Between the decks of the Kaiser Wilhelm, a solid cage is fitted. In the depths of that cage, Kouang is curled up, mulling over the inconceivable catastrophe again and again.
Although his head lodges a brain whose weight—as the dissection of Koua has proved—surpasses that of orangutans by a quarter, and whose circumvolutions approach in complexity those of Hottentots, the sketchy intelligence with which whimsical Nature has endowed him is vacillating in confrontation with the horror of his destiny. In what soul he has, a few images, always the same, collide atrociously and relentlessly.
There is a frightful odor in the maternal forest of his birth.
There are the silhouettes of murderers.
There is the battle, the thunder, the flame, the pain, and the spreading blood of Koua.
There is—the jaws of the captive tremble convulsively—the leader of the murderers, the monster with the eyes that hide and the hairless skull, bending over Koua’s corpse, tearing it apart with his claws of steel. There is the scattered flesh of his beloved, her poor bloody remains swaying from the branches of trees.
There is the infernal journey in the moving prison, the arrival among the stinks, the figures, the noises that render him mad.
There are other shocks thereafter, other disgusts, other cruelties, and the embarkation in a hubbub of vertigo on the thing that stirs.
There is the intense nostalgia for the disappeared forest, the bitter anguish of the immense barely-glimpsed sea, the sharp breath of which stings him and gnaws all the way to be bone-marrow.
There is the bewilderment, the desperate need to sleep forever.
Another instinct combats that, however, and overwhelms it, constraining Kouang to absorb the fetid nourishment deposited in his cage. Day and night, Kouang seems to be dozing, with his eyes half-closed, but beneath his lowered eyelids, his pupils are alert. Every time Herr Klagenmeyer comes to prowl around his ape, those eyes light up and watch him. Perhaps, one day, he will come close enough…but the leader with the smooth head distrusts him. Guards armed with iron pikes are charged, on his orders, to keep watch on the captive between the bars.
On a daily basis, notebook in hand, Klagenmeyer spends several hours observing his captive. His jubilation in unparalleled. Following Koua’s dissection, no further doubt is possible. It is a scientific coup, the evidential proof of evolutionism. Until now, the distance between the group of apes and humans has remained greater than is usual between family members, almost equivalent to the one separating monkeys from lemurs. This fills in the gap. From primitive protoplasm to superior humankind, from the Moneron10 to Kant or Wilhelm II, the thread is uninterrupted.
Carefully prepared, Koua’s skeleton has been placed in a crate moored in front of Kouang’s cage. Aided by his assistant, Franz Metzger, Dr. Klagenmeyer has examined, measured, catalogued and listed its elements minutely. Alongside the skeleton, the study of the living organism completes the verification.
“In truth, Professor, that skull surpasses in capacity those of Fuegians and Tasmanians. I don’t know whether my imagination is carrying me away, but I discern a glimmer of hatred in our prisoner’s eye that crosses the bounds of animality, attaining consciousness.”
Klagenmeyer’s square chin acquiesces with his collaborator’s words; he gazes with satisfaction at the huddled Kouang, whose eyes never leave him.
“Truly, Metzger, I don’t believe that your observation is devoid of foundation, and I can’t recommend you too urgently to complete the collection of photographs of our guest. Nevertheless, to any craniological measurement, to the strongest reasoning, to any psychological hypothesis, I prefer that certainty...” He points to a series of small bones lined up in a box on a bed of cotton, and asserts, in a professorial voice: “What distinguishes my captive from all the apes, that which makes him what sciences has sought, is that, alone with humans, he possesses, not four hands but two feet.”
With love and with fervor, the professor lifts up the fragments one by one, describes, comments and deduces. The tibio-tarsal mortise only permits rigorous movements of extension and flexion. All the tarsal bones are stout and broad. The axis of the tibia, the vertical axis of the astragalus and the antero-posterior axis of the calcaneum are all in the same plane.
“Look at the thickness of the first toe, almost the same length as the second, parallel to it. The cuneometatarsal articulation is an arthrody that does not permit either adduction or abduction. The sole of the organ is an arch weighing solidly upon the ground at three points. In truth, that foot is a human foot, a masterpiece of adaptation to a vertical stance, exactly contrary to that presented by the pithecoid, cebian or anthropoid apes.”
On the orders of the professor, who is sea-sick—it also makes him terribly thick-headed—the steward has brought a bottle of champagne, uncorks it and fills two glasses with the sparkling liquid.
“I invite you, Herr Assistant, to empty this glass with me to the glory of German science and our Emperor.”
They rise to their feet and clink glasses: Prosit!
With an obsequious chuckle—being on the first rung of his career, he is still going through his servile phase—the assistant draws his master’s attention to the captive, whose dull eyes are riveted on them.
“One might think that this French wine is exciting the fellow’s curiosity!”
Dr. Klagenmeyer is in a decidedly jovial mood. He ripostes, wittily: “Until now, the Frenchman was the transition between Homo Germanicus and the primate. We’ll empty our last glass to his equatorial cousin...”
Having drunk, the two men draw away. In the dim light, Kouang’s pupils continue to follow them. The odors of the dead Koua, the wine and the tormentors linger in his nostrils. Oh, to squeeze that neck between his fists, to feel it crack! The giant’s jaws quiver.
But the torturers have disappeared now; the captive’s somber eyes turn away, languidly aimed over the side of the vessel at the horizon. It is striped with singular coppery bands. The atmosphere is suffocating. Going up on to the bridge, the captain exchanges a few clipped remarks with his first mate. Their brows are anxiously furrowed. The barometer has fallen steeply.
Dr. Klagenmeyer approaches. “Well, Commandant, rumor has it that we’re going to have a storm?”
The other nods his head. “Perhaps more than that, Doctor.”
All night the ship has pitched and rolled. The heavy wooden planks sealing the area between decks have been drawn, the hatches hermetically sealed. In the white dawn, the Kaiser Wilhelm, in battle dress, is fighting grimly against the unleashed elements. It is a typhoon.
All day long, the fury of the sea increases, further aggravated. Mountains rise up, collapse, sweeping the deck. In spite of the valor of the cargo-vessel, a veritable masterpiece of the shipyards of Altona, it is impossible to meet it head on; the vessel changes course and flees, but the hurricane is on her heels, harassing her and shaking her with its titanic rage.
The second night is worse. The whole of the frail ligneous framework strains, oscillates, sinks, rears up, sinks down and groans in pain.
The captain think that it is his duty to warn the doctor: “The ship is under stress, and we’re drifting more than we should toward the great subterranean plateau of the Murray Bank.”11
“Are we in peril?” asked the doctor.
“The situation is serious.”
“Very well.”
Herr Klagenmeyer makes a parcel of his notes, his photographs, wraps them in a rubber sheet and secures the whole to his chest. In case of shipwreck, these are his orders: firstly, save the ape in the cage, and secondly, the crate containing the skeleton of the other. It is the glory of German science that is at stake. Compared with that, what do a few human lives matter? Deutschland über alles.
In the new dawn, the terror is indescribable. In the midst of a dense yellow vapor, in which visibility is limited to ten meters, the vessel in reeling randomly in an apocalyptic swell. Two sailors have been carried away like wisps of straw by
a wave. At every movement, shaken to its foundations, one might think that the assemblage of planks and beams were on the brink of falling apart and sinking. The faces of the men are pale with exhaustion; several have blood on their faces or limbs. Supplementary rations of eau-de-vie are scarcely sustaining their energy. In the bosom of the infernal saraband, Dr. Klagenmeyer has not detached himself for a moment from the thought of his conquest. Every two hours he goes into the shadows to inspect his prisoner. Three times a day, in spite of the peril, the ventilation panel is opened briefly.
Clinging to the bars of his cage, Kouang participates, passively, in the unleashing of the horror that surrounds him. He feels neither hunger nor thirst, nor the pain of his bruised flesh, just one obsession: that neck! Oh, his two hands around that plump neck, surmounted by the odious head with the smooth skull: the head whose keen eyes come to insult his misery; the head that reeks of the martyrdom of Koua!
Several times, the fury of the waves has made the walls of his prison creak. The tempests of the sky bring down the proudest giants of the forests; can they not vanquish the magic that confines him?
Kouang noticed on the first day that one portion of that which imprisons him is less immutable than the rest. It is by that route that blows of iron bars chased him into the jail. It closed behind him with a deafening racket. Might it not open again? He has discovered how to move the enormous bolts by putting his hands through the bars; it is only the magic of the lock that surpasses his comprehension—but hazard is more powerful than the best-tempered Essen steel.
A frightful assault lays the boat on its side, breaks the moorings of an ironwood box full of geological specimens and precipitates that battering-ram against the cage. Two bars bend, give way and are partially torn out of their slots.
With all his muscles braced, Kouang takes hold of them, and works upon them. His hands are bloodied, but what does it matter? There is a crack; the beach opens; he precipitates himself outside.
He is free, in the semi-darkness of the space between the decks.
He picks up one of the bars, sniffs, gropes. If his lucidity were equal to his hatred, he would lie in wait for his jailer where he is, but the instinct that grips him cannot tolerate any delay. He wants to escape and strike immediately. He drags himself through the narrow corridors, stumbling and getting up, amid the pitching and rolling. The din of the cyclone drowns out the noise of his falls.
A pure breath mingles with the mephitic odor. There is light; there is air. He launches himself forward...
A staircase: daylight is at the op. He hoists himself up, bounds, emerges on to the deck, into the fury of the elements. A wave swells up, falls upon him. He clings on to a rope, climbs again, and reaches another platform.
Suddenly, amid the acrid spray that lashes his face, two forms are outlined on the captain’s bridge. For a second, he hesitates, but from the lips of one of them a cry escapes: “Mein Gott! The ape has escaped!”
Herr Klagenmeyer turns round, goes pale, blasphemes.
“Captain, at all costs...”
But Kouang is already on him, brandishing his iron club. Drunk with hatred, he has let go of all support.
Abruptly epileptic, the ship shakes, lurches, rights itself. Kouang loses his equilibrium, slips, falls, tries in vain to get a grip again...
A fall into the void…an impact that stuns him...
The ocean takes possession of him, and crushes him...
Carried away by the tempest, his fragile prison disappears into the fuliginous fog.
When Kouang opens his eyes again, he is lying on a sunlit strand. The bitter scent of the sea is softened by that of the maternal land: that of voluptuous forests full of flowers, fruits and saps. Beside him, two small sun-bronzed beings are crouching, contemplating him curiously. When they see that his eyes are open, they clap their hands, and they both exert themselves urgently, caressing him, washing his wounds, and offering him mangoes, oranges, bananas and coconuts. Something suave swells the giant’s breast. He eats.
With appropriate docility, and also with the insouciant courtesy that characterizes them, the Oyas have welcomed the hirsute god that the waves have deposited on the fortunate isle, and whose presence the wise children of the crab, privileged with regard to the spirits, have been the first to discover.
His strange appearance inspires neither fear nor excessive astonishment in the Oyas. His liking for retreat and solitude is respected. His person is taboo, as is the refuge he has chosen. When, by chance, it pleases him to wander near the huts, palms are extended toward him with propitiatory murmurs—but no one except for Raramémé approaches him or strokes his pelt with their fingers.
On the new land on to which the tide has thrown him, Kouang the Great Hairy One resumes his existence. To be sure, in the thickets of the amiable isle there is not the intensity of germs that impregnated the thick atmosphere of the maternal marshes. There is no longer Koua. He bears painful wounds that will not heal. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he twitches in pain, howls, and beats the air with his anguished arms. Ineradicable poisons never cease to gnaw at him.
Nevertheless, the sun reanimates the ardor of his blood. He breathes in the salubrious sea-breeze, avidly. The taste of the mangoes and the honey is sweet. The effluvia of the Oyas are of the jungle, and do not inconvenience him. Even so, their form, which reminds him of the violators, is repugnant to him; he avoids them. Only Raramémé, the children of the crab, are in his heart. They have returned his breath to him. Their tiny hands have caressed him.
Their gesture distills a charm from which Koua is not absent. When they go away, the image of the one who has disappeared is blacker. Attenuating the terrible hoarseness of his voice, Kouang has told the children his story. The details are incomprehensible to them, but they perceive the grief in it.
Rara has explained it sufficiently: “A spirit is tormenting the Hairy god. He is hungry for roots and he is thirsty for water, but he has more hunger and more thirst than Raramémé.”
The children have adopted the giant’s lair; they accompany him in his wanderings, share his pickings and distract him with their games, their dances and their songs.
It is in the order of things, among the Oyas, to associate with beasts and with gods, between whom there is often little difference. Kouang is the Beast-God, the monstrous fetish that the Children of the Crab have chosen. He participates in the consideration that surrounds them.
In the bosom of the peaceful isle, however, Kouang remains prey to the obsessive dream. At the evocation of that which was, and of that which endures, his eyes become bloodshot, his hair bristles. Somewhere on the earth, the enemy with the smooth skull and the plump neck is still breathing...
Patiently, every day, from dawn onwards, Kouang hates Dr. Klagenmeyer, watches out for him, and prowls in his pursuit until nightfall.
Through the mouth of the cave, dawn projects a rosy light. The stalactites of the vault are outlined bizarrely, among which flaccid bats hang down. In the eternally-shadowed fissures, confused movements quiver.
Rara yawns, rubs his eyes with his fists, pushes back his tangled hair. On the other side of the bulky Kouang, whose thorax is swelling up with rhythmic thunder, Mémé is still asleep. It is necessary not to wake her up abruptly. During sleep, her soul sometime wanders for long distances among the spirits. For fear of accidents, she needs time to reintegrate herself with the flesh.
Mischievously, Rara kneels down and, with his elbows on the enormous belly, tickles Mémé’s neck and cheeks with the stem of a reed. She pulls a comical face, makes a languid gesture to chase the mosquito away, and finally opens her eyes sulkily.
Rara laughs. She opens her eyes wide, frowns, blows into her cheeks, as if she were malevolent, to scare him, spits and extends her claws like an angry cat. “Ksss…defend yourself!”
On opposite sides of the sleeping colossus, they challenge one another, spitting, bracing themselves, unleashing slaps. Rara is the more adroit at that game. With a
swift cuff, he knocks Mémé over. She loses her balance and all of her weight falls on to the monster’s face.
Kouang enfolds her in his heavy grip, with a groan. This time, the murderer with the gold-rimmed eyes will not escape him. Mémé struggles, uttering shrieks as shrill as her made laugher will permit. Rara is also laughing too loudly to come to her aid.
The Hairy One squints his dark eyes, catches a momentary glimpse of his aggressors, loosens his grip, sighs and stands up, as he sees them rolling amid the debris of seaweed and forage. Every time they stand up, he knocks them down again more powerfully, carefully moderating the strength of his arms, whose release could stun a rhinoceros.
In the new warmth of the dawn—everything is fresh, everything shines, everything sings, and everything is embalmed—Kouang and Raramémé shake themselves amid the splash of silvery wavelets. As swift in the water as fish, the children clean away the soil of the night and pester the giant. Rara slaps him in the face with a dead octopus. He responds with a cuff that knocks the boy over, swallowed up by water two meters deep. He reappears, breathes out, spits out water and sand, and returns to the assault.
Indigenes of both sexes, holding hands, descend on to the beach, in couples or small groups. They have separated during the night according to the dictates of amour or the signs of blood. At sunrise, the tribal instinct draws them together again. An Oya only enjoys the plenitude of his means when he is with his fellows. Even the boldest hunters do not like to remain away from the village for more than twenty-four hours.
It is not only the fear of prowling demons that torments them but the anguish of isolation. Each of them needs them all, so they scarcely ever go away except in groups of two, three or four, and their custom is to walk with their little fingers linked, and to sleep side by side. Evil can easily overtake the solitary. In the assembled tribe there is wisdom, strength and security.
The Children of the Crab Page 5