The Children of the Crab

by André Lichtenberger

  There are no complicated laws among the Oyas. The forest furnishes them with enough game and roots, the sea enough fish and mollusks, for them to be free of the necessity of labor. They know how to extract fire from stones, which they maintain in order, if they wish, to cook food, and to light the bonfires in the evening around which dancing takes place. The climate is so mild that a few huts of interwoven branches, or the cover of a mulberry bush, constitute sufficient nocturnal shelter. Mores are gentle; children are raised communally; every adult is the father or mother of them all.

  Even so, according to the signs that are engraved on their breasts, the Oyas are divided into several clans. All of them, according to whether they are of the armadillo or the kiwi, the sea-urchin or the seagull, associate preferentially with those of their own totem. Quarrels sometimes arise, especially in spring, over rivalries in love, or lack of respect, or incongruous greed. It is appropriate that no Oya eats the beast of his totem, and every Oya, before killing, apologizes for the liberty that he is taking if the victim is the totem of one of his kin.

  From the failure to observe rites and customs, disputes can easily arise. Usually, they settle down of their own accord, for the humor of Oyas does not persist for long in a single preoccupation. In cases of bitter conflict, the soul of the tribe is expressed through the words of the elders—Manga-Yaponi is the most venerable—which find a natural echo in all hearts.

  Only the people of the octopus sometimes jib against his decisions. Mao exhibits a blameworthy disposition. He and his kin affect to confiscate for their own usage the calabashes from which they eat or the mats on which they sleep. They are irregular in their attendance at the evening assemblies and associate themselves with the traditional hymns without fervor. When the sages have spoken, even though neither the number of his years nor the nobility of his totem qualifies him to do so, Mao sometimes raises his voice and makes speeches that testify to his individualistic tendencies.

  Such things did not happen once, but today, respect is waning. So who can be astonished if the anger of the gods is manifest more frequently? It is to be feared that it might end up descending in a catastrophic manner.

  At the morning bath, there is little evil to be feared from them, for they have exhausted their malice during the night. Anyway, it is not a time when it is appropriate to be at odds with one another, so dances and hymns are mingled with joyful words, frolics and jesting challenges, and splashing and diving, which are forms of prayer as well as amusement.

  When they emerge from bathing they sit down on the sand, and while nimble fingers tear pat nuts or fruits of the sea, assemble seeds or shells with which to make necklaces, or braid garlands of flowers, the elders intone the liturgical chants and the tribe takes up the refrains and responses in chorus.

  There is the song of creation.

  There is the song of the black flower.

  There is the song of totems. Naturally, each clan has property in its own.

  There are several songs to appease the dead.

  There is one to bless the new-borns.

  There is the song of thunder, that of the oceans and that of the sun.

  That of the moon is less beautiful, for the sun might be jealous.

  There are many others. They are handed down from generation to generation. They subsist, carefully gripped in the memory of the elders. That is the historical, philosophical and moral treasure of the tribe. It is good that everyone should aliment themselves with it throughout the day, whenever there is an opportunity; communal singing is most effective in the morning and the evening.

  The songs are sacred, and correspond to the needs of hearts as well as to the tactical counsels of prudence. Raramémé possess for themselves the song of the crab, which comes to them directly from Rahuo, the great crab. They associate themselves piously with all the other canticles, but there is one in particular that they prefer; that is the one that proclaims the veneration of the Oyas for the white gods.

  So, when Manga-Yaponi intones it, swaying his white-haired head rhythmically, they come out of the water and sit down near him, filling their ears with the liturgical words. Fervently, they listen to the old man recounting the redoubtable legend.

  The events the legend records might date from the time when Rahuo extracted Rahuo from the soft Entity, or might have been witnessed by the ancient, or even the adults of the tribe—who can tell? In the naïve memory of the Oyas, today sinks like a stone in water; memories of prehistory and those of yesterday are rapidly confused, and soon present themselves on the same plane.

  The white gods are the privileged of Rahuo. Their arrivals undoubtedly mark great perturbations. The Oyas submit to them meekly. When the pale faces emerged from the waters for the first time, they were appropriately adored, and the great livid ancestor has not been forgotten. As for the magical sign that was erected, it has always been nourished with blue and red.

  At the top of their voices, Raramémé sing the refrain with the tribe:

  Fear the livid gods who bring dismay

  The water spat them out and took them away.

  They will come back from the distant blue;

  Where their feet have trod, the earth is taboo.

  Then the children fall silent. Eyes fixed, Mémé remains motionless. An anxious expectation parts her lips. Rara squeezes the little girl’s right hand with his left hand. “I can feel your heart hurting, Mémé.”

  “Will they come back?” she stammers.

  But they shiver. A murmur passed through the tribe. All their brown index-fingers are pointing toward the sky.

  In the pearly blue firmament, something is rapidly increasing in size. It is not a seagull. It is not a great condor or an albatross. The fantastic bird that was glimpsed yesterday evening and is now coming back is more gigantic. Its golden plumage sparkles in the sun’s rays; its respiration is that of a monstrous bee with petty thunder in its belly.

  Whatever it is, wherever it comes from, whatever its purpose might be, it is a god. Perhaps, in the past, the Oyas did not adore it sufficiently, and that is why anger is rumbling within it. What is it bringing from the regions of mystery where the whim of Rahuo dwells?

  The indigenes raise their worshipful hands toward the seaplane, prostrating themselves—and they sing the propitiatory conjuration in chorus, until the moment when, having circled around and gained altitude again, it has disappeared.

  III. THE STINKING GODS

  Furious demons are kneading and driving black masses of clouds through the sky, beating, howling and biting, uprooting trees, and hurling waves to assault the isle. Yesterday, they were captives in the secret caves and in the hollows of great seashells, where the ear can hear them growling. But Mawi, who is in charge of guarding them, had probably got drunk on fermented palm-juice.

  At any rate, presages have announced the catastrophe. Manga-Yaponi was not mistaken about them. Three days ago the setting sun was jaundiced, visibly ill. There were also the dull rumbles of thunder and the unexpected visit of the buzzing bird. Perhaps it has laid an egg full of evil spells somewhere, which have hatched out and released their nuisance into the air.

  Such is the violence of the cyclone that the most robust of the Oyas cannot stand up on the shore. They remain buried, pitifully, in the depths of their huts, under the cover of the great groaning trees, muttering litanies. From time to time, the most valiant put spiral conches to their lips and draw bellowing notes therefrom. Perhaps that will frighten the demons and the sun, encouraged, will recover the strength to climb the sky.

  Rara and Mémé have taken refuge with the Hairy One in the grotto with the reek of algae and bats. Standing near the threshold, Rara insults the screeching winds and throws stones at them. Mémé admires his bravery and keeps him supplied with projectiles.

  Beside them, Kouang dozes. From time to time he opens a pensive eye. At the roaring of the cyclone, images buried within him emerge from limbo. It was amid such turbulence that, as a captive on the moving thing,
he broke his irons, came back into the light, saw the accursed face for the last time, and was hurled into the abyss, without being able to close his fists around the plump neck, or break the shiny skull with his iron club.

  He utters a plaint that echoes beneath the shadowy vault, and goes back to sleep.

  For three months the indefatigable U-37A has been pursuing its Polynesian campaign, marauding around the luminous atolls, attacking transport-ships loaded with soldiers, livestock or cereals with torpedoes or cannon-fire, and disappearing as soon as its crime is consummated. In all the secret depots prepared in advance, it has found new provisions. Everywhere, gorged on gold, traitors have kept their word better than honest men. Thanks to her, sixty thousand tons—perhaps eighty thousand—of the enemy fleet have been swallowed up by the phosphorescent waters, among the frightened sharks, to rest forever in cemeteries of coral. U-37A has equaled the exploits of the Emden and avenged her.12

  For eighteen months the Allies have been encircling isolated Germany, claiming to have stifled her with their blockade. Germany laughs at their threats, breaking through the overly fragile ring with ease, hoisting the flag of the Kaiser at the antipodes, sowing ruin and death among those who believe themselves most effectively sheltered from reprisals. In vain the Japanese, Australian and New Zealand navies, and the few rusty old tubs that French vanity maintains in the Pacific have pursued her, searching the seas, the gulfs, the straits, interrogating, advertising and shouting themselves hoarse. Every time the net seems to be closing upon her, the pirate slips away or breaks through, and manifests herself miles away by a new attack.

  The other day, however, she was imprudent. Discovered by the seaplanes of the Sydney, wisdom commanded her to play dead or run away. When the periscope revealed a heavily-laden four-master three miles to port, however, Captain Bartsch could not contain himself. His predatory instinct held sway over prudence. Not only did he torpedo his prey, but he lingered in order to sniff around the wreckage, to plunder cases of champagne and barrels of spirits. That is why the submarine was taken by surprise by a French light cruiser, hastening in response to the wrecked vessel’s last call for help. Suddenly emerging from behind the headland that had masked it, she had caught the Boche unexpectedly beneath her guns. Two well-aimed shells had cracked several bulwarks and smashed its rudder, preventing any further immersion. If the hunter had not been so lame, it would have been the end of the bird of prey, but the U-boat’s speed, superior on the surface, and permitted her to outdistance the adversary, and nightfall had ensured her salvation.

  A precarious salvation. Twenty kilometers from her nearest base, deprived of both its best means of defense and its best means of attack, the U-37A could no longer count on a long career. At any rate, she would carry out her mission of carnage until the end. She sent an American yacht and a Japanese schooner to the bottom. However, watching the latter sink, and the little yellow men struggling in the swelling sea, Captain Bartsch shakes his bony head, grips the massive shoulder of his fellow officer and sniggers: “Rinse your eyes one more time, Doctor, as our foreign friends say, for, either I’m much mistaken, or this the final exploit of our blessed campaign.”

  Dr. Klagenmeyer, who, for the past five years, has combined the official functions confided to him by the Fehlenbeck Company with those of the secret organizer of German espionage in Polynesia, is the true leader of the expedition. Although Captain Bartsch commands the ship, the Doctor is the one who issues the directives.

  His iron-gray eyes scan the horizon. “In truth, Captain,” he says, “I don’t think that the Emperor can hope for anything more from us, but I’m searching in vain for the Maori destroyer or the ironclad loaded with riff-raff that will purchase the honor—for we’ll make her pay dearly for it, won’t we?—of sending us to feed the crabs.”

  Captain Bartsch laughs louder. “That honor, Doctor, will not be given to men. It’s the Devil who will claim it on Hell’s behalf.” Indicating the sky, striated with coppery clouds, he goes on: “You’ve had too much experience of these regions not to recognize the precursory symptoms of a typhoon. Although this carcass can withstand anything at a depth of twenty meters, on the surface and crippled we’re at the mercy of a gust of wind. If you have a soul, Doctor, think of its salvation, for there’s scarcely any doubt, now, that we’re going to nourish the blind pale fauna that interests His Highness the Prince of Monaco,13 or leave our bones on one of the reefs of the Murray Bank.

  The Murray Bank! That name…those livid clouds…is this, then, the determined return of an obstinate fatality? The doctor’s jaws clench. He replies: “If I were superstitious, Captain, I’d have asked you to commit murder elsewhere. This place is unhealthy for me. It’s here that the Fehlenbeck Company’s Kaiser Wilhelm was lost, along with her cargo, a year before the war. A Norwegian whaler picked me up, with four men—but the waves swallowed up a discovery that would have immortalized my name.”

  “Oh well,” the other croaks, “the time has come to go and look for it. Here comes the dance!”

  With a howl that plunges from the sky and races from every horizon, the tempest pounces upon the ship. All night long she struggles. In the morning she is doomed. In the midst of the spray, between the gulfs, the heads of corals are blackening. A few hundred meters away, an indecisive coast is discernible in the mist.

  “We’re in the middle of the Murray Bank. The shoe has already stamped twice. Twenty seconds from now, we’ll shatter like an eggshell.”

  The captain has put on his dress uniform. Save for the dead, the entire crew is clinging to the deck.

  “My friends, we have done our duty. One more ‘Hoch!’ for the Kaiser and the old fatherland, and then it’s every man for himself.”

  The enormous shoulder of the roaring sea lifts up the sheet-metal cigar and drops it, heavily. There is a terrible crash. The submarine, snapped in two at a stroke, seesaws on the coral reef, scattering the creatures and things that it contains. Back home, on the banks of the Elbe and the Weser, a few more mothers will not see their sons again, a few more wives are widowed. A few widows of Armorica or Cornwall and a few Basque and Nipponese husbands are avenged.

  That night, Rahuo’s wrath disregards the most fervent prayers and the most tempting conjurations. In vain, the evil spirits that haunt certain great shells are skillfully extracted and masticated, and in vain they are precipitated into the flames to be burned. In vain, the sharkskin drums are beaten by indefatigable musicians attempting to come to the aid of the stars. One might think that even the sacred fire is repelled by the gifts that are offered to it, licking them with disdain and succumbing to the fury of the demons. Undoubtedly, the return of Atua, the vast night, who existed before Rahuo had the whim of creating existence, is nigh. That the Oyas should return to the Great Artisan the breath that they have received is in order, but it is appropriate that they should exhaust all stratagems before the end.

  Perhaps the spirits enclosed in amulets, in hollow nutshells, in kneaded balls, which coppery hands are casting into the fires are too weak to raise themselves up through the seven havens. Perhaps Rahuo is demanding a more considerable offering. Although human sacrifices have fallen into disuse, the tradition subsists. They constitute the supreme recourse in a paroxysm of distress.

  It is not only the insidious rancor of the octopus, but an instinct in conformity with principles, to which Mao is obedient in formulating a suggestion: “Rahuo is irritated. Rahuo is the great crab. Let the children of the crab go to converse with the ancestor.”

  Manga-Yaponi shakes his white head severely. What right has Mao to interfere? Does he know things? How, in a cyclone, can the spirits of children have the strength to brave the unleashed elements and reach the ear of the god? Only the intrepid soul of a hunter in the prime of life, who might attempt the adventure of his own free will, could possibly succeed. If there is one such, let him come forward.

  The old man’s gaze settles on Mao the indiscreet, who goes pale, stammers and steps back.
But here is Tupu-Haré, who presents himself resolutely. For two moons the spirit of Toina, his companion, has been calling to him. She succumbed to the assaults of Rongo-mai, who gnawed at her breast. Tupu-Haré will carry to Rahuo the prayer of his children, and perhaps Rahuo, appeased, will permit him to join what remains of Toina somewhere. In passing, he will encourage the sun to climb back into the sky.

  Thus it shall be. Over Tupu-Haré’s head, crowned with gardenias, the old man extends his simian paw. He murmurs in a whisper the words he is required to repeat. The other makes a sign to indicate that he has understood. The sage makes a gesture.

  His skull shattered by a single blow from a club, Tupu-Haré collapses. Still warm, his body is immediately torn apart and thrown, one fragment at a time, into the fire. The flames deign to welcome him, consuming him and crackling with an ardor that is a good omen.

  Indeed, the furious souls of the winds are softening now, and calming down. Drawn in Tupu-Haré’s wake, they have quit the fortunate isle, rising up with him toward the radiant solitude, where Rahuo, curled up, is delighting in his own perfection.

  In the morning, with noisy cries of joy, the Oyas bound out of their huts and shelters, extending the homage of their coppery palms toward the refreshed sun. Once more the old sage has been able to appease the wrath of the gods. His prestige is further increased by that success.

  Like the birds—which, now the downpour has passed, are smoothing their foliage and making merry in the purified atmosphere—the Oyas disperse, picking up coconuts, mangos and oranges and unearthing the bulbs of ferns and manioc. Soon, the hunters set off in search of more substantial fare. The fruits and roots will suffice to calm the initial hunger. Warmed up by the warmth of the star, men, women and children crack mollusks between their teeth and shell nuts.

  Pecking in the same way, in the thickets of guavas and mulberries, are a thousand beaks of multicolored birds, which only pause in order to exchange strident calls. Suddenly, however, they fly away with shrill clamors. A band of monkeys has arrived to disturb the feast.