochre water there are the red bodies of fish moving away, leaping.
The women look at the old colour engraving. Someone says of it, these are women in royal blue uniform marching in platoon. There are fifteen of them. Their trousers have a black stripe at the side. The uniforms have gilt buttons. They advance to the sound of the music of a fife. Above their heads the trees are tossed by the wind. White acacia blossom and lime blossom fall on their heads. One of the women begins to laugh. On the square the noise of the fountain is so great that it drowns the music. But, whether because the musicians have redoubled their efforts or because they are a match for the fountain, at a certain point the sound of the water is only faintly heard. The windows of the houses are open. No heads appear in them. The women traverse the length of the main street and halt under the arcades. Their marching order is broken. They enter chattering and the people in the café, turning their heads towards them, regard them. In the midst of the royal blue uniforms there is a woman clothed entirely in red, also in uniform.
DEMONA EPONINA GABRIELA
FULVIA ALEXANDRA JUSTINE
PHILOMELA CELINE HELENA
PHILIPPINA ZOÉ HORTENSE
SOR DOMINIQUE ARABELLA
MARJOLAINE LOIS ARMANDA
As regards the feminaries the women say for instance that they have forgotten the meaning of one of their ritual j
okes. It has to do with the phrase, The bird of Venus takes flight towards evening. It is written that the lips of the vulva have been compared to the wings of a bird, hence the name of bird of Venus that has been given them. The vulva has been compared to all kinds of birds, for instance to doves, starlings, bengalis, nightingales, finches, swallows. They say that they have unearthed an old text in which the author, comparing vulvas to swallows, says that he does not know which of them moves better or has the faster wing. However, The bird of Venus takes flight towards evening, they say they do not know what this means.
The golden fleece is one of the designations that have been given to the hairs that cover the pubis. As for the quests for the golden fleece to which certain ancient myths allude, the women say they know little of these. They say that the horseshoe which is a representation of the vulva has long been considered a lucky charm. They say that the most ancient figures depicting the vulva resemble horseshoes. They say that in fact it is in such a shape that they are represented on the walls of palaeolithic grottos.
The women say that the feminaries give pride of place to the symbols of the circle, the circumference, the ring, the O, the zero, the sphere. They say that this series of symbols has provided them with a guideline to decipher a collection of legends they have found in the library and which they have called the cycle of the Grail. These are to do with the quests to recover the Grail undertaken by a number of personages. They say it is impossible to mistake the symbolism of the Round Table that dominated their meetings. They say that, at the period when the texts were compiled, the quests for the Grail were singular unique attempts to describe the zero the circle the ring the spherical cup containing the blood. They say that, to judge by what they know about their subsequent history, the quests for the Grail were not successful, that they remained of the nature of a legend.
Les Guerilleres Page 2