She obeys, remains motionless, shivers, and seems to be cocking an ear. All her features contract, taking on an expression of suffering.
“Oh, Hugues, listen—how the little dears are calling us!”
She seizes his hand with unexpected force, and tries to get up.
“Are you coming?”
The Citoyen is ready to sail. In two or three days, she will reach Toulon—barring accidents, for navigation is scabrous. Only yesterday, two ships were torpedoed within sight of Alexandria. Several submarines have been sighted. There is every chance that the cruiser, traveling at full steam, will avoid their attack; nevertheless the danger exists, increased by the light of the moon, which will be full tomorrow.
All day long, softly, Laurette has been muttering. From her bloodless lips escape at intervals, not words, but bizarrely modulated syllables. With a constriction in his heart, Hugues has recognized them. They are the songs that Laurette has learned from the two wild children. There is the song of the octopus, the song of the ornithorhynchus...
Now, rising with the temperature of the fever, there is the cadenced refrain of Kroum, the crab fetish:
Tick, tock
Shock, crock...
Should he bless or curse the obsession of the magical island?
Toward evening, the agitation has declined. Laurette has opened brighter eyes, but complains that she is suffocating in her cabin.
With a thousand precautions, Dr. Boujade allows her to be carried on to the deck.
The night is indescribably splendid. All lights extinct, the Citoyen is traveling at top speed. The stars are scintillating violently. The silhouettes of sailors come and go, outlined pitch black against the silvery sheet projected by the moonlight.
Hugues is sitting silently on the afterdeck, next to the young woman’s chaise-longue. There is an immense peace.
Between the romantic grace of the décor and the murder that is perhaps prowling close by, under the water, and between the beauty of the young woman haloed by the rays of the star and the agony that is breaking the man’s heart, the contrast is too sharp. Involuntarily, the officer emits a groan.
He feels a light hand touch his own. “What’s the matter, Hugues?”
He bites his lip and stammers, stupidly; “I wish we’d arrived, Laurette...”
“But why?” she protests.
He shakes his head. Why, indeed?
“All is well, Hugues,” she continues. “Very well. It’s necessary to accept. The children are waiting for us. We’re going back. Since it’s promised...”
And placidly, harmoniously, she becomes delirious...
Flick, flock...
Suddenly, a tremendous shock. The ship trembles, grates, rears up, falls back, oscillates with an enormous plaint. A muffled detonation. Then another. A long and strident ripping, like that of a gigantic piece of silk. Flames spring forth at the bow, immediately followed by a column of black smoke...
The pirate!
Hugues puts his head in his hands, races toward a cork object hanging from the planking.
“Quickly, Laurette, your lifebelt!”
In the midst of the crackling and the tumult of waters and voices, she reopens her eyes, and murmurs feebly: “What’s the point?”
He seizes the light form in his arms, takes a step, and cries: “Help!”
But the detonations in the vessel’s bow are succeeding one another, increasingly deafening. She is moaning in her entirety, shivering like a great beast, mortally wounded. There is no longer a deck underfoot. A great undulation precipitates the officer and his burden against the side-rail; he clings on to it.
In a host of clamors, Monsieur Le Guédec’s warning can be distinguished: “We’re sinking...” And now a supreme chorus rises up into the sky, in which the thunderous voice of Monsieur Bedeau-Conflans, which is, at that moment, not trembling, dominates all the rest: “Vive la France!”
Hugues hugs the young woman to him, impotently, seeking in vain for an impossible rescue.
But cheerful laughter melts into his ear. “Oh Hugues! How good it all is! Look—they’re coming to meet us...”
Clinging to the officer, her face radiant with joy, the young woman watches the rising waves. Her finger points, over the silvery mass, at floating forms that become more precise...
Gripped by the suction of the sinking ship, innumerable phosphorescent crabs are surging forth, swirling, drawing nearer.
Triumphantly, Laurette stretches out her arms and utters a cry:
“Kroum is alive! Here we are...”
Then the sea swells up, becomes torrential, and bursts the petty carcass, whose fragments come apart. There is another detonation. The Citoyen struggles, projects her poop toward the sky, and then everything shatters, collides, scatters...and the wisps of straw laden with ants are definitely swallowed up, by the light the moonlit night, spangled with stars, into the midst of the peaceful sepulcher of the waves.
Now, above the scintillating waters, newly-liberated spirits are floating.
In Oaleya the Fortunate, the innocent Oyas have resumed the regular course of their existence. Already, the latest events that have troubled it are fading in their memory. Confused images float therein, in which what happened recently is mingled with distant legends, that which might have been, and all the rest...
In the memory of the tribe, the visit of the German submarine and that of the gods of the kiss retain an aspect scarcely more real than the action of Rahuo and the other tales of Polynesian mythology. The white gods have returned to the unknown and the inconceivable—as they should. The men retain a vague and fearful respect for them. The women have lost the taste for their caresses. All day long, the peaceful Oyas idle insouciantly in their forests, sheltering their games, their dreams and their fragile amours therein. In the evenings, they assemble amid dances and songs around a central fire, where they never tire of hearing Manga-Yaponi recite, indefinitely, the words that contain wisdom, history and knowledge.
Only Raramémé, apart from their people, pursue an obstinate search.
They have resumed their places in the cave of bats, with Kouang, every evening, but a single concern absorbs them.
Every day, at dawn, when their leaden eyes have hardly opened, they go out, run to the beach, and their sharp eyes scan the horizon, in search of the whale-mountain, until the last morning mists have dissolved.
Confronted by the empty ocean, the children are not discouraged. Perhaps it is by another route that it will please the gods to come back to them. At full tilt, Raramémé run to the site of the encampment, the last traces of whose debris are completing their disintegration. Nothing any longer remains of the visitors—not even their odor, effaced by the recent rains.
Then the children go in quest of traces on all the trails that they followed: on the bluff where the three-colored sign stands, in all the great thickets that fill the forest around the village, in the two coconut groves, all along the stream, in the caves where the bones of the giant birds lie, among the giant ferns, and on the banks of Taroa of the dormant waters.
In spite of their terror they have braved the burning breath of Hakarou, the volcano. On the southern headland, they have scrutinized the impassive visages of the sleeping stone gods, fruitlessly.
In spite of their repugnance, and in spite of the anguish that it caused them, small as they are—and frailer now, weakened by the departure of their big siblings—drawing away from their people, they have traversed the entire island. What if it were out there, near the ancestor’s totem, that they must go to find them again?
The coral cross stands up, solitary. The children have knelt down before it, as the white gods did; as they did, they raise their brown hands to their tattooed foreheads and then to the blue designs on their breasts. Afterwards they have waited for a long time—a long time—until nightfall. In vain.
Anxiously—oh, how anxiously!—with their eyes, they voices, their ears, their noses and their gestures, Raramémé interrog
ate the grass, the trees, the animals, the stones, the ground. There is nothing so humble that the divine does not subsist within it. But the rocks have remained mute, and also the dust, and the grass, and the foliage, and the waters, and the winds. Pippi-kuink, whom Lauritea tamed, stuffs herself blissfully on slugs and worms that she no longer offers to him. Hop-klok the kangaroo parades his soft and inexpressive gaze over the children. Hra-koa the cockatoo loses himself in stupid, empty screeches.
Raramémé have summoned the people of Kroum. “Do you know anything about our white gods?”
The crabs have come running to the appeal, jostling, sticking out their round eyes, but in response to the questions asked of them, they only prance ridiculously, waving their pincers indecisively.
Irritated, the children chase them away with insults. Kroum returns, ashamed, to hide in his lairs.
At dusk, once again, the children hasten to the ruined camp—for, after all, who knows whether, during the day, having descended from the sky or sprung from the ground. Hougalauritea might not be there, waiting for them?
There is no sign of them. Then, very weary, silently, hand in hand, Raramémé return to Kouang’s grotto.
The melancholy monster watches for them on the threshold, tries to cheer them up with amicable grunts. They do not respond to his advances, and fall asleep exhausted.
And as soon as sleep has closed their eyes, they are off of the quest again. Through the somber immensity, full of traps and perils, their spirits take flight and soar...
And sometimes, their constancy is rewarded. Yes, it sometimes happens that a frisson alerts them, that their nostrils quiver, that beloved hands reach through the darkness, extending toward them, that lips are placed on their moist foreheads. Sometimes, when they wake up, delightful words are still singing in their ears, with a inexpressible emphasis.
They continue quivering. Isolating themselves in the profound thickets all day long, they repeat them, again and again, listening in their hearts to the echoes that are dying away. Impatiently, feverishly, they wait for nightfall in order to resume their pursuit.
Who can tell whether, by virtue of patience and tenacity, they might not succeeded in getting a solid grip on those who have gone away, and bringing them back, in order to awaken in their bosom, in a suave dawn...
The days go by.
Every morning, Raramémé affirm: “They will come back.”
To pensive Kouang, to Pippi-Kuink, to Kroum, and to all the others, they explain, at each encounter: “They will come back, you know.” Thus their own certainty is confirmed. And the appeal of all, added to theirs, will exert a more powerful attraction on the cherished white gods.
Now, scarcely asleep, without hesitation, they depart. Such is the power of the sign of Kroum that neither darkness, nor the oceans, nor the fury of the winds, nor the jealousy of demons can separate those it unites. All the way to the edge of the great soft Entity, Raramémé rejoin Hougalauritea, hold them in their arms, stroke them, begging them: “Come back.”
Oh, certainly—they have sworn by Kroum—the cherished gods want nothing more than to follow them, but even the gods are not masters of their actions. Other powers agitate around them, which hold them back. There are sticky things to clear away, bonds to beak, traps to escape, abysses to cross. One night is too short to triumph over so many spells, so many obstacles.
In the morning, Raramémé wake up exhausted, and the following night, it is all to do again...
It is necessary to remain nested, nested indefinitely beside the dear gods, patiently convincing them, taking them by the hand, on the lookout for the moment to escape the gulf together, to return together to the fresh light of Oaleya, the fortunate isle where Kroum is waiting.
One night—the one preceding the full moon—Raramémé have plunged much further, much further than usual into the magical slumber.
But this time, it is in vain.
In vain they struggle, strive and exhaust themselves, through fantastic deserts, sinking into gulfs, losing their breath in the empyrean. Around them, demons whirl, gripping them, paralyzing them. Cold breaths freeze them. Burning effluvia stifle them. They flinch, stumble. An entire hostile barrier looms up before them. Beyond it, Lauritea remains invisible; Houga too...
Should they give up, battle-weary?
Alas! From far away—oh! from what inexpressible beyond!—through the desolation of the empty sky, a double plaint rises toward them, which suddenly bursts forth with the din of a beaten gong.
Bewildered, covering in sweat, Raramémé awake.
In their breasts, their little twin hearts are beating atrociously.
Rara places his ear on Mémé’s left breast, where the warm little beast is, and murmurs: “They’re calling.”
Palpitant, Mémé confirms: “Oh, how they’re calling!”
Perplexed, Rara observes, querulously: “The route is difficult.”
There is a silence. Then, with a single voice, both affirm: “We must help them.”
In the darkness, the children get up, and slide noiselessly along the sleeping Kouang...
A livid patch indicates the exit from the cavern. Now they are standing up in the open air, in the moonlight. Their palms salute all the gods, imploring the forbearance of all the prowling spirits. And then, hand in hand, they bound through the brushwood, amid the immense silky swarm of nocturnal life.
From their lips, the song emerges that is only sung once:
Rahuo has said: “You must be born,
Oyas, love, drink, eat, greet the dawn...
And when you have had enough of life.
Taroa provides an end to strife...
One silver moon irradiates the sky. Another smiles on the calm waters of the sacred pool. Raramémé slip through the great thickets, where frightened birds wake up with a start. Nimbly, the little hands make a collection of flowers that are black. Very proud, Mémé brandishes her bouquet: “It’s large.” But Rara puffs himself up: “Mine’s even larger.”
Then, hand in hand, they go back.
To love, to drink, to eat is prime
Oyas delight therein for a time.
Better still is the profound repose
That the flower of Taroa bestows.
At the entrance to his hut, Manga-Yaponi is savoring the freshness of the dawn and indulging himself in polishing and turning over his wise thoughts.
Two puerile silhouettes loom up before him, prostrate themselves, and get up again. And four hands reached out to him, charged with sheaves the color of night.
“Very Great Father, we request the Black Flower.”
The old man studies the children gravely. The Black Flower is the prerogative of all the Oyas, but it is usually only old people desirous of abbreviating their deterioration, the sick, the melancholy, or adventurous hunters, who dream of attempting the great voyage. It is almost unprecedented for children to claim it. Deprived of those of the crab, the tribe will be impoverished. Have they measured the solemnity of their action?
Gently, the old man says: “Children, there are delicious fruits in the woods, flowers that embalm, limpid waters, soft mosses, songbirds and butterflies like flying gemstones. Whomsoever drinks the Black Flower loses the joy of all that. Is it really the Black Flower that you are requesting?”
It really is. Raramémé bow down for a second time. And as the old man is the best, the wisest, they explain to him.
This is how it is: the very gentle white gods marked with the crab cannot remain distant from those of their sign. They are calling to them. Every night, across the immensity, the little spirits of Raramémé go to join them. In the morning, with much difficulty, it is necessary to part from them. It is very tiring. When the children wake up, their limbs are exhausted. They no longer have any appetite. The god Rongo-mai shakes their breasts. They are sad.
Last night, the call of the white gods was more imperious. It is necessary to obey. When they have drunk the Black Flower, Raramémé will be free, not only to
join them, but to remain with them for the necessary time. Who can tell—perhaps they will all come back together to the fortunate isle?
Maga-Yaponi turns these words over and over in the crucible of his spirit. He reveres the intuition that comes from the crab. The tradition of which he is the custodian suggests the appropriate commentary. It is in the order of things that the white gods should demand another tribute in order to spare Oaleya. The sacrifice of Mao, on its own, could not appease them. It will be completed by that of the two children. The blood of the crab will thus fall silent in Oaleya, which is a great loss, but the will of the All-Powerful cannot be contradicted.
In consequence Manga-Yaponi nods his white-haired head in a sign of assent, and pronounces: “This evening, before sunset, I will give you the Black Flower. Make your adieux.”
Raramémé leap with joy, clapping their hands, thanking the patriarch exuberantly, and, in conformity with custom—for it is necessary to be very polite—they make the round of their visits.
They go from hut to hut, saluting the members of all the totems and receiving their messages for those of their blood who are already wandering in the poorly-known regions, and whom they might perhaps encounter. Because of the ancestral rivalry, only the people of the octopus turn their heads away as they approach. All the other clans welcome them amicably, formulating their desires and blessings. Let Raramémé invite the demons to cease gnawing Taoré’s leg and selling Kittea’s belly, which has become very hard. Several women entrust them with words for the white gods who have deigned to approach them. Children contemplate Raramémé enviously, who have been summoned by the spirits so young. Adults give them useful advice. The old, who are sometimes so strangely attached to life, rejoice that perhaps the sacrifice of the crab will satiate the gods and deter them from demanding other victims for a time.
Having saluted the humans, Raramémé go to take their leave of animals and things. They salute the earth with which their bones will be molded. They salute the trees whose fruits are so tasty, the variegated flowers, the mosses that were soft against their bodies, the roots that were good to their stomachs, the waters that slaked their thirst deliciously, and the breezes that embalmed their lungs. Adieu to the squirrel, the kangaroo, the modest kiwi. Adieu, laughing, to the loquacious parrots and the ever-agile macaques.
The Children of the Crab Page 17