The Children of the Crab

by André Lichtenberger

  “Only too happy, Captain, to assist a soldier to reach the post of honor to which the fatherland is calling him. You will be in gracious company...”

  With amazement, Hugues de Pionne has learned that Laurette, to whom he intends to send a word of condolence in France, will be returning there with him, as a widow. It has required all of his soldier’s stern will to suppress the surge that, when he saw her again, would have thrown his arms around the thin waist reaching toward him.

  The excessively poignant seizure of the first moment has been succeeded by delightful days.

  Yesterday, in the jungle full of fever, wild beasts and yellow bandits, death was staring the officer in the face. He will confront it again tomorrow, lurking in the forests of Argonne, on the cliffs of Champagne or in the Flanders mud. Between the two mortal death’s-heads, God alone knows how, the miracle of his sunlit adolescence has been resuscitated: Laurette de Vesnage is beside him, free—and she loves him.

  Yesterday, crushed by the universal nightmare, Laurette, at the bedside of a dying man, was chewing over all the bitterness of her spoiled life. Tomorrow, the enemy within will grip her once again—what doctor can cheat it?—with its murderous claw. Today, there is no more that this: over the golden and azure waves of the tropical sea, in the enchantment of indescribable sunlight and beneath the gleam of the Southern Cross, amid the soaring of albatrosses and the leaping of flying fish, in the midst of the Cytherean paradises that the corals have built and where Loti loved Rarahu, a ship of dreams is transporting her. She is free, she is in love. Beside her, Hugues de Pionne, the man she has always loved, is free and in love with her, as he has always been in love with her.

  Everyone knows what there is in oneself and in the other. Everyone discerns death hanging over the other and oneself. But did the dungeons of the Terror prevent the lovers who met there from savoring supreme and indescribable voluptuousness?

  Aboard the light cruiser Citoyen, which is bringing Monsieur le délégué Bedeau-Conflans back to France, a perfect and stoical idyll of amour has found its coronation.

  There are fragile plants whose destiny is to put forth single, brief and splendid flower, and then die.

  While the Captain, the député and the officers surrounding them continue to exchange their observations, Hugues and Laurette, leaning on the side of the vessel, avidly contemplate the cradle of coral and verdure huddled before them in the silk of the calm waters, streaked by great somber fish.

  In a low voice, Laurette says: “Hugues, are you quite sure that we’re here—that if I close my eyes and reopen them, all this won’t have melted away? Can you imagine, Hugues, that in a little while—the captain has promised it—we’ll be treading the virgin soil of the magical island we discovered as children, where we sheltered under coconut palms and banana-trees, whose fruits fascinated us when...”

  The young woman’s eyes go to the blue design ornamenting the officer’s wrist, and the dark jade amulet that has never quit her own, even at the beside of the dying man. Then she goes on: “When we played at going to join the Uncle of the Crabs in the unknown retreat where he was surely waiting for us, on the other side of the world...”

  They fall silent. An identical languor cradles them. Oh, to be able not to wake up from the dream that is connecting their decline to the first emotions of their puerile imaginations!

  Exclamations run through the group. The Commandant turns to his passengers.

  “The requested savages, Madame.”

  “Or rather,” Doctor Boujade corrects, “the little savages; for, not to displease you, it’s a couple of savage children—one of each sex—who are arriving in a coconut.”

  A pirogue has just emerged from the extremity of the bluff that delimits the bay in which the Citoyen has moored to the north. With a sudden flutter of the heart, Madame de Vesnage makes out two bronze puppets, who are making the spray fly with the rhythm of their paddles...

  In the nascent dawn, on emerging from Kouang’s grotto, Raramémé have perceived, facing them, in the midst of the waves, the surprising whale-mountain that has sprung from the bosom of the sea. Before that prodigy, more sedate minds would conceive a great dread and think, before anything else, of warding off the peril that it conceals, but Raramémé have the same curiosity that drives scatterbrained birds into the mouth of a rattlesnake and young monkeys to stick their fingers into the depths of shells to seize the secret creature murmuring within. With a single impulse, they bound toward the light bark pirogue, push it into the water and put to sea with all the vigor of their little muscular arms.

  All the same, as they draw closer, they experience a little fear. The monster is bristling with a chaos of horns, darts, mouths and teeth. A terrible respiration emerges from its breast and pale figures, human in appearance, are moving on its back.

  Mémé formulates the discovery and the apprehension. “I can see white gods. Perhaps they’re evil!”

  Perhaps. But Rara knows many prayers. Then too, he is very strong. Furthermore, his eyebrows are raised. On the largest tree on the island—for it is an island of sorts—an excellent sign appears. Colored red, white and blue, the same totem flourishes there that flutters over the mast, at the foot of which the stinking gods were massacred for having wanted to cast it down.

  Authoritatively, Rara affirms: “These white gods are good. And do you see, Mémé, they’re calling us...”

  Toward the hands that are making amicable signs to them, Raramémé, who release their paddles, raise their cupped gilded palms. A rope-ladder is hanging down the cruiser’s side. Rara swarms up it like a cat. Mémé climbs up after him.

  They emerge on to the gangway and stand there, intimidated, their hearts beating, mute and motionless, before the semicircle that surrounds them...

  “Monsieur Pittagol,” says the Commandant, “if Monsieur le député will permit, I shall appeal to your talents. Deign to explain to these young chimpanzees that we have come with the most benevolent intentions, and that there is sugar and necklaces for them if they will kindly answer our questions.”

  By turns, Monsieur Pittagol addresses Raramémé in Chinese, Malay and Kanak.

  They listen to the unthreatening music with an indecisive smile. Avidly, their nostrils flared and their ears pricked, their keen eyes search the faces, the garments and the strange décor deployed before them. More than apes, their slender figures do not displease Monsieur de Kerfaouët, reminiscent of a couple of gazelles or fearful roe deer, which a single clumsy gesture might put to flight.

  “They’re delightful,” sighs Madame de Vesnage.

  “Not very chatty, unfortunately,” mutters the Doctor, “although Monsieur Pittagol is jabbering away so mightily...”

  Suddenly, though, the young woman, unable to retain a scream, takes a step back. Rara’s keen eyes are fixed on her hand. He has made a strange whistling sound and bounded toward her like a little panther. His agile brown fingers have seized the jade amulet and are fondling it. He is staring unintelligible syllables, devouring it with his eyes.

  Captain de Pionne makes a movement to pull him away gently. Suddenly, Mémé is clinging to his wrist. She places her forehead on the tattoo that ornaments it. Then, with the same gesture, the two children point to the blue designs on their breasts, which reproduce the fetishistic animal with minute exactitude, and from their lips emerges a wild and bizarrely lilting chant:

  Click, clock,

  Mock, knock

  I have pincers and armor-plate.

  Click, clock

  Crock, block

  From Rahuo comes my race, my fate.

  Click, clock,

  Block, mock

  Blood will survive!

  Kroum is alive!

  With an indescribable amazement and an intimate excitement, Laurette feels the radiant face of the brown boy stroking her fingers. Mémé is purring over the captain’s wrist. They only pause to uncover their white teeth in youthful bursts of laughter, and to resume the refrain more loudly
:

  Blood will survive!

  Kroum is alive!

  On the golden strand framed by black coral reefs, the entire tribe of the Oyas has assembled. They are gravely contemplating the immense whale-mountain that rose above the water last night, and whose redoubtable breath, competing with that of Hakarou, is rising into the calm air in dark spirals.

  There is no hesitation over its nature. In mythological epochs, the traces of whose memory is conserved by the elders, similar monsters have made fleeting appearances. They have issued from the soft Entity that surrounds the ocean in all directions. In their flanks and under the singular trees that protrude from them, white gods are lodged, whose magic is terrifying.

  At any time, such an arrival would excite legitimate apprehensions. They are more acute by virtue of recent events. It is very dubious whether the Oyas have behaved exactly as they should with regard to the pale and fetid gods who disembarked on the island the other day.

  When old man Manga-Yaponi emerged from the coma into which the irritable god with the lunar cranium had plunged him with a punch, he was able to take account of the sequence of events. He has heard the story, and had its details repeated several times over. His lips have not articulated any judgment, for Manga-Taponi does not waste futile words.

  At the evening assemblies, however, everyone has observed the severity of his face. Undoubtedly the facts have awakened contradictory spirits in him. Who could be astonished by that? Surely, sins have been committed. They will be dearly expiated, for divine rancor is implacable.

  Thus, the appearance of the whale-mountain has excited alarm. All evidence suggests that its coming is linked to the defective welcome that the Oyas gave to the gods that preceded it. It is pregnant with punishments and reprisals. In the anguish of what it conceals, the women dissolve into lamentations and cover their heads with sand, but the faces of the men remain serene. What must be, will be.

  Manga-Yaponi knows the right thing to do. On his orders, the members of the tribe have donned their most beautiful necklaces and their most decorative loincloths. Their hair is laden with flowers and crowns. Collections of guavas, oranges, yams and coconuts have been assembled. Crouching on the ground, more intrigued than terrified—what madmen would remain concentrated on anguish for the future?—the indigenes contemplate the monster from which a motor-launch has just drawn away.

  Thirty men have taken their places on board. They are armed to the teeth with rifles, sabers, pikes, grenades and machine-guns. The captain has entrusted command of the vessel to Lieutenant Le Guédec. Accompanying them are Dr. Boujade and the interpreter Monsieur Pittagol, because of their knowledge of mores and languages. The strange predilection manifested by the two savage children for Madame de Vesnage and the Captain has decided Monsieur de Kerfaouët, not without having his ears bent, to add them to the expedition.

  There is a well-founded presumption that the welcome will be peaceful. Nevertheless, all precautions have been taken and precise orders given. Monsieur Le Guédec will limit himself to a brief reconnaissance, remaining in close communication with the cruiser which will open fire at the first signal. In the case that the attitude of the population remains entirely satisfactory, the Commandant and Monsieur Bedeau-Conflans will come ashore in their turn.

  Hugues and Laurette are sitting side by side. Curled up at their feet, the bronze children are twittering, smiling at them. At the idea that a danger might threaten the woman he loves the officer is frowning, and his eyes are searching nervously, but Laurette has abandoned herself entirely to the mad charm of the adventure. It would be no more prodigious to be living “Little Red Riding-Hood” or “Puss-in-Boots.”

  On the beach, the coppery silhouettes are moving back and forth; it is impossible to detect the slightest sign of hostility. It is nevertheless preferable not to be hasty. Monsieur Le Guédec searches for a landing-place and the motor eases down. Faces can be made out now, hair ornamented with flowers, waving arms and imploring palms. A perfumed exhalation rises from the land, like a kiss.

  Laurette stammers, ecstatically: “Hugues! Hugues! It’s too delightful! Look at that old man...”

  Standing on the planking, Raramémé show themselves to the surprised eyes of the tribe, and Rara’s piercing voice shouts: “Here are the children of the crab. With them are the white gods of the crab. Our blood is the same. The crab is powerful. Honor to the ancestor.”

  At the unintelligible statements, Monsieur Le Guédec has tightened his lips. Beware of treason!

  The machine-gunners are on the alert—but a rumor that seems joyful runs through the population. All heads bow down and strike the ground.

  “One might think that they were stuck,” opines the quartermaster, Lancosme, who is a child of Pantruche.16

  How Raramémé comes to be in the company of the white gods is too complicated a matter to be clarified, but their presence is a good omen. The boy’s finger points out a profound inlet in the reefs to the lieutenant, which can even accommodate a giant pirogue. With measured beats of the propeller, the launch moved forward again. A dozen indigenes run forwards, waving palm leaves.

  “Land,” commands Monsieur Le Guédec. And immediately: “Pay attention, lads! It’s time to keep your eyes open!”

  He leaps out first, followed by Monsieur de Pionne and the capering Mémé. Two sailors are behind them, revolvers in hand.

  Rara guides Laurette by the hand

  “She’s not hard on the eyes, the chick!”

  The little group reaches the beach in a few strides, and while Lancosme remarks on board: “Good landing. Let’s make favorable contact,” Manga-Yaponi advances to meet the gods.

  He raises his trembling hands above his head. With one voice, at his signal, the entire tribe manifests the spirit of submission that is within it:

  Honor to the gods so white!

  Honor to the gods of might!

  When the last ululations of the chorus have died away, the sage pronounces the speech suggested to him by his experience in a guttural voice.

  “Unknown gods, who come from the great soft Entity, the valiant people of the Oyas salute you. We know that you are strong and that we are weak. Command, therefore, and we shall obey. We are not unaware that anger is boiling within you: the breath of the monster spitting out there, and the rumbles of the smaller one from its belly, from which you have emerged, have warned us. We do not know exactly why, for our intelligence is limited, but we suppose that it must be connected with the story of the gods with the penetrating fumet who preceded you and whom we have perhaps not treated exactly according to their merits. That occurred because the sublime fist of one of them struck my face so violently that my spirit, in which the wisdom of the people resides, was expelled therefrom for several hours—and I fear that during that time, deplorable errors might have been committed. We are all ready to expiate them, as is just, by the sacrifices that you indicate to us. Since two among you are united by the sign of the crab with these precious children, we hope that you will not be too demanding. In any case, try to express yourselves clearly, for we are very frightened and our weakness has difficulty understanding the language of the gods.”

  Having spoken, Manga-Yaponi, the sage, immediately prostrated himself. The tribe resumed their chorus.

  Honor to the gods so white!

  Honor to the gods of might!

  Monsieur Le Guédec consults Monsieur Pittagol. “Monsieur,” he says, “are you able to translate that speech for us?”

  With perfect honesty, Monsieur Pittagol is obliged to admit that the detail is not clear to him. The indigenes’ language is evidently a Kanak dialect, but it is corrupted or very primitive, and the tonic accent bizarrely modulated. He will need some practice to grasp its finer points. The essential thing is that these worthy people are full of good will and desire to testify it to their guests.

  Monsieur Le Guédec nods his head. Without the aid of Monsieur Pittagol, a graduate of the School of Far-Eastern Languages, he would hav
e known exactly as much.

  “Do you think you can explain to them that France is very powerful, that she does not wish them any harm—entirely to the contrary—and that we are searching for a Boche submarine of which they might be kind enough to give us news. I leave it to you to decide how to bring the communication within the scope of their understanding.

  Monsieur Pittagol pulls a face. “You will not be surprised, Captain, that it will be rather difficult to convey its substance to these primitive intelligences.”

  In a clucking voice, whose pitch rises as he speaks, he informs the Oyas of the love of the metropolis and the good offices that it expects of their loyalty. Gestures underline the vehemence of his words.

  The Oyas listen deferentially to the god’s chant and contemplate his dance respectfully. The harmony therein is beautiful, and occasionally, its sounds resemble human language, in a rather unexpected fashion. Naturally, though, the ensemble is incomprehensible. It is probable that the god is threatening the Oyas with atrocious tortures if they do not carry out his will. It is important above all not to irritate him, and for that, the best thing to do is to nourish him.

  The old chief summons the women. They approach, fearful and curious, offering the visitors the fruits of which their hands are full.

  “I see, Monsieur Interpreter, that you’ve begun by ordering us lunch.”

  Monsieur Pittagol smiles agreeably. “You’re not unaware, Captain, that any entry into a relationship begins with a preliminary gesture of hospitality.”

  Madame de Vesnage has sat down in the sand. On her knees, Rara and Mémé heap perfumed treasures. She sucks an orange and nibbles guavas with her beautiful teeth.