The Givreuse Enigma

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  As he was calculating his moves, the sentry stood up and stood there listening, his ears directed toward the cavern. Then he stretched himself, with a sort of groan, and took a few steps to get the numbness out of his limbs. His jade hatchet was still lying on the ground, where it had formerly been within arm’s reach. He marched back and forth, in complete security.

  Frédéric took advantage of the moment when the sentry was ten meters from the cavern to launch himself forwards.

  The branch bent under the impact without becoming disengaged from the rock, and Frédéric was already thinking that his attempt would be abortive when one of the ends gave way and the barrier yielded.

  The sentry bounded forward. Like the majority of Carabao-Men, he was compact and sturdy, with powerful muscles. He arrived just as the prisoner stood up outside the cavern. In a hand-to-hand struggle, his grip would be irresistible, but Frédéric, who knew that very well, immediately threw a punch that struck him full in the face. Although slightly stunned, the man extended his hands to seize the escaper. A second punch on the chin, and another in the solar plexus, caused him to stagger. He uttered a stifled shout to warn the tribe…

  Frédéric was already brandishing the axe that he had seized in passing, fleeing with the speed of a champion athlete.

  The guard’s cry had, however, woken up the tribe.

  Warriors were springing from the rocks like ants surging out of an ant-hill. With large strides, the young man hurled himself in the direction taken by Hourv.

  He had nothing to fear from those who were following him. His agility was far superior to the fastest of them—but a dozen men were surging forth in front of him and might well be equal to the task of stopping him. If one of them got a grip on him, even if only for a second or two, the others would succeed in surrounding him; it would be sufficient for one of them to get his long arms around him, more tenacious than the tentacles of an octopus.

  Frédéric swerved in order to pass between two warriors who were far enough apart. They anticipated the maneuver, and moved toward one another as fast as they could, but he arrived with lightning speed, when they were no more than a meter apart. His speed was sufficient to brush past the hands that reached out to grab him, but which did not have time to close.

  The way was clear.

  A furious horde was, in fact, in pursuit of the fugitive—but that horde was losing ground continuously. Assegais whistled through the air, one of which brushed Frédéric’s neck; soon they could no longer reach him, and he felt the intoxication of escape, the energy of a man concentrated by a primitive instinct, which thrusts all other emotions into the darkness of the self. It seemed that, in liberating himself, he was conquering the world of possibility, hope increasing as the clamor of the Men of the Marsh sounded ever more distantly.

  The black locale, the stagnant waters, the marsh-plants, the fugitive beasts and the croaking of colossal frogs—the entire world devoid of men—affirmed his ephemeral victory…and then, all seemed lost.

  On the isthmus that separated two large marshes, a man had just surged forth, as tall and as thickset as Hourv, the Red Eagle.

  He was occupying the narrow part of the isthmus: a tongue of land four meters wide at the most. Agile as Frédéric was, it would undoubtedly be impossible to avoid combat. With his axe in one hand and an assegai in the other, the man had taken up a position equidistant from the two marshes. The fugitive slowed down, then stopped and considered his adversary. Turning round, he observed that the pursuers were continuing their chase.

  He feared the assegai more than the axe; its point was almost certainly poisoned.

  Warily, he got under way again.

  When he came within range, the giant lifted his arm and launched the javelin with a muffled cry. Frédéric could see the flight of the weapon perfectly well. During the fraction of a second that it took to cross the distance that separated the antagonists, he judged its trajectory instinctively—thought would have been too slow—and veered sideways with sufficient precision for the assegai, which would have struck him full in the chest, to pass by a few centimeters from his shoulder.

  The adversaries found themselves face to face; their axes whirled. The giant’s would have cleaved Frédéric’s skull, but a parry turned it aside, and the Carabao-Man staggered, his shoulder struck.

  The way was free again.

  Narrow at first, it gradually got wider; soon, a capacious strip of land on which he could move in any direction appeared in the silvery moonlight; there, his superior speed protected the fugitive against immediate pursuit. To surround it would have required hundreds of men disposed in every direction.

  “Free!” he murmured, in the intoxication of victory that subjugates time and space.

  The image of Corisande passed through his mind. The darkness became heavy again, the plain strangely menacing, the vegetation sly and venomous. To free her, he would have to return to the midst of the very people he had just fled, to prepare a double escape a hundred times more difficult than the one in which he had just succeeded.

  Was that even possible? Perhaps, if Corisande had been as agile as himself, but, although fond of sport, she would be overtaken by her pursuers. Without pausing in his progress, he searched feverishly for ruses. He multiplied projects that all revealed themselves to be illusory, for he could not count on any surprise. With their lupine senses and their night-vision, the Carabao-Men would perceive any approach from a distance.

  He had not forgotten the Grafina, sure that she would be seeking to free those who had been her guests, and whom she had led into the wilderness. Could she pick up the trail, though, or deduce what the Men of the Marsh intended?

  “I can’t do anything without help! Anything at all!” he murmured.

  He would have died rather than abandon Corisande, however.

  He continued his course for a long time, slowing down at intervals. In the middle of the night he estimated that he had gained several kilometers, assuming that the pursuit had not been abandoned.

  Stopping on the bank of a small shallow stream to recover his breath, he realized that nature was offering him the elements of a stratagem used by beasts as well as men. Instead of continuing his route on firm ground, he took off his boots and walked on the stream-bed, only stopping when the water became too deep.

  They’ll lose a lot of time picking up my trail again, he thought, as he went through a little wood, and even when they find it, they’ll have been fatally delayed by their search.

  Toward morning he reached the larger river, where he found the raft that Hourv had not thought it necessary to destroy. Although the current was much slower here than it was further upriver, it was almost impossible for a single man to go upstream using that heavy and somewhat formless vessel. Nevertheless, Frédéric resolved to go over to the other bank, which, once again, would render the pursuit more difficult.

  “It’s very little,” he murmured, “but at the end of the day…”

  When he had accomplished the crossing, with considerable difficulty, it was almost daybreak. The Southern Cross and Alpha Centauri suddenly began to fade. The morning twilight was barely sketched before a fiery dawn was completed in a matter of seconds, and the grace of the Sun expanded over the waters and trees. The diurnal animals ceased to dread the formidable darkness. The hour, marvelously young, seemed to be the beginning of the world. Nothing announced as yet the terrible heat that the furnace was going to pour out over the forests, plains and expanses of water.

  Meanwhile, the idea of another elementary ruse had occurred to Frédéric. Instead of mooring the raft in the reeds, he abandoned it to the current. It drew away slowly, rotated in an eddy, and ended up running aground more than a kilometer from its point of departure, in a creek where it was trapped.

  That circumstance might perhaps slow down the pursuit more than the young man imagined, for the river, broadening out in the vicinity of the creek, formed a shallow fork. The fugitive would have been able to employ the same
stratagem there as in the little stream; the Carabao-Men would probably be almost certain that he had not neglected it.

  Upriver, after several hours’ march, the forest became very dense on both banks; the trees had become very abundant, the marsh-plants were scaling the bank, rich with an ever-renewed energy and capable of populating a world.

  Frédéric went forward in a sepulchral half-light, overwhelmed by a humid heat, flagellated by thorns, gripped by lianas, sinking into spongy ground and harassed by implacable insects. The homicidal fecundity that surrounded him seemed avid to devour him. A rain of dew streamed over his clothes; the trees intermingled their branches like vast wrestlers; the giant ferns and ferocious grasses hindered his progress as much as the lianas and the pools of water.

  In that frightful forest he felt weaker than a child; he would be unable to discern the Grafina and her men if, as was almost certain, she had taken the watery route—nor would she perceive him.

  My efforts are becoming futile, perhaps deleterious, he thought, bitterly. Wouldn’t it be better to go back?

  Instinctively, he sought some ruse by which he might hide his tracks; in that game, he was as inferior to the Carabao-Men as a blind man pursued by the sighted. Besides, whether he went forwards or backwards, the peril was equal—but in the open, at least he would have the resource of his agility, while, hindered by vegetation, he would be inferior to men accustomed to the forest. Furthermore, the large wild beasts might approach him in the undergrowth without his perceiving their presence.

  He resigned himself to retracing his steps. The heat, suffocating under the trees, murderous in uncovered places, aggravated a nervous depression in Frédéric due to the combination of insomnia and successive emotions.

  Soon, the weariness became irresistible. The fugitive’s head was boiling; his eyes were covered by mist; he began to reel in semi-unconsciousness. Mechanically, he was seeking a refuge in the direction of the river when a rocky mass appeared through the foliage. Moved by a hypnotic impulse, he concentrated his last forces in order to reach it.

  It was on the bank, in the midst of low vegetation; facing the flow, it comprised a kind of cavern no more than five feet wide and scarcely any higher. Frédéric slid inside and, because of the relatively cool temperature, was slightly reanimated. He made an effort to stay awake, but the exhaustion was too great; he slipped into unconsciousness.

  When he woke up, the Sun had covered two-thirds of its march; the shadows of the trees on the plain and the river were growing longer; a weak breeze tempered the heat.

  Natural pasturelands extended on both banks: grass that was often dry, punctuated by clumps of trees. A few meters from the river there were two clumps of banyans, each sprung from a single tree that had extended itself gradually, forming veritable chambers of verdure, in which primitive people might be able to live.

  The projects succeeding one another in Frédéric’s brain were rendered impractical by the necessity of staying close to the bank. He would have been able to go downstream, but that would render the Grafina’s task more difficult, and he had decided against going upstream. It was therefore necessary to stay where he was, while risking a few brief excursions to procure food. His hunger was already becoming unbearable.

  Screeches caused him to turn his head. A hairy mass precipitated itself into the vault; he saw a beast as large as a cougar, breathless and palpitating: a siamang. Outside, another creature was on the prowl, dark in color and no larger than a wolf: a black panther.

  Instinctively, Frédéric picked up his axe.

  For half a minute, the man and the cat looked at one another; then Frédéric shouted loudly, brandishing his weapon. The panther became invisible, but it remained in the vicinity, hidden among the lianas and the reeds.

  That presence complicated his situation dangerously. In stories of adventure that he had come across by chance, Frédéric had read that black panthers are more robust and more aggressive than others. The jade axe did not seem a very effective weapon with which to fight an agile foe endowed with great vitality. Any wounds it sustained would increase its stubbornness.

  There was, however, a simple means of getting rid of the predator; it would be sufficient to give it the siamang. At that idea, Frédéric experienced the same repugnance as if he were meditating a treason—and, in spite of his distress, he looked at the refugee with a quasi-fraternal pity.

  The young gibbon was also showing all the signs of a sharp agitation: dilated eyes, shivers, palpitations, rapid and raucous breath. A nervous, emotional animal, it turned so human a face toward Frédéric that the man’s scruples were exacerbated.

  An indeterminable time went by. The river pursued the course that it had followed for millennia, always so similar to itself and yet so different, always composed of new waters.

  It’s necessary to make a decision! Frédéric told himself.

  Leaning out of the cave, he examined the reeds and the bushes. In the half-light, two phosphorescent gleams denounced the presence of the cat. It would remain there, with the patience of its race, for hours on end. Only the proximity of another prey would cause it to neglect the siamang.

  “Shall I sacrifice you, poor creature?” murmured the young man, turning toward the monkey.

  The two of them stared at one another. The animal released a faint plaintive cry; Frédéric had the impression that its confidence had grown, that it was only asking to familiarize itself to him. What should he do, though? The situation was getting worse by the minute. On the one hand, the panther; on the other, the Carabao-Men, who would no longer be far away.

  He was making a tour of his refuge when he perceived a fissure at the rear, partly masked by a rockslide. Moved by instinct, he pushed a few stones aside; the fissure grew. It seemed that it would permit the passage of a man, provided that he crawled on one side, not on his belly.

  Where will that take me? he asked himself. Perhaps there’s another way out? With their bulging torsos, the Carabao-Men couldn’t get through.

  He glimpsed circumstances that might work in his favor and he tried to advance into the narrow corridor, crawling on his side with his arms outstretched. He succeeded without overmuch difficulty and attained a spacious cavern, lit by a feeble glow coming from a lateral corridor. On following that corridor, he did not take long to arrive at an exit overlooking the river, which was similarly very narrow but sufficiently high for Frédéric to get through it in an upright position, moving sideways.

  A rather deep creek was extended there; further away, there was a lush green islet, where two crocodiles were asleep.

  A breath made him turn round; the young siamang had followed the man almost as if it were a dog.

  “Now you’re safe from the panther!” Frédéric murmured. “You can flee…”

  The anthropoid leaned out over the river, uttered a faint cry, and hurled itself backwards. Frédéric, having advanced his body obliquely, recoiled in his turn. On the two shores of the creek, Carabao-Men had just appeared.

  XI. Outside the Cavern

  “The forest ends here,” Dirk announced. “We’re arriving in marshy ground, perhaps the Black Country in which those vermin live.”

  Louise de Gavres nodded her head as a sign of assent. The evening was drawing near. The yellow Sun lit up the dismal locations, patches of grass and boggy ground, while the river broadened out again and flowed with increasing nonchalance between low banks punctuated by rocks. Two rafts and four long bark canoes were transporting the expedition: Dirk, his son, the Grafina, 20 servants and 50 Amdavas, together with seven dogs with infallible senses.

  It was the latter who gave the first signs of disquiet, but they calmed down when the flotilla had veered to the left to move around an islet haunted by crocodiles.

  Vos, however, the Grafina’s favorite—a large dog with topaz eyes—remained attentive for longer than the others.

  “There’s some danger on the right bank!” the Grafina affirmed.

  That was Dirk’s opin
ion too. He scrutinized the reeds, bushes, rocks and tall grass carefully. There was no evidence of a human presence, nor that of a tiger. “We have to disembark,” the giant replied, “but this isn’t a good place to do it.”

  Karel, a taciturn listener, shouted an order to the foremost canoe. The Amdavas chief who was commanding it accelerated its pace, and the canoe did not take long to gain a lead on the convoy. It soon reappeared.

  “A raft, over there,” the chief announced.

  “On the right bank?”

  “No, the left.”

  That bank, flatter than the other, seemed to be easily explorable. The raft appeared in a little haven where, apart from a few reeds, the view was uninterrupted.

  “Vos?” murmured Louise de Gavres, stroking the dog’s head. Vos raised his intelligent head, sniffed the air and pricked up his ears, but showed no more anxiety than the other dogs.

  “We can disembark,” the Grafina said.

  The disembarkation was, however, undertaken prudently. Scouts and dogs explored the surroundings within a radius of 1000 meters, without discovering any indication of a human presence. All the Amdavas were trackers almost as perfect as Rak. The dogs, nevertheless, detected a trail to the north; the traces ended at the river, upstream of the creek.

  “A company of men came from the marsh at sunset,” Rak reported. “The emanation is no longer very fresh. In a short time even Vos won’t be able to discern it.”

  “How do you know that the emanation isn’t fresh?” Hendrik asked.

  Dirk and Karel started laughing. “Because the dogs are hesitant,” said the giant. “Rak and most of the Amdavas understand dogs.”