Vamireh

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  A furtive noise woke Tholrog up. He sat up, and saw a black form in front of the hut, limned by moonlight. He was about to get up and grab a spear, but he suddenly recognized the silhouette of Eï-Mor. Then he lay down and shut his eyes again, cunningly feigning sleep. An extraordinary force dilated his heart.

  The young woman drew nearer, leaned over silently. No longer blocking the moonlight, she examined Tholrog’s face. She seemed anxious; then a half-smile creased her lips. She stayed there, looking and listening. Tholrog saw her neck lit by a bright moonbeam, her eyes softly attentive. She straightened up again, and left.

  He listened to her light footsteps draw away, in a dream. Then he got up. He could see her, already some distance away on the islet. He called: “Eï-Mor.”

  She stopped. She did not turn round immediately. He caught up with her.

  “Why have you come?”

  “You’re wounded. I wanted to see…”

  “Why did you want to see?”

  She did not reply. A pure breeze blew over the islet, lifting up the tresses of the young woman’s hair; it was as if they had touched Tholrog.

  “Why did you want to see?”

  “I wanted to see if it was dangerous.”

  “It’s not dangerous. Would you like it to be dangerous?” As he pronounced these words, he felt his contentment vanish. The suspicion they expressed seemed plausible. Knowing that her own people were nearby, why should Rob-Sen’s daughter not desire the death of an enemy chief who had declared his intention to keep her forever? That idea was emphasized by the slight fever of his wound.

  Eï-Mor replied: “No, I wouldn’t like it to be dangerous.”

  Standing up straighter, he said, sharply: “If it were dangerous—if I died—you would be exchanged. You would be free. Had you thought of that, daughter of Rob-Sen?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that!”

  “Then why are you trembling?”

  She fell silent. Tholrog’s suspicions increased. The jealous vision of Eï-Mor returning to Rob-Sen’s camp, glad to be given back to her own people, tortured him. He fastened his aurochs-skin cloak over his shoulders and growled: “How did you escape from Dithèv’s custody?”

  She recoiled, fearfully. “Why are you angry? I know remedies for wounds. Didn’t you save me on the mountain?”

  Her pure voice, the darkness, and the mysterious immobility of the Moon’s rays on the ground began to mollify the young chief. “You wanted to heal me?”

  “Yes, if your wound had been dangerous.”

  “Is that true, daughter of Rob-Sen?”

  She nodded her head affirmatively.

  They were outside the huts. An extraordinary splendor decorated the waters, the dormant water-lilies and their large floating leaves. The croaking of distant frogs was as charming as the bleating of ewes. Tholrog felt his suspicions vanish, as they had come, with the rapidity of ripples on the water. The foreign woman seemed to promise profound and inexhaustible joys. “Eï-Mor!” he cried. “Would Tholrog’s death not be agreeable to you?”

  “I do not desire Tholrog’s death.”

  “Even if it set you free?”

  “It would not set me free.”

  “You would be exchanged for prisoners. Tholrog will not exchange you!”

  She turned away, troubled. She gazed at the lake. Marvelous nuances shimmered on the waters. The sky and the shores, vaster and more solemn, trembled in the light breeze as if they had been attached to supple and unbreakable cords.

  At intervals, a slight gust of wind was seen to advance very slowly. Waves rose in the distance, the ripples growing, enlarging and expiring with a slight murmur against the shore. In the direction of the Moon there was a pathway of silver and sapphire. The odor of the water was fresh, and sometimes a trifle feverish. It awoke a delightful disturbance.

  Insensibly, Tholrog and the young woman had drawn closer to one another on the edge of the platform. By leaning forward, they could see other villages, as if floating on the water. The roofs of huts were reminiscent of singular plants, and also of heaps of logs—large tree-trunks stripped of branches. Canoes were moored to the pilings of the islets; on the shore, patrolling watchmen passed one another by—for the entire lake was preparing for the war.

  Meanwhile, the nervous noises of the night were audible: a frog leaping into the water; a startled fish taking flight; a mysterious rat passing over a promontory; an anxious, agitated water-hen. A bat, fleeing some peril, passed overhead with a shrill cry, carrying its offspring clinging to its breast. A village of beavers—animals sacred to the Ariès—was perceptible in a bright moonbeam: a village built on pilings like those of men. In the distance, an urus bellowed, followed by a wolf’s howl. The splash of the waves still spoke its charming language.

  Tholrog felt slightly feverish, and that fever refined his impressions. While Eï-Mor was silent, he saw Eyrimah’s image take shape within him, but that image had scant power. In the contest of the two loves, Rob-Sen’s daughter loomed large, dominant. The man would rather not have had his captive by right of force.

  “Tholrog will not exchange you. Do you detest Tholrog?”

  She gathered all of her boldness, with the sentiment of her youthful power. “If Tholrog does not exchange me, what does he want to do with me?”

  “What one does with young and beautiful captives!” He adopted the tone of a conqueror, cold and rough. She shivered with pride and dolor. Her education as a chief’s daughter, destined for the sort of union in which a woman retains privilege and pride, was reanimated within her.

  “You are able to want that…and the daughter of Rob-Sen would no longer need to be exchanged.”

  Tholrog trembled. As a spark may set a forest ablaze, that reply convinced him to press on to the end. “You hate Tholrog, then?”

  “Eï-Mor might not be a chief’s first wife…others might be raised over her.”

  “What if no other were raised over you?”

  Eï-Mor became paler than the night. Tenderness transformed her face.

  Tholrog, captive of her imploring eyes, her young arms half-extended, said: “Among us, there is only one wife. Would you like to be Tholrog’s wife?”

  Eï-Mor’s gaze expressed joy, love and frankness. “I would like to be Tholrog’s wife!”

  “Even if you were free?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if you were at home, on your lakes, with Rob-Sen?”

  “Even if I were with my father!”

  A youthful and powerful sense of good fortune overwhelmed Tholrog. He took hold of Eï-Mor. “You shall be Tholrog’s wife!” He held her velvet body against him, those tresses whose caress had so often reappeared in his memory. He sensed a certain vertigo, and a weakness—but an even greater joy.

  They stayed as they were. The immense charm of the lake mingled with their savage souls. The Moon and the pale stars were there for them alone: the entirety of the duplicated sky, above and below, and the poplars, the willows and the intermittent plaint of the waters.

  He shivered.

  “Go back inside!” she told him.

  “Eï-Mor, are you happy with Tholrog?”

  “Very happy—but you must let your wound rest. Tomorrow, I shall gather some herbs for you.”

  He went back inside. He watched Eï-Mor leave—and, shivering all the while, he had a confused sentiment of the splendor of life and the vastness of the future.

  VI. The Great Battle

  Rob-Sen, the conqueror of the Ariès advance guards, was camped within sight of the Great Lake. All night long, his army’s fires had been reflected in the waters upstream, and all night long the lake remained illuminated by the Ariès’ fires and the furnaces of the Immohys, who were forging desperately.

  The Sun rose painfully; it was to illuminate one of humankind’s decisive battles. Depending on the victory or defeat of Rob-Sen, the orientation of its races might swing toward the Ou-Loâ or the Ariès. The trail of the Ariès, from Asia to the western seas
, was composed of populations of low density; the Ou-Loâ were still much more numerous; their tribes were in communication throughout the greater part of Europe. The news of a great victory over an important Ariè settlement could determine a general uprising to impede the previously-unvanquished invasion. Prolific and energetic, the Ou-Loâ would then be capable, within a century or two, of populating Europe strongly enough to resist the superior element, if not by force of arms, at least by force of numbers.

  If, by contrast, Rob-Sen were defeated, it would add further momentum to the dispersal of the Ariès—and it would relieve the pressure on the ancient race of the tall fair-haired people of the Quaternary epoch, driven back into the North and a few mountain regions.

  Rob-Sen’s position was the better one; he was camped upstream. Hills protected his flank. His front was bristling with scattered rocks. He also had the moral force of his victories over the advance guards and superiority of numbers: 12,000 men against 7000 Ariès. His army was divided into two parts: 8000 men that he commanded himself, and 4000 whose command two powerful tribes had deferred—in spite of Rob-Sen’s protests—to an old chief named An-Kar.

  The Ariès had taken cover in a beech-wood that formed a sort of quasi-island between streams and minuscule lakes. Both sides observed one another curiously. The Ou-Loâ were seen circulating between the poplars, elms and beeches on the edges of pools. Most often clad in woven fabrics, they were armed with arrows with triangular points, harpoons, stones, axes, clubs and lances. Their shields were small and round. Their faces were painted with blood-red emblems in order to hide wounds.

  The Ariès were armed with bronze weapons, catapults, bows and lances tipped with bronze or exceedingly hard stone. Their clothes were made of linen and leather. Their shields were long, with pointed ends. They were commanded by Visarmi, and, under him on either wing, Kouramas and Rova.

  An-Kar commenced that attack against Kouramas; it was driven back. The Ariès advanced as far as the enemy’s position.

  Rova then attacked Rob-Sen and took a hill. Rob-Sen sent reinforcements and took the hill back. Visarmi ordered Rova to reoccupy it, and the great battle began. It was terrible. Three times the hill was retaken. It remained Rob-Sen’s.

  During this time, Kouramas took the offensive against An-Kar. At the head of 2000 men he drove the Ou-Loâ back, and subjected them to heavy losses. The battle intensified, a similar ardor animating the two races. Kouramas, however, succeeded in crossing a stream. His archers contrived profound ravages, while he attacked impetuously elsewhere. An-Kar’s hordes were cut in two; half found themselves pressed back against a marsh, while the other half were in a depression, in which Kouramas dominated them. Enraged, An-Kar was forced to ask Rob-Sen for help.

  Now, at that moment, Rob-Sen, having retaken the hill for the third time, was mounting a forceful attack against Rova. He sent forth four successive columns of 1000 men, without being able to dislodge the Ariès—but the fifth time, they retreated.

  The Ariès’ supreme leader never ceased studying the battle. The silent grandeur and marvelous profundity of his race were alive in him. He had Tjandrinahr by his side, whose advice he held in high esteem. He sent 1000 men to help Rova.

  Rob-Sen received An-Kar’s messengers angrily; nevertheless, he gave him 1200 men. The day became solemn and grandiose. The whole of that corner of the Earth was filled with the anger of men. The races were measuring their past and future there, in death, courage and cunning. The ferocious will of nature was being accomplished there.

  The conflict between Rob-Sen and Rova remained indecisive for a long time; by virtue of the superiority of arms and the influence of character, 3000 Ariès held firm against 5000 Ou-Loâ. Kouramas, however, lost part of his advantage over An-Kar with the arrival of reinforcements; he made this known to the supreme chief. Visarmi, holding no more than 2000 men in reserve, and fearful of some surprise from Rob-Sen, hesitated.

  “What should we do, Tjandrinahr?”

  “I think we should send 300 men—and if that isn’t enough, 200 more in a little while, with Tholrog’s mountain men.”

  “Are the mountain men braver than the Ariès, then?”

  “No, Father, but I asked them this morning not to sound their trumpets. Hearing them unexpectedly, the Ou-Loâ might believe that we’ve received support from the mountains.”

  “Tjandrinahr is always the great sage of councils!” And Visarmi sent the reinforcements.

  Meanwhile, Rob-Sen grew impatient with the enemy’s resistance. He still had 2000 men in reserve. He launched half of them. After mounting marvelous resistance, Rova began to retreat—and in the meantime, Kouramas could make no progress against An-Kar, in spite of the reinforcements.

  The battle continued in this fashion for a long time, slow and indecisive. The Ariè chief followed the course of destiny coolly, but the depths of his inner being were somber. Finally, he gave further reinforcements to both Rova and Kouramas; he only had 1000 men still in hand. These reinforcements fell on to the battlefield like wood into a stove. It heated up, howling at the sky. Rova held Rob-Sen; Kouramas began to grind An-Kar down again.

  All of a sudden, amid the rumor of death, the mountain-dwellers’ trumpets roared. Tholrog appeared on a ridge with his own men, including the giant Irkwar, and Ariès clad in animal-skins. Other trumpets roared in the valley. Then, An-Kar’s warriors were troubled. They held firm, however, their anguish not manifesting itself as terror—but in response to an imperious charge by the Ariès, it revealed itself to be profound and irresistible. The men accumulated on the edge of the marsh—numbering 2000—collapsed and surrendered. Six hundred more were massacred in a ravine. The Ariès were, therefore, victorious on the right flank.

  Visarmi’s inner being was brightened. There was hope for the future of his race! He gave Rova all his reserves. Rob-Sen was similarly forced to exhaust his own. For an hour, destiny balanced 4000 Ariès against more than 6000 Ou-Loâ; the outcome remained doubtful, each side conserving its positions—but Kouramas, having completed his victory, came to Rova’s aid.

  Slowly, Rob-Sen was obliged to retreat into an encampment, a quarter of which he had lost. Thanks to men fleeing from An-Kar’s rout, who had taken refuge with him and returned to the battle, he prevented the Ariès from advancing further, repelling their attacks.

  At dusk, the battle was suspended.

  The Ariès were victorious, having killed 2000 enemies, taken as many prisoners, and put one of the Ou-Loâ’s wings to flight—but Rob-Sen was not yet defeated. He still had an army of 8000 men, strongly entrenched, against 6000 Ariès. He was thinking about resuming the battle the following day.

  Fate did not want that. Messengers came to Rob-Sen during the night to tell him that the mountain men had retaken the plateau of Dap-Iwr—the mountain-dwellers’ Iordjolk—and were threatening Lake Re-Alg.

  Then, assembling the Council, Rob-Sen cursed the stupidity of An-Kar, the cowardice of the defenders of Dap-Iwr, and proposed to sue for peace while the strength of his position permitted him to do so on advantageous terms.

  No one dared to raise a voice against him, and Rob-Sen acted in the capacity of supreme chief.

  VII. Peace

  Peace was made. It took nothing away from the Ou-Loâ’s territory, but it was advantageous to the liberty of the mountain folk and increased the power of the Ariès. Rob-Sen ruled over his people and commenced a dynasty, to which In-Kelg and Eyrimah belonged, the young lacustrian gloriously bearing off the young woman.

  The Moon had just risen. The great lake of the Ariès extended in infinite magnificence. A charm was in the air: the softness of things, the transparent quietness, the horizons that spoke the great language of mystery, and the beauty of the clear waters that always captivates the human heart.

  Eï-Mor and Tholrog were contemplating their last night on the lake. They were sitting in silence. They had spoken, and were thrilling in a marvelous concordance, in the union of their gentle barbaric souls. The lake was within
them—those silvery trails, its errant tiny creatures, its fugitive sounds—and so was the road through the mountains: the storm, the avalanche, the terrible marsh; all that was, for them, Love.

  Their silence lasted a long time—a very long time—and their affection grew continually softer. In the end, however, Tholrog hugged the young lake-dweller more tightly, and drew her slowly into the shadows, toward the great eternal mystery that vanquishes Destruction.

  NOMAÏ

  To Paul Gallimard 15

  It was the time when men lived on lakes, in caves and in subterranean dwellings. Young Egypt had not yet stuttered her first hieroglyphs. Beasts were terrible, the elements obscure, formidable and fatal, and all atmospheric phenomena seemed to be the wrath, the vengeance or the ferocity of impenetrable beings.

  In those days the tribe of the Sons of the Wolf lived on the Lake of Blood, and that tribe was powerful by virtue of the strength of its males and their cruelty. They had no gentle morality. Their virtue was finer the more murderous it was. To forgive an insult was a crime, sympathy for a stranger a sin; pity for the defeated was not even included among evil things, for no instance of it had ever been observed.

  The family existed. Only the father was reckoned a human individual, and the sons, in order to liberate themselves, had to leave home or resort to bloody force. The daughters were sold, then becoming slaves without appeal, whose destruction would not invite any vengeance, or even any annoyance—but the sales could give rise to murder, by virtue of the conflict of lust and cupidity.

  Humans had not yet learned how to kiss from the example of the birds; there was only the savage and rapid love that had sufficed to perpetuate the generations of men for millennia.