Vamireh

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  Now, one morning in summer, when the leaves were still young, the daughters of the Bloody Lake were bathing in the lukewarm waters, and the warriors were watching them from the shore—for that was the way in which they were put up for auction.

  The race was handsome. Among the adolescents, the ancestral form of the divine Hellenes and long-haired Iranians was perceptible. Then men armed with oaken clubs or lances tipped with flint chose their wives according to strength, plumpness and price. From time to time, a bather was summoned, and her purchaser, feeling her shoulders, rump and the firmness of her hips, would lead her away like an ox from the peat-bogs or a mountain goat.

  Among them all, Nomaï, the daughter of the great lacustrian chief, stood out. The warriors admired her strong and flexible figure, the rounded cups of her breasts, and the agile vigor of her movements—but the magnificent softness of her gaze, the delicate curve of her jaw and the magical grace of her smile were made for the admiration of men who would only be born in future centuries.

  She crossed the distance from the village to the shore twice, then appeared standing upright, her loins covered by a fibrous cloth, on a black islet in the shadow of an ash-tree. The chief looked at her proudly, like a warrior who had contrived a redoubtable axe or a long-range bow.

  Next to the supreme chief stood Rochs, the chief of the young-men-who-preceded-the-war, who kept 30 enemy skulls in his house. Clad in a red hide, he was a giant in stature, his hand prompt in homicide and as heavy as a hammer. Suddenly, on seeing Nomaï standing on the black islet, he ceased bargaining with the chief of chiefs and shouted loudly: “Let it be as you desire, Zamm, son of Wor; you shall have amber, lances and the carved stones that quell the invisible powers…”

  At these words, a warrior who was standing among the reeds let his arms fall and went pale. His eyes had not left Nomaï. Alone among those savage men, he had a notion of the beauty of a face and harmonious contours; he was the only one who liked the variable light of the virgin’s beautiful eyes, her smile in which fugitive impressions were blended, and the charming gesture that renewed the harmony of her figure.

  He had no reputation as a warrior. He had no taste for murder and was not manifestly avid for vengeance. And he devoted himself to meditation, which the Sons of the Wolf considered cowardly, shameful and sly. Only the priests had the right to indulge in it, because they mingled it with threats, blood, brutal celebrations and terrible chants—but they only admitted cunning men to their ranks, capable of maintaining the power of intelligence by malice, for they knew that gentleness was impossible and pity dangerous; martial might had no room for them.

  Amreh was aware of his weakness. He regarded it with anxiety, sadness and even shame. He had struggled against himself, had joined in, as a matter of duty, with bloody celebrations and had taken vengeance against savage enemies, but he only took pleasure in wandering, ingenious contrivance and naïve reflections on the astonishing things that surrounded human life. Secretly, he denied many of the things that the chiefs affirmed. Thus, he did not believe that thunderbolts were the voice of the god of the air, but rather a fire that the clouds had taken from the volcanic mountains.

  It also seemed to him that the gods ought to prefer the flesh of animals to that of men, and amber stone to warm blood. He thought, too, that water had been made by light, since it reproduced the images of things. Finally, he was convinced that the lacustrian tribes were not descended from wolves, but rather from a cross between bears and horses. He did not admit to any of these singular opinions; he knew that he would be immediately put to death if he made them known. Nevertheless, he took pride in having conceived them.

  He loved Nomaï, and did not know the power of that love. He was unaware that the desire to be loved in return had been planted in his soul. Such a thing would have seemed more extraordinary to him than all his other sensations, as if he wanted to be loved by his weapons, the fruit he gathered on the lake-shore, or the fire that he lit in his stone hearth. He only dreamed of buying the chief’s daughter, or carrying her off by force or trickery to the nearby mountains.

  When he heard Rochs conclude the bargain with Zamm, Amreh was filled with fear and rage. He cursed the chief of the young men, and that was his only genuine hatred. Not as strong or as skillful in handling a lance, he flexed his bow, convinced that he could not avoid a conflict with the pitiless tribesman. And he removed himself from Rochs’ presence in order to avoid too cruel an insult.

  Meanwhile, Zamm had replied: “I also want two horns of war-paint and your large ash-wood bow.”

  Rochs hesitated, for he already thought the girl very expensive. Having looked at her again, however, standing on the black islet, he replied: “I’ll take her!”

  The lacustrian chief put his staff of authority on the other’s shoulder as a sign that the deal was irrevocable—but Nomaï, having perceived the gesture, exercised her right as the chief’s daughter and shouted: “I don’t want to belong to Rochs!”

  Such refusals were rare, occasioned by the fear of too brutal a master and not by reason of preference, which was inadmissible in a woman. Zamm and Rochs looked at her with surprise, anger and a savage disdain. The old chief, obliged to remain calm, asked his companion: “Will you consent to the swimming test?”

  In that trial, the young woman received ten cubits start. She could refuse the man if he had not caught up that margin over the distance that extended from the point of a little promontory to the eastern extremity of the lacustrian village.

  “I consent!” said Rochs, disdainfully—and his face showed that he would not forget the insult.

  Meanwhile, Amreh had advanced toward the promontory. Nomaï’s action astonished him as much as everyone else, but it filled him with delight. The obscure feeling that the woman had a “preference” for him became almost intelligible to him. With a fiery gaze he watched the beautiful young woman swim slowly back to the shore.

  She was sporting in the waves like some goddess of the depths; her white shoulder threw a ray of moonlight into the blue water, while her long hair floated behind her like some marvelous water-weed.

  She came ashore.

  With a light bound, Amreh emerged from the reeds to stand before her.

  Having stooped, in the attitude of a young hind ready to take flight, she offered the youth of her eyes and face to the warrior. He understood, confusedly, that she was imploring his help, and that she would not have claimed the swimming test against him. More inexpressible still, but with an invincible ardor, he had the impression that he would obey Nomaï like a slave, that he would betray the gods and humans alike, that he would exile himself from his native waters, if she would voluntarily rest her head upon his breast. And over that ancient savage drama of the Caves, over the lustful but solitary covetousness of the Sons of the Wolf, there rose up in that soul one of the first psychic desires of humankind, in which the desire to possess a woman was supplemented by a desire to be possessed by her—and that was also the dawn of the era when crimes committed to obtain women were supplemented by crimes committed on behalf of women.

  Nomaï slowly detached her gaze from Amreh’s. She ran to the point of the promontory, then lowered her arms toward the lake. “O Queen of the Gulfs, who brings forth the women of the land soaked in water, I will weave you ten tunics if you give me strength and speed!”

  Her voice astonished Amreh, by its somber ardor and its melodious quality, while the anxious Rochs intoned the prayer: “Father, who brings forth men from the rock, I will kill two captives and offer their hearts to you if you refuse strength and speed to this woman!”

  Then Nomaï leapt into the waves, and drew away to an extent of ten cubits. In response to the chief’s signal, Rochs followed her.

  She could swim better than any other daughter of the waters, as supple as a trout or a grayling. He cleaved the water with mighty sweeps of his arms. Their speed seemed equal. Rochs did not gain ground on the energetic maiden—and Amreh, breathless with hope, along with the
bathers and the warriors, impassioned by the contest, and the old lacustrian chief, fearful of losing the splendid bride-price, watched the antagonists draw away.

  Nomaï was no more than 100 cubits from the goal when a beam detached from the piling of a hut struck her on the shoulder. Surprised, she stopped—but she resumed the contest in spite of the pain. Rochs exerted himself to the full, however; with a wild movement and a savage cry of triumph, he caught hold of the charming maiden.

  The warriors, always on the victor’s side, howled Rochs’ praises and the lacustrian chief rejoiced in the thought of the amber, weapons and amulets, while the somber Amreh, his heart full of murderous thoughts, lowered his head and leaned against a tree.

  Meanwhile, Nomaï had escaped from the grip. She reached the village and stood up, resplendent, on the breakwater. Turning to Rochs, braving Destiny and Victory, she shouted: “I shall not bow my head to you!”

  The young chief’s laughter rippled over the water. “Whether you have the wings of an eagle or the feet of an ibex, I shall take you to my hut at sunrise.”

  She did not reply. She seemed crushed. Her face turned toward the tree where Amreh was standing—and the warrior felt hope bubbling up through his sadness, like the water of a spring through the hard rock.

  It was dark. Amreh was awake in his hut. Several times, he had circled Zamm’s large dwelling, but the dogs with wolves’ heads all howled when he attempted to climb over the palisade—for Zamm lived in the village as if he were camped among man-eating beasts.

  Amreh was listening to the cool voice of the lake, the intermittently-rising plaint of the breeze and the flutter of wings and the hum of insects. A slight scraping sound made him shiver; he saw a shadow appear in the door-frame. A low voice murmured: “Are you awake, Amreh?”

  He recognized the movement and the voice. His heart beat tempestuously, and he replied: “I’m awake, daughter of Zamm.”

  He stood up. He was trembling in every limb. Taking a step forward into the hut, she said, in a low voice: “Close the door.”

  He drew a screen across and covered it with a fur. Then, Nomaï took from her tunic one of the phosphorescent stones that the Sons of the Wolf extracted from the mountain, with which they illuminated the dark nights. This one was large; it projected a blue light over the chief’s daughter. Amreh could see her sparkling eyes and the sweetness of her face.

  “I’ve come,” she said, “because I do not want to belong to Rochs!” She fixed her gaze upon the young lacustrian.

  He realized something that he alone of all his race was capable of realizing, and realized it quite clearly: the power of womanhood. Burning with the magical ardor of giving oneself instead of taking, servitude passed from his soul to his face. “You don’t want to belong to Rochs?” he said, in a faint voice.

  “No, I want to belong to you!”

  He uttered a profound sigh; his joy made him unsteady on his feet—and he searched for a word that men had not yet created for women, but could not find it. Finally, he replied: “And I also want to belong to you.” He drew nearer, and took her gently in his arms. They remained there, in a palpitation of tenderness. It was a prodigy for both of them, a legendary event—a legend that the tribe’s storytellers had not yet sung.

  She was the first to pull away. “Tomorrow, at sunrise, Rochs will claim me. How will you get me back?”

  “I have no wealth,” he said. “Wouldn’t you like to flee far from the lake?”

  He did not think of combat, not out of fear, but because of the certainty of being defeated—in which case Nomaï would be more surely enslaved. She understood that as well as if he had said it aloud.

  “No,” she said, “I don’t want to flee far from the lake. We’d be recaptured by the Sons of the Wolf, captured by the Cave People, or hunted by the people who live in the trees in the Eastern forests.”

  The voluptuous energy of her speech left Amreh devoid of resistance. “What do you want to do, daughter of Zamm? Whatever you want, I want.”

  Savage and soft at the same time, she said: “We must kill Rochs. His life stands in the way of our lives; it will crush us as a millstone crushes grain. We cannot breathe easy while his heart beats.”

  “I’m not afraid of dying. I’d fight Rochs—but his weapons are better than mine, and he’s more skillful in making use of them. I’d perish, and you’d be his prisoner.”

  Putting her hand on Amreh’s breast, she said: “It isn’t necessary to fight him, but to kill him by stealth. He has no male relatives apart from his grandfather, who is more like an ash-tree than a man. His brothers perished in the war against the mountain people. His father drowned. No one will claim the price of his blood. We’ll take possession of his wealth and share it with Zamm.”

  Amreh could raise no objection against the act itself. “Red dogs guard him. If we touch his palisade, they’ll bark—and their aid will render Rochs invincible.”

  She replied, in somber voice: “They won’t bark again. The meat I threw them before coming to meet you has killed them. This is what we’ll do: I’ll knock at Rochs’ house and call to him. He’ll recognize my voice and come out, for he’s possessed by my image. He’ll want to hold me against him, and I’ll extend my arms to him. You’ll come up behind him in order to split his skull!”

  The vision of this murder, shared with her, filled Amreh with a delightful and tender delirium. He looked at her, by the light of the blue stone, as he might have looked at a goddess, and he hugged her to his breast again with a sigh of ecstasy. “Go, daughter of Zamm…I shall do as you say, and I shall save you.”

  “Fetch your weapons,” she said.

  He chose his best axe and a sharp lance.

  Nomaï silently removed the screen and fur sealing the hut. The black flesh of the night, and the stars, little sparkling stones, were tremulously reflected in the lake. It was the hour when human sleep is heaviest. Even the dogs were enjoying a more tranquil slumber. Besides, they only gave voice if someone touched the palisades, or if some stranger or carnivorous beast appeared on the lake.

  Amreh and Nomaï marched silently over the pathways of planks and stones. Their souls were resolute. They followed their plan as a stone rolls down a slope, and they only paused to listen to vague noises that might have been the movements of a man—but they immediately recognized the passing of an owl, the footfalls of a marten or the flight of a water-rat.

  They arrived in the vicinity of Rochs’ house. It was massive, as large as Zamm’s; the starlight drew a grayish gleam from it. It was surrounded by a high palisade of wooden stakes and bushes; no one could touch it without awakening the fury of the red dogs—but when Nomaï put her hand on it, silence persisted in the village.

  “You see,” she said, in a low voice, “the poisoned meat is reliable; they’re dead. That’s how we can cross the palisade.”

  They were both sufficiently agile and athletic not to reveal their presence. They found themselves close to the door. Amreh hid himself among the branches. Then Nomaï knocked on the door with her fist.

  Rochs’ terrible voice was raised in the silence: “Woe betide anyone who disturbs my sleep—death is already in their breast!”

  Nomaï replied, softly: “I have come!”

  Astonished, Rochs asked: “Why have you come?”

  “I have realized your authority. In order that you will not beat me at sunrise, here is your slave.”

  He uttered a laugh of triumph, which was interrupted by suspicion and anxiety. “My dogs haven’t barked…”

  The young lacustrian woman had her answer ready, however. “They would have devoured me if I had not said the magic word of the wolf-god…they won’t wake up before daybreak.”

  Rochs raised the fur covering his doorway. His piercing eyes peered into the darkness, but he only saw the recumbent bodies of dogs and the figure of Nomaï.

  His flesh swollen with desire, drunk with audacity, and ever victorious, he could not imagine that any warrior in the tribe would
stand up against him, even less that a woman might guide the will of a man. Only the silence of the dogs had troubled him—but he believed in magic words. He only picked up a lance, suddenly removed the screen, and appeared before the young woman—and he said, almost softly: “You have come.”

  Already, desire had advanced his mighty arms. Throwing her own arms around his neck, and clinging to him desperately, she cried: “Strike!”

  Amreh emerged from the darkness. His axe glinted faintly as it was raised. It came down like a hammer.

  Rochs uttered a cry like the howl of an aurochs in winter. He fell on to one knee, and then got up again, brandishing his lance—and he seemed still to be strong. A second blow from the axe cut into his shoulder, though; a third slashed his face. Then he collapsed to the ground with a dull groan.

  “Strike his heart!” said Nomaï. “His life is our death.”

  With the tip of his lance, Amreh fumbled in the darkness, and when it reached the heart, the death-cry reverberated through the lacustrian village, amid the frenzied howling of dogs.

  Men and women got up and ran toward Rochs’ house—and Nomaï hid in the crowd while Amreh cried: “A duel to the death was declared between Rochs and me; one of us had to perish. The gods have given me the strength. Woe betide him who stands up against me!”

  No one thought of standing up against him, but rather of admiring and fearing him—and the warrior continued: “I shall take his house, his weapons and his treasures, as is decreed by our ancestors—and I shall buy Nomaï, daughter of Zamm, paying double the agreed price.

  And Zamm raised his voice in his turn, saying: “That is good. Let he who has vanquished his enemy take his place! You shall take the girl at sunrise.”

  Everyone cried: “That is good!”

  The head priest, who had not wanted to initiate Amreh for fear of his gentleness, came forward. “The gods have spoken! Take possession, Amreh, of Rochs’ house. Even so, you shall pay a tribute to the god of the clouds…”