Vamireh

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  Maddened then, they redoubled their attacks. Their crashing axes met one another several times, chipping one another—and again the lake-dweller howled and launched his terrible assault. Irkwar stopped him with a counter-move, and the axes, colliding frantically, shattered into smithereens.

  Neither of them held anything now but a wooden stump. In tacit accord, looking one another in the eyes, they threw the debris away; they were unarmed, avidly ardent to match their naked strength—and each of them saw his antagonist’s muscular splendor more clearly, and the uncertainty of victory. Force was inscribed in the arms hanging loosely from their vast shoulders: youthful, living, palpitating force. Their unblemished torsos swelled proudly, with fine hard pectoral muscles, square in the lacustrian, rounded in Irkwar. Their whole flesh expressed a poem of superb humanity, worthy of vanquishing immense predators and colossal herbivores.

  Irkwar resumed the combat. His fist lashed out at the enemy, making him reel—but he immediately received a redoubtable blow himself, and, renouncing all indirect action, they fell upon one another, gripped by the fury of hand-to-hand combat. Then there was the heavy vacillation of breasts, the dull impact of limbs, the cracking of joints, and the raucous challenges of renewed holds. On the narrow causeway, the conflict was complicated by the proximity of the marsh, into which each man tried to push his adversary.

  The lacustrian, struck by a head-butt, staggered, and his knee bent. Irkwar grabbed him at an angle, weighed upon him heavily, and tried to force him down, but the other, keeping one knee on the ground, rapidly changed his grip and lifted the mountain man off the ground. Irkwar then took his adversary’s head in both hands, twisted it, and braced himself for the fall. Thrown down with terrible force, he reacted by turning away; they both rolled on the ground, side by side, but Irkwar was slightly underneath.

  Lying across the pathway, deploying their strength to the full, they remained motionless, mutually neutralizing their efforts. Suddenly, Irkwar gave in to the disadvantage of his position, and provided the impulse to roll over himself; in his turn, the lacustrian found himself half-vanquished. Breathlessly, he let go and struck Irkwar in the face violently. Irkwar returned the blow. They each came upright with a bound, and looked at one another as before, with as much hatred as admiration, fully conscious of the equality of their strength.

  Their souls drifted in the gross warrior sensuality that balances lust. They were aware of a mysterious grandeur, a sentiment of funereal beauty, some strange reflection of infinitely remote times in which their ancestors had battled the power of forests and vast creatures. In the lacustrian giant, however, that stirred up nothing but an avid desire to defeat his enemy, to rip him apart and trample his cadaver, while in Irkwar, an indefinable regret awoke, a dawn of fraternity for the splendid adversary.

  Their fists extended, as at the beginning of the fight, the man of the lakes gathered himself, condensing himself for his predatory pounce, and Irkwar’s rapid instinct reacted in a supreme defensiveness.

  The dark body launched itself forward, both fists flying. Irkwar slipped sideways, struck near the temple—but while momentum carried the aggressor forward, the mountain man launched a flank attack with his knees and fists. He made a triple contact with the other, and precipitated him into the marsh.

  The furious cries of the lacustrians and the roaring trumpets of the mountain men greeted this turn of events. Astonished, Irkwar’s gaze searched for his antagonist; he had dived. Invisible for several seconds, he reappeared 20 meters away and leapt back up on to the causeway, dripping wet and soiled with blackish mud. Immediately, growling his challenge, he came back to resume the fight. Breaking the agreement, however, his companions invaded the causeway, several of them flexing bows. Irkwar only just had time to bear a precipitate retreat.

  “Cowardly water-vipers!” he howled at the lacustrians. “Filthy worms!”

  The mountain men joined their insults to his. They brandished their weapons at the entrance to the refuge, welcoming their champion triumphantly.

  “Irkwar has vanquished the great auorchs of the waters!”

  Meanwhile, the lacustrians had not advanced to within bowshot. To the insults of the mountain men they opposed other insults. Their colossus, still black with mud, launched a new challenge, and In-Kelg, in spite of his wound, added his own threats to those of his men.

  “The men of the lakes are too cowardly!” cried Tholrog. “Their word is merely a magpie’s cry!”

  “We shall destroy your villages!” In-Kelg shouted, proudly. “We shall take your warriors into slavery. Nothing can withstand Rob-Sen!”

  “Kiwasar will take the lakes!” Tholrog yelled. “Our allies in the west will destroy Rob-Sen’s army!”

  The trumpets sobbed again, and the marsh became darker. The great cloud was like the wing of an immense rook. The reeds and bulrushes sighed over the sinister water. The wind dropped, and then picked up again, swirling. The daylight was sullen and melancholy, the elements solemn.

  In-Kelg, the giant of the lakes and all the enemies withdrew to the damp shore of the marsh, behind a curtain of willows. Only their sentinels remained, on watch like wading birds over the lagoons. And the mountain-dwellers were troubled by that silence full of ambushes…

  IV. Tjandrinahr

  Time went by. Heavy drops of rain began falling several times, then stopped. The huge cloud rotated, attacked by antagonistic winds. Broad and soft lightning-flashes cut through the background of the landscape. Very distant thunder released grave and long-drawn-out rumbles. A phosphorescent tint slid mysteriously over the viscous water.

  The mountain men kept watch, anxiously. In-Kelg appeared at the entrance to the willow-grove, and then a company of lake-dwellers. At the first glimpse, the mountain-dwellers realized that the round-heads had united their little shields, fabricated from slender branches, into a sort of broad shelter, under the cover of which they would set themselves. They were protected against arrows fired vertically, either by the shields or leather-covered branches.

  Tholrog and his companions were overtaken, not by dread but by a great bitterness, a confused hatred directed against excessively harsh destiny.

  As they were meditating, In-Kelg advanced on to the pathway across the water. “Men of the mountain, do you not want to save your lives by surrendering Eï-Mor and Eyrimah?”

  Tholrog darted a despairing glace at the women, Eï-Mor, meeting his gaze, returned it boldly, with a gentle expression on her face. Once again, he sensed that Rob-Sen’s daughter had vanquished Eyrimah. “What answer should we give?” he asked.

  The man-of-hidden-things got up prophetically. “Their words are lies. Even if we surrender the women, our lives will not be spared. I will reply!” In an arrogant voice, in a vague idiom mixing the language of the lakes with that of the mountains, he bellowed: “The men of the high country do not surrender captives, and Rob-Sen’s daughter will die with us. She will die before your eyes, if you attack our refuge!”

  Tholrog looked at the captive then. There was nothing in her black eyes or dull face—no protest against the declaration of the man-of-hidden-things. By contrast, he, the young chief, made a gesture of terror and anxiety, which she perceived, and which brought a faint girlish smile, tender and malicious, to her lips.

  “Are the men of the mountains refusing to surrender Eï-Mor?” In-Kelg demanded.

  “They are refusing to trust the words of lying beasts!”

  There was a pregnant silence. Night seemed to be descending upon the marsh, so thick had the vast cloud become. The lake-dwellers moved their shelter of shields and branches forward.

  Suddenly, the man-of-hidden-things began to vociferate terribly, proffering howling incantations and hurling stones into the sky. The lightning-flashes multiplied, and the thunder rumbled more closely. “I was holding back the storm!” cried the man-of-hidden-things. “Now, let it come!” With a wild gesture he seemed to be gripping the great cloud and drawing it down. Then he lifted his hand, holdi
ng a toad that he must have found in some cavity; he threw it into the water.

  They all looked at him in admiration, partly believing in his power. “I launch the storm!” he roared at the lacustrians. “The men of the lakes will be sorry!”

  The rain started falling. The mountain men howled enthusiastically.

  The lake-dwellers continued their advance nevertheless, to within bowshot, to a place where the rocky path broadened out. There they fixed their shelter with the aid of stakes cut from the willows; it was about five meters high. At the base, they had furnished it with animal skins and fabrics, in such a way that it was perfectly secured against their adversaries’ arrows. When that was done they brought forth a kind of crude platform made of ash-branches, and their most skilful archers hoisted themselves on to it, overlooking the mountain-dwellers’ refuge. They could peer through the interstices of their shelter, select a victim, and fire rapidly, hardly exposing themselves at all, and for a very short period. Other warriors, inferior marksmen, protected their heads.

  In these conditions, the mountain men’s retreat became inadequate to protect them all. A dozen of them, crouching or lying down, would risk their lives by the slightest movement. Two warriors made the experiment. One stuck his head out from behind a jutting rock, the other thought he might be able to change his position for a better one. They were immediately seen by piercing eyes and three arrows were fired. One of the mountain men rolled on the ground, hit in the temple; the other drew an arrow from his arm.

  A ferocious rumor from the lacustrians followed this success. The mountain-dwellers were prey to a shameful distress. “We’re going to die like wolves in a trap!” Irkwar complained.

  Soaked by the heavy rain, having eaten little since the morning, under the threat of death to which it was necessary to crouch down, without budging, the situation was intolerable. The bravest were more enraged than the others—and the cadaver of their companion, struck in the head, added to the desolation.

  The storm increased its violence. The rain fell in resounding cascades; the view was obscured by a veil, a cataclysmic penumbra. The marsh splashed beneath an avalanche of stones—and immense lightning flashes lit up close at hand, like vast pale and fugitive suns.

  The man-of-hidden-things cried into the tempest: “The men of the lakes will be sorry!”

  An arrow replied to his bravado. Another warrior sprawled in death. Then, seized by frenzy, the man-of-hidden-things seized Eï-Mor, lifted her up and carried her to the front of the refuge, sheltering himself behind her. “The daughter of Rob-Sen will die!”

  Tholrog, going pale, rushed forward. “Shut up!”

  “The daughter of Rob-Sen will die,” the other repeated, “if the men of the lakes do not withdraw out of bowshot!”

  “If you touch the daughter of Rob-Sen, every one of you will perish!” cried a deep voice. “If you surrender the daughter of Rob-Sen, you will be freed. May Yar-Am strike us all, and our families, if we are lying!”

  The mountain men looked at one another. Bitterly, Tholrog saw the indecision in their faces. The man-of-hidden-things murmured: “What do you want to do, son of Talaun?”

  Tholrog’s heart weakened. He could not sacrifice the lives of his companions to his desire to keep Eï-Mor. Taking a sudden decision, he said: “The word of the mountain-people is surer than that of the men of the lakes…what proof will the chief of the lake-dwellers give us?”

  “If the men of the mountain promise to surrender Eï-Mor, we will withdraw 1000 meters from the shore. We will abandon our shelter of shields, behind which you will be safe from attack, and we will leave you provisions for two days. When Eï-Mor is with us, we will leave this land!”

  The mountain men uttered exclamations, favorably surprised.

  “Will the men of the lakes give us time to confer?”

  “Very well.”

  Tholrog said to his companions: “Let those who wish to speak, speak!”

  “We have to surrender Rob-Sen’s daughter!”

  “And if the men of the lakes don’t leave?”

  “We’ll have their shelter, and provisions—the time to find a way out.”

  “What if they attack us by night, on rafts?”

  “Can we too not construct a raft before nightfall,” cried the man-of-hidden-things, “and pass by that means over these seemingly-deep waters?”

  “Very well,” said Tholrog, “let us reflect in silence—and if, thereafter, you want to surrender Rob-Sen’s daughter, I will reply to the men of the lakes.” His soul was as sad as the great lake; he never ceased contemplating Eï-Mor. The young woman was almost as somber as he was, caught between the instinct that pushed her toward the blond chief and the memories that called her toward the lake-dwellers.

  The time approached. Tholrog’s heart was beating tumultuously; confusedly, he interrogated the horizon; the rain that limited the view was no longer transpierced by lightning flashes. His entire being, taken by surprise, felt the force of the delicate, savage and unbreakable bonds of love.

  “She must go!”

  Suddenly, in the depths, in the squalls and the drifting mists, he seemed to hear shouting. It was coming from behind the refuge, where the waters were more clearly displayed. “Can you hear that?”

  “Yes, we hear it.” Tahmen replied.

  The clamor was renewed: the clamor of numerous voices in the wind. Their eyes on the marsh, they shivered. Tahmen and Tholrog, renowned for the penetration of their sight, thought they could see something like an islet moving in the distance.

  “Are they not enemies?” said Irkwar.

  “We’re in the Ariès’ lands.”

  Extending his hand, Tahmen murmured: “Men!”

  In the vague mist, Tholrog, and then Irkwar and other companions, also perceived them. The emotion of the besieged, equally prey to hope and anguish, was exacerbated.

  The voice of the lacustrian chief interrupted them. “Are the men of the heights ready to reply?”

  What should they do? What should they say? Uncertainty stifled them.

  “The time has come to reply!”

  The rain was easing slightly now; the view was clearer. Tahmen could see the outline of a huge raft, men clad in pale fabric, with elongated shields. “The Ariès!”

  And Tholrog shouted, in an authoritative voice: “We will not surrender the daughter of Rob-Sen!”

  The clamor on the waters was like an endorsement of their refusal: the mountain men, huddled in their refuge, replied to it forcefully.

  Now, through the rain, beneath the pallor of the firmament, they could see the raft bearing 60 men. It was advancing slowly. At the tip of the prow stood a silhouette, with a pike in hand. Gradually, they recognized the bronze axes, doubly-pointed shields and the long lances of the Ariès.

  The lake-dwellers watched that approach furiously, deliberating. Luck had turned against them. With the advent of the raft, they felt the absence of their fatherland more keenly, and all the ambushes of unknown territory. Already the newcomers could get behind them, while the mountain men charged from the front. Save for In-Kelg, grimly exasperated by the misfortune, they all became afraid of being so far advanced in unknown territory.

  “Let’s launch a surprise attack!” said In-Kelg.

  “It would be slow!” the chief replied. “No more than three of us can go forward together. During that time, the men from the west will arrive—the men of the heights will probably kill Eï-Mor rather than surrender her now. Do you desire her death, Rob-In-Kelg?”

  In-Kelg bowed his head before the force of these arguments.

  The raft continued its approach. The Ariès were almost all standing upright, ready for combat, protected by their long shields. In the purified atmosphere, where nothing was any longer falling but a dwindling rain, and in which a divine light was filtering through a pale and fine cloud, as if through the vast petal of a water-lily, the silhouette of the man standing in the bow was clearly discernible; Tahmen and Tholrog could disting
uish the gravity of his expression.

  Irkwar’s voice greeted him, shouting a welcome, and the Ariè extended his arms in a sign of alliance.

  At that moment, the lake-dwellers decided to retreat. They were seen running away from their shelter in a precipitate withdrawal. Irkwar was able to shoot one of them down with an arrow; they did not even respond, accelerating their progress and putting all their energy into a safe retreat.

  The raft arrived close by, amid the ardent enthusiasm of the mountain-dwellers. Their naïve, young and strong minds, admiring the allies, found them singularly handsome and heroically powerful.

  The man standing to the fore came ashore. Tholrog and Irkwar advanced to meet him, stammering a few Ariè words with difficulty. Tjandrinahr put his hands on the shoulders of the two mountain men and replied in their own language. “The Ariès are glad to see you in their lands!”

  “Father,” Tholrog replied, “your son of the mountains offers you the life you have saved.”

  The Ariès looked at the tall mountain men sympathetically, recognizing that they were strong and redoubtable—and between the descendants of those who had come from the Land of the Seven Rivers,14 the sons of the splendid and complex human race of the Ariès, and the vanquished sons of ancient Quaternary Europe there was a tender amity, like the prescience of superb destinies that would bring their united races to nothing thousands of years hence.

  V. The Fusion of Races

  A third of the night had elapsed. Tholrog was asleep in a cabin on the Ariès’ great lake. He and his companions occupied the extremity of an island-village close to the shore. In a delightful post-pluvial sky, moonlight was shining on the lake.