As he walked, Tjandrinahr witnessed various scenes of this vast love and this vast war. About the 11th hour, as he rested in the heat of the day, nature provided him with a spectacle. It was on the edge of a wood. The stream advanced in front of him through a grassland punctuated by trees and marshes.
Tjandrinahr was enjoying the shade of an ash-tree. A magpie was watching him from a high branch. An immense spider, having finished remaking its yellow-tinted web, was watching the movements of a buzzing swarm of flies. Larvae of every sort were flourishing in an old fallen tree, and minuscule masterpieces were blossoming there.
Beavers were gathered on the bank of the stream, constructing a dam. Already, one old tree was fixed across the watercourse. The artisans had divided up the work; some were cutting slender trees or thick branches, transforming them into similar pieces and sharpening them; others, working in groups, were fixing piles under water, holding the pieces against the old tree, preparing the ground with their feet and tail-trowels or plastering the interstices of the pilings. The little colony was working away in this fashion in the wilderness—and Tjandrinahr recognized the distant precursors of lacustrian humankind, the educators of those who constructed villages on the waters.
A small cry of distress distracted him; a few feet away he saw a viper appear, holding a little bird—a wren. The tiny creature was struggling in mortal terror. At a movement from the man, the viper turned back, intending to disappear into a bush, and a little spiny quadruped with a gentle physiognomy—a hedgehog—suddenly appeared. At the sight of it, the snake released its prey, hissed, picked up its prey again and fled—but the hedgehog caught up with it at a rapid run, and struck it with its paw.
The reptile accepted the battle, raised its slender head with bleak eyes, and displayed its fangs. The other, unintimidated, sniffed the venomous maw. Furiously, the snake struck and bit the quadruped’s muzzle three times. Paying no heed, the latter made several efforts to seize its enemy, and received further bites. Then, suddenly, the viper was seized, its head crushed between the hedgehog’s teeth; within an instant, the latter had devoured almost half the vanquished individual—after which, licking its lips, invulnerable to venom, it calmly carried away the rest: the stump of the reptile, quivering, twisting and coiling with a horrible vitality.
Tjandrinahr was thinking of getting under way again when he heard a whinny of distress, and a large wild horse ran over the crest of a hill. Its mane flew up with the speed of its progress, in ten-meter bounds, and its eyes were shining in anguish. Behind it was a chasing pack of large wolves, methodical and indefatigable. The horse had a start, however, and was able to hold and increase it, less weary than afraid.
The pack and its prey, running parallel to the stream, passed 100 paces from the man, with lightning speed. To continue the course it was necessary to skirt a little ash-wood, and as they got closer to it, the wolves scattered and spread out. There was a change of fortune; newcomers surged forth—a dozen wolves cleverly posted in advance in the wood.
Bewildered, the fugitive retraced its steps in part, and in a paroxysm of terror, and lust for life, the whole of its beautiful athletic body accelerated further, its legs launching the great body as rapidly as wings propel a falcon or a swallow—but the wolf pack surrounded it from all directions. It knocked some down, but others took their place; its course veered and turned back; it found itself within a great circle of howling beasts. Desperate, it tried to fight, charging frenetically. An old wolf leapt on its back, another bit its throat cruelly. It shook itself, and momentarily got free, neighing lugubriously. Then, all together, the carnivores covered it, tearing large wounds in its belly, its flanks and its breast—and the noble beast paid its tribute to the ineluctable law.
Tjandrinahr saw the victim get up gain two or three times, as the wolves drew out its entrails, its throat gaping, its hide and flesh ripped away, its bones laid bare; then it moaned painfully and gradually disappeared, shred by shred, into the wolves’ bloody mouths, and into their sepulchral stomachs.
That battle, its whinnies of agony and howls of triumph, had attracted the attention of the whole world. Animals fled in panic everywhere. An astonished aurochs, roused from a drowsy torpor, raced away at hazard, heedless of its direction. The monstrous beast cut through the troop of carnivores. One wolf was unfortunate enough to be in its path; the aurochs took it by surprise. The wolf was powerful, expert and agile, but the powerful horns lifted it up without effort, hurling it through the air, helplessly—and all the predators were glad to flee, to get away from the implacable horns of the king of the forest and the savannah.
Then Tjandrinahr resumed his course. He left the woods and went over hills. Finally, he reached the Ariès outpost, not far from a large marsh. Twenty men were waiting for him there, the oldest of which said to him: “Father, men from the mountains have taken refuge in the marsh, pursued by the Ou-Loâ. Our allies are few in number, the Ou-Loâ more than 100…”
“We must gather the men from the nearest posts together,” Tjandrinahr replied, “and attempt to rescue the men of the mountains.”
III. The Marsh
The mountain-dwellers were in full flight. Initially, they had had an advantage of 5000 meters, but that advantage had diminished because of the women, although all of them marched with celerity. Eï-Mor, in spite of the approach of her own people, and Eyrimah, in spite of her fears, were faithful in their flight; Rob-Sen’s daughter felt a sentiment of pride and admiration for Tholrog; Eyrimah’s gratitude and love of her race, and also the uncertainty of her fate, combated her affection for In-Kelg.
The lake-dwellers gained ground continually. At first, they had only been glimpsed at intervals, at the hazard of climbs or descents. Now, in the plain sparsely strewn with hillocks, some of them were always perceptible. They often shouted threats, brandishing their spears or their large bows. The mountain-dwellers ran in a taciturn fashion, keeping as straight a course as possible, always guided by Tahmen, who had learned the rare and difficult art of not describing a curve when marching over a plateau or a plain.
The terrain was damp, strewn with small pools, which slowed the flight down. They were sometimes marching through actual mud, over rotten vegetation. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no end to it; the pools were accumulating.
Tholrog searched for some lateral exit; to the right and the left the country was similar in nature, or even more extensively submerged. It was necessary to continue whatever the risk, although progress was becoming almost impracticable. A veritable marsh extended before them, interrupted by islands where herons were perched on their long legs, some lost in the immobile dream of their race, others hunting. Frogs were croaking; slender reptiles could be seen fleeing amid the bulrushes, and water-fowl becoming agitated.
While the mountain-dwellers were hesitating, howls went up. On turning round, Tholrog saw the lacustrians 2000 meters away. He replied to their threats with a long trumpet-blast, searching with his eyes for some way forward or some combat position. Spurred on by the proximity of the adversary, the mountain-dwellers increased their efforts. The perfidious stagnant waters impeded them, full of tangled algae, filamentous plants and reeds.
One of the men marching at the head was nearly swallowed up; they were forced to deviate, following the edge of the marsh. The lake-dwellers were no more than 1000 meters away. Eyrimah and Eï-Mor had recognized In-Kelg among them. The lacustrians were also advancing less rapidly, however, and because of their greater number were not obtaining as much advantage from favorable places; often forced to divide up, they were losing time in waiting, ensuring the parallelism of their progress. Even so, the outcome of the pursuit was not in doubt; Tholrog’s men could only move sideways along the marsh or turn back; both alternatives would lead to contact with the enemy. Their only hope was to find a passage across the marsh itself; they all searched for one anxiously, scrutinizing the sinister landscape.
“There!” a warrior suddenly cried. He pointed to a sort of narr
ow path that extended a long way over the waters. Tholrog, Irkwar and Tahmen tested it and found it soft on the surface but hard underneath. There was no time to hesitate; the lake-dwellers were almost within bowshot. Tholrog moved on to the little causeway. At its broadest, it permitted two or three men to walk abreast; often, it was necessary to go in single file.
In spite of these difficulties, the relative firmness of the ground allowed the fugitives to increase their lead slightly. On seeing that, the lake-dwellers fired arrows, but they did not reach the causeway, sinking into the algae. The mountain-dwellers only increased their pace, albeit apprehensively, for they did not know where they would end up. Masses of vegetation obscured the view.
A gap appeared in the bulrushes and tall reeds. Tahmen made an anxious gesture; the path was coming to an end. A kind of triangular near-island appeared, almost rocky, with sheer sides, covered by a few decrepit willows. Tholrog examined the terrain bleakly. It was the end; the flight having been interrupted, combat would become inevitable.
The near-island was, however, defensible. With its slightly-raised borders and its tangle of vegetation, they could take cover there. The narrow approach would only permit men to come through two abreast at first; the enemy would inevitably lose a great part of its numerical advantage. If the mountain men had had enough bows, arrows and javelins, it would have been almost impossible to force their retreat. Unfortunately, they only had a dozen bows, 30 arrows and a few javelins. Assuming that a third of the shots struck home, that was enough to kill a dozen enemies. They would still have stones, and branches convertible into arrows, but arrows with poor points picked up at hazard from the pebbles of the refuge and chiseled in haste. The lacustrians, by contrast, were abundantly provided with weapons of jet and ammunition.
In spite of the conditions of inferiority, Tholrog did not believe the peril to be insurmountable. While the defense was organized, a few warriors sent forth the mountain-dweller’s challenge; trumpets roared over the bleak landscape, over the dull and funereal waters. Flocks of ducks took off and the herons on the promontories became uneasy.
A large black cloud, with a quivering phosphorescent nimbus at its pale borders, advanced across the face of the Sun, beginning to cast the marsh into the shade. The lake-dwellers took time to confer before starting out along the narrow pathway.
The mountain-dwellers’ best marksmen took possession of the available bows; Irkwar’s and Tholrog’s had a huge span and a vast range. Some of the others started shaping rare flakes of stone; the rest fashioned branches into crude arrows.
Eï-Mor and Eyrimah waited in anguish, afraid of the somber alternatives. As the prospect of combat came closer, Eï-Mor felt a considerable solicitude for Tholrog mounting within her, but she was also moved by the idea of seeing her brother again and finding herself back among her own people. She was only half-aware of her sympathy for the foreigner, sensing the intoxication she would have experienced in living with Tholrog, if he had been born of the people of the lakes.
As for Eyrimah, her love went invincibly toward In-Kelg, but her abomination of the lake-dwellers had increased considerably. She loathed and hated them; she was proud of belonging to the mountain-folk. Torn between these sentiments, her desire was unable to take precise form—or, rather, she wished vaguely that the lacustrian might be defeated, but that In-Kelg alone might survive the battle, and that the young man might be permitted to live among the mountain people.
The son of Talaun was also agitated as he thought about the outcome of the battle; the idea of losing the young women was particularly poignant among the miseries of defeat. In that lugubrious moment, they were still battling within him—but how dominant Rob-Sen’s daughter was!
“They’re coming!” a warrior shouted.
Bows in hand, Tholrog and Irkwar followed their adversaries’ progress. Their approach was prudent. The vegetation fringing the refuge prevented them from seeing the mountain men, while the latter could see them quite well on the pathway. Eventually, one of the lacustrians extended a long-range bow and fired an arrow. The dart fell into the water a few meters from the shelter.
In his turn, Tholrog flexed his bow. The arrow whistled away, and flew straight to its target, the lake-dweller’s throat. He fell. His companions retreated out of range. The throbbing voice of trumpets sang over the water.
“They don’t have bows as powerful as Tholrog’s!” cried the mountain men.
Another lacustrian warrior was seen to advance then, though not as far as the first. Tremulously, Eï-Mor and Eyrimah recognized In-Kelg. In a resounding voice, he shouted: “If you surrender Eyrimah and Rob-Sen’s daughter we will let you go.”
Meanwhile, Irkwar took aim at the young man. “He’s not close enough,” he said, irritatedly.
Tholrog, fearing that his companions might yield to In-Kelg’s conditions, remained silent. With a shiver of gratitude he heard Tahmen say: “Do we believe the word of the lake-dwellers?”
The mountain men, excited by their leader’s first success, replied with scornful shouts, and Tholrog, taking a step forward outside the refuge, answered: “Eï-Mor’s fate will be decided after the war! And we shall never give up the daughter of the mountains!”
“Very well!” cried Rob-Sen’s son—and he drew his bow, which was smaller than Tholrog’s.
The mountain men jeered. In-Kelg fired, and his arrow, to everyone’s profound astonishment, reached the refuge, brushing Irkwar’s head. Instantly, the young lake-dweller fired another arrow, and Tholrog, pricked in the throat, uttered a cry of anger. Beside himself, he bounded forward, flexing his bow; his arrow buried itself in In-Kelg’s shoulder. A few arrows fell harmlessly close to the mountain man; then there was a hectic clamor, as savage souls thrilled with battle-rage and tumultuous race-hatred.
Fearful of poison, Hogioé sucked her brother’s wound forcefully; it was not deep. Eï-Mor and Eyrimah were frightened, their hands and breasts trembled; the abomination had arrived! Life seemed to them more sinister than the livid marsh, where the feverish shadow of huge clouds quivered.
An odor of storm and death was released by the putrescence of the water and plants; a wind of lamentation gusted at intervals, turning about with a splashing sound.
Then, a giant lacustrian came forward, as tall as Irkwar and even broader; his abrupt face painted with red dye, and his taut, profound and swollen torso, was suggestive of some kind of indolent monster, like a tiger, built for speed and for the employment of a rapid and ferocious strength. He raised his voice, full of insults. He spoke of the eternal victory of the men of the waters, the centuries-long defeat of the mountain folk.
“Who among you dares look me in the face?”
Tholrog, Irkwar and Wamb challenged him: “Do your men dare to go back to the edge of the marsh!”
The colossus instructed his companions to do so. At first, they refused, for the lake-dwellers did not like single combats, being an ant-like race, not an individualistic one. Before the insistence of their champion, however, and taking pride in seeing him so large and terrible, they gave in.
Tholrog wanted to meet the challenge, but his companions, especially Irkwar, prevented him from doing so. “You’re wounded,” Irkwar said. “Let me go.”
Irkwar prevailed; armed with an oak-wood club and a stone axe, he went to face the lacustrian, who awaited him with an axe in each hand
They both exemplified rare types, superb humans created for battling against nature and their fellows. Infinite experiments were summarized in their dense and rapid musculature, their harmonious bone structure and their strong, light well-balanced heads. But the lacustrian was the squarer of the two in every respect, Irkwar more oblong. Their heads summarized that difference; the mountain man’s was long, the forehead neatly-cut without lateral projections, the back of the head streamlined; the other’s was round and compact, the forehead broad and the temples swollen.
Irkwar’s face, his clear complexion reddened by fine pure blood, brightened by fra
nk eyes that anger rendered resplendent, although somewhat confused, was abundantly covered with fair and silky hair. The lake-dweller’s face, very short, with contracted and pre-eminent jaws, grim yellow eyes shielded by thick eyelids, a thick but sloping chin and dark hair, displayed stubbornness and the harsh courage of large carnivorous hunters.
With his eyes half-closed, crouching slightly, the lake-dweller watched his adversary approach.
As he did so, Irkwar became animated, bellicose wrath misting his blue gaze, his sanguinary arteries dilating, throbbing impetuously. He arrived thus within five meters of the lake-dweller. “I am here, man of the lakes.”
The other did not understand him, but brandished his axes. Irkwar raised his club—and they looked at one another attentively, seeking to surprise one another.
Irkwar became impatient first. The great club whirled and lashed out. It fell back without striking home; the lacustrian had changed position. His entire being expressed strength, its musculature promising a lightning release. With a natural instinct for combat, Irkwar saw that redoubtable pose and braced himself to receive the impact.
It was the pounce of a lion. Everything—the leap, the extension of the arms, the two axes—concurred in the same objective. Irkwar’s gaze perceived each of the phases of the movement; his club was placed across the axes’ trajectory, and his own axe was raised for a riposte—and everything happened like a collision of avalanches. The club was torn loose and rolled into the marsh, along with one of the lacustrian’s axes. Irkwar’s riposte was a trifle belated, for the mountain man had tottered; the dark-haired colossus was able to avoid the blow.
They recovered defensive postures, each intact but having measured one another’s strength, full of respectful hatred for one another. Then their axes whirled, feinting and threatening, searching for an opening. As Irkwar took a step forward, the lacustrian uttered a howl to disconcert his adversary, parried a back-handed thrust, and precipitated himself forward. The blond giant retreated, struck. His thrust carried away part of the lacustrian’s left ear and grazed the sloping shoulder, but in return, he had received a blow under the hip that, although deadened by a parry, had cut into the flesh.
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