Crossings

by Alex Landragin

  Everyone watched you dance and sing the story of Pueo and Para, admiring how with your arms, your back, your legs, your face, you brought to life each of these two birds. Simply by turning your body around you switched from bird to bird, and thus, flickering with firelight, you were able to tell the story of each of the two birds at one and the same time. When you were finished, the strangers did a most unusual thing: they began to clap their hands together. This was a gesture we only ever used to express anger at our children, but it appeared that the strangers used it as a sign of appreciation. This caused us to laugh, and the strangers in turn also laughed, although not exactly understanding why. When the dancing was done, the children stepped into the circle, carrying great leaves laden with food, and went from person to person, serving an abundance of roasted meats, fowl, fish and breadfruit. As at all feasts, the meat of the albatross was also served, cooked in its own fat, but only to the visitors and the most senior men and women in the circle, as was the custom.

  The chief of the strangers was seated opposite Fetu. When all had eaten and drunk their fill, Fetu looked across the circle at him with a smile of such kindness and charm that the stranger looked back without reserve. They continued to hold one another’s gaze in this manner for some time. I knew exactly what was happening inside them both, that pleasant sensation that overtakes one in the throes of a crossing, that giddiness, that feeling that one is dissolving into the air, that one is filling up with stars. How I wished I was in Fetu’s place, that I could cross with the stranger and explore his mind and heart and soul at will. Fetu was such a high master of the crossing that it was soon complete, and I knew the soul of the strangers’ chief was now in the body sitting beside me, fully aware of himself, looking around with the unfamiliarity of one who has only just crossed for the first time. Otahu, who was seated on the other side of Fetu, leaned over to speak to him.

  ‘It is a great honour,’ said Otahu, ‘for us to receive you, and it is an even greater honour that you do us in making a crossing with our sage, Fetu.’ Though Otahu was speaking in our language, the stranger in Fetu’s body understood him.

  ‘By what witchcraft is this possible?’ asked the stranger.

  ‘It’s no witchcraft,’ replied Otahu, ‘but a gift from the gods that, of the many islands in our ocean, has been lost by all those who possessed it – all, that is, but my people. We have protected and perfected it, so that we may all possess the gift.’

  ‘And what do you call it?’

  ‘We call it the crossing,’ said Otahu. ‘Fetu is the greatest master of it among us. Only he is capable of the highest level of the crossing, the one you are currently experiencing: a crossing with a novice, in which the novice can converse in the new body, without losing his sense of himself, as you are doing with me. To perfect this kind of crossing takes lifetimes of discipline and devotion.’

  Otahu asked the stranger his name. ‘My name is Captain Étienne Marchand. The name of my ship is the Solide. We come from a faraway place called France.’

  Each of these words Otahu repeated like an incantation: Marchand, Solide, France.

  ‘And how far is this island, France?’

  ‘It isn’t an island,’ replied Marchand-in-Fetu, ‘but one place among many, one great island divided many times over, called Europe. It is so far away that it has taken us many months to reach you, and it will take us many more months to return home.’ Otahu and I were astonished at this revelation. ‘And what is the name of this island?’ Marchand-in-Fetu asked, but all at once his face appeared startled. ‘How strange,’ he said. ‘No sooner had I asked the question than its answer naturally occurred to me – Oaeetee. How is this possible?’

  ‘While you are in the body of Fetu,’ Otahu replied, ‘his memories and his knowledge are available to you, just as – while he is in your body – your memories and knowledge are available to him.’

  ‘I see. And the drink – you call it kava. Is the kava the cause of the crossing?’

  Otahu laughed. ‘The kava is for celebration, but it isn’t necessary for the purpose of crossing. The art of crossing must be learned. It takes many years. All our children receive training in it, although not all are equally gifted.’ Otahu took Fetu’s right hand as an expression of friendship. ‘But tell me, friend, why have you come here? What are your intentions?’

  ‘My country is exceedingly cold. We are on our way to islands far to the north of here, to barter for animal skins, and trade them when we return home, and by this means become prosperous.’

  ‘You have come a long way, and sacrificed much. What are your intentions relating to Oaeetee, friend?’

  ‘Everything we need, we must carry on our boat. But fresh water spoils. Meat goes bad. We were in need of water and food, and thanks to your generosity we have all the water and food we can now carry. We thank you for your welcome, and now that we have taken our fill of your hospitality, we will leave you tonight in peace, as we still have far to travel.’

  ‘And what is the object you tied to the tree at the cove this morning when you arrived?’

  ‘It’s a message to my countrymen,’ the stranger replied, ‘to indicate to them that we found friends here.’

  ‘Is it a magical object, that speaks?’

  ‘No, there are drawings upon it that my countrymen can interpret.’

  ‘And you – you will not return?’

  ‘No, for it has taken too long to come this far, and it will be almost two years before we return home.’

  Otahu was astonished. ‘But your countrymen, they will come later?’

  ‘Perhaps, when they learn about Oaeetee, they may wish to visit the island for themselves.’

  ‘When will this be?’

  ‘I cannot say. It may take many years, for it is an arduous journey.’

  ‘In that case, we will pass on the memory of your visit to our children, and they to theirs, until your countrymen return, at which time they will be welcomed as friends.’ Otahu smiled. ‘And your fire-sticks, what purpose do they serve?’

  ‘We call them muskets, and they are our weapons, which we use in battle.’

  As Otahu spoke with Marchand-in-Fetu, on the other side of the circle, Fetu-in-Marchand was deep in discussion with the strangers’ medicine man.

  ‘And Fetu,’ asked the man sitting beside me, ‘is he now in my body?’

  ‘Yes, he is visiting your mind and your body, just as you are visiting his,’ said Otahu, gesturing towards the other side of the circle. ‘He is conversing with your countryman, just as you are conversing with his.’

  ‘That countryman is our medicine man, Roblet.’

  ‘Roblet,’ Otahu repeated. ‘Fetu will be very pleased, because he is our medicine man, and the keeper of the crossing.’ At that moment, Fetu-in-Marchand looked in our direction to signal it was time to make the return crossing, which the Law required of all. Otahu squeezed the hand of Marchand-in-Fetu. ‘Friend,’ he said by way of farewell, ‘I wish you well in your journey.’

  The gazes of the two men met once again. Looking at each other thus, each underwent the same process as before, which is to say the dissolution of the bodily union followed by its restitution in the other body, so that each man found himself entered once more into his own body and his own mind, with no difference in sensation. None of the other strangers seemed to have noticed anything even slightly out of the ordinary.

  ‘I have learned much,’ said Fetu, upon his return to his own body.

  ‘And the stranger?’ asked Otahu.

  ‘The return crossing went well. He will remember nothing of it.’

  Otahu grunted his approval. On the other side of the circle, the surgeon Roblet, who had been seated beside Marchand, keenly observing all that was happening about him, stood and left the circle. I saw him approach you, Koahu, and speak with you. With his hands, he signalled that he wished to study your eyes, beckoning to you with smiles and friendly gestures. From my place in the circle, separated from you by the flickering li
ghts of the fires, I could barely make out what was happening in the darkness. I stood and approached you. I saw Roblet lean over you and look into your eyes, while another stranger held up a flame and yet another stood nearby, holding his musket. I was the only one among our people to notice this turn of events, for Fetu and Otahu were immersed in a conversation, and the others in the circle were enjoying the revelry. You, Koahu, allowed Roblet to look into your eyes, and you in turn looked into his, for such a long period that I began to fret. As much as I wanted to hear what Fetu was telling Otahu about what he had learned during his crossing, there was danger in what I saw taking place between you and Roblet. Despite the prohibition on crossing with the strangers, I knew a crossing was about to take place between the two of you. Your curiosity was too powerful, as was the surgeon’s. I approached you discreetly, keeping to the shadows. This was the moment I ought to have intervened, I realise now, before anything happened, but I hesitated, and hid behind nearby shrubs.

  I witnessed the fateful moment with my own two eyes. Of what can I be certain? Only that I heard you cry out in a panic. A last-minute doubt, perhaps? Too late – a shiver passed through your body, while the surgeon slumped to the ground. I came rushing out from my hiding place to try to stop what was happening, but my sudden panicked appearance startled the men holding you – holding the body that had, until just now, been you. They let go of your body to attend to Roblet’s, which now lay on the ground. I ran to catch you, but you lost your balance, you teetered, you stumbled, you fell upon Roblet. One of the strangers, perhaps fearing you were attacking Roblet, took his musket and pointed it at you. It exploded with thunder and lightning, and its lightning bolt shattered your body open. As the noise subsided, you staggered back into my arms.

  Your eyes were still open, but when they met mine there was nothing of you in them. Where your stomach had been, that stomach upon which I’d so often rested my head – where that stomach had been was now a spill of blood streaming over your honeyed skin and dripping into the sand. The mouth I had kissed so often was gasping with shallow, desperate breaths, racked with pain. Worst of all, there was no recognition in your eyes. The body I held was your body, but it wasn’t you. I know it now just as I knew it then. There’d been a crossing – of that I was certain. You were in the surgeon’s body, which was now surrounded by the newcomers. Had I not been so certain of it I would have gladly crossed with you then and there, so that I might suffer instead of you.

  More strangers left the feast and rushed to the scene. They were shouting and brandishing their muskets. They began to drag Roblet’s body away, in the direction of the beach. As they moved, they aimed their muskets at the people, so that all kept their distance and waited for the strangers to retreat.

  I’ve played that moment over and again in my mind ever since, trying to remember it in every possible detail. It’s an exercise in futility: the more I try to pin down the truth, the more evasive it becomes. Did you mean to cross? Did you want it? Did you desire it? I didn’t even think you capable of it, not with a stranger. Your initiation was still incomplete, your technique imperfect. But a crossing occurred, of that I am certain, fuelled by the surgeon’s curiosity and your own wanderlust. The alternative would be too terrible to contemplate – the alternative would be that you actually did die that night, after all, and that everything that has happened since has been in vain.

  There are occasions when one is seized by a terror so great, the heart suddenly sees further than it has ever seen, and the mind is granted an unexpected cunning. This was such an occasion. In the ensuing panic, I disappeared into the brush, found the path to the beach and ran there like a hurricane wind. There, slumped against a boat the strangers had rowed to shore, was a sailor who seemed oblivious to the distant commotion I had just fled. I approached him and saw that he was drunk. I slowed my breath, smiling at him, touching him tenderly and pointing to the parts of myself men consider desirable. He was wary, at first, and disbelieving, no doubt having heard the musket shot earlier, but the temptation was more than he could resist and, as there were no more shots to be heard, he relented, and allowed himself to be disarmed by my advances. He placed his musket in the boat and let me circle my arms around his neck and kiss him lustfully on the mouth. I led him by the hand to a secluded spot behind a dune, in the full glow of the moon. I unclothed him as if I could wait not a minute more to satiate my desire. He was but a young man, shy and clumsy at first, and in his eagerness he seemed not to hear the party of outraged strangers as they reached the beach, carrying Roblet’s body. Perhaps he thought he could have his way with me and still reach them in good time, or perhaps he had no intention of joining them but wished to remain among us on the island. At any rate, he was drunk, and completion eluded him. The strangers embarked upon the boat and rowed away from shore. Twice, in the throes of our embrace, as I swayed my hips above him and felt him inside me, he closed his eyes with the pleasure of it. Twice I had to prise them open with my fingers. I took his face in my hands and held it still so that our gaze would meet. With only the light of the moon to see each other, crossing was no easy task, but the youth eventually understood what was being asked of him and was most compliant. His eyes met mine, and did not stray.

  The crossing occurred just as I felt the first shivers of his pleasure.

  {53}

  Pierre Joubert

  Born 1771

  First crossing 1791

  Second crossing 1825

  Date of death unknown

  THE EYES I WAS now looking into were the same eyes I had looked through only moments ago: the dark eyes of an island woman. They now returned my gaze with an expression of bewilderment. I’d just seen a very similar expression on Koahu’s face, and I would come to see it over and again: the stupor of a soul that has just been ripped unknowingly and without warning from its moorings – a blind crossing. The unknowing soul awakens in the new body in a state of shock, unaware of what has just occurred.

  I withdrew from my embrace with Alula with a pang of sadness that I was leaving my body behind. I rose to my feet and ran to the water. In the moonlight, the beach was deserted, the longboat nowhere to be seen. From the ship I heard a whistle I recognised as the bosun’s and the muffled sound of men’s voices barking orders. I threw myself into the water and began to swim, but while, in my previous body, swimming was something I had always done without a second thought, I now discovered that this new body could barely float, let alone move forward in the water. I had, there and then, to teach myself how, using all the memories of a previous life. They were barely sufficient to the task. It was slow and difficult going, all thrashing and gasping for air. Water seeped up my nostrils and left them stinging. Still, I did not sink, and before long I was past the surf and making progress.

  The closer I swam to the ship, the more I feared I would be left behind. In the confusion and flailing movement, I heard the thud of canvas unfurling and the crackle of sails filling with air. This, despite my exhaustion, excited my endeavour. I was closer to the ship now than to the shore, and all but spent. Should I not make it aboard, it would be the end, for I hadn’t enough life in me to make it back to shore. I cried out with all my might, which only slowed me down the more. The ship had just begun to move forward when I heard the lookout’s cry and those two blessed words, Man overboard! Moments later, the slap of a rope hit the water. I was exhausted. I clung to it desperately while a trio of sailors hauled me up and over the bulwark. I lay on my back on the deck amidships, gasping for breath. Orders were still being barked and men dashed to and fro as the sails were set to the desired trim. I was paid no mind, other than by my friend Brice who, in passing, said, ‘I thought you couldn’t swim, you devil!’ and the bosun Icard, who muttered, ‘I hope she was worth it, boy, because you will pay for her with your blood, make no mistake.’

  The ship’s course now set, the frenzy on the upper deck quietened. Once the beating of my heart slowed I raised myself onto my elbows. My first thought was to f
ind you, but you were nowhere to be seen. Another whistle blew and the men of the larboard watch began descending into the hatchways, one after the other. Before I could join them, Icard took me before Captain Marchand, who asked why I had deserted my station. I invented a lie but to little effect. He turned his back on me. ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you at noon,’ he mumbled wearily.

  At that moment my punishment was of no consequence. I went below deck and found my hammock and stretched it out in its usual place, hauling myself into it without changing out of my wet clothes. Compounding the weariness of my body was the dizziness of my mind, swimming with novelty and strangeness. Upon crossing into a new body, one takes up the course of a new life, scrambling, at first, to master the mechanism. One is like a weaver who has just sat down at a strange loom, upon which is a carpet already half-spun with an unfamiliar weave. Yarns of different colours are already threaded through the spools. One must trust that the skill to continue weaving the carpet is embedded within the very muscles of the fingers, and that the correct sequence will arise of its own accord at precisely the moment it is needed.

  Surrounded as I was by strangeness – the strangeness of my body, of the clothes I wore, of my surrounds – sleep eluded me. I lay in my hammock listening to the creaking of the ship and the snoring of the crew, watching slivers of moonlight creep back and forth across the boards with the motion of the water. My mind was beset by questions. What had I done? I’d broken the Law – and why? For your sake, Koahu – impulsively, unthinkingly. And then, from the other end of the ship I heard a man’s voice in the masters’ quarters screaming as if struck by a mighty blow.