The centaurs, p.16
The Centaurs, page 16
Nonchalantly, the daughters of the sea drew away by means of imperceptible flexions of the tail, while sometimes surging from the crests of waves and sometimes becoming scarcely detectable in the transparency of the waters, while their melodious songs and the lascivious grace of their gestures fascinated the futile human soul. Entirely inflamed with desire, they forgot the approaching storm, and allowed themselves to be gradually drawn into the midst of the brown heads of foam-fringed rocks...
Suddenly, a great gust of wind passed by, causing the waves to splash, and extracting a groan from the fragile wooden monster. At the same moment, Oiotoro and is brothers had appeared, roaring. At a stroke, the intoxication of the mariners dissipated. They saw the danger and plied their oars with a new vigor, attempting to escape. Too late! As rapid as a centaur’s gallop, the tempest fell upon the frail skiff, shaking it with its angry hands, and suddenly allowed it to fall, with a fearful crack, upon the sharp crest of a reef.
Through the disjointed beams, the voracious waters had streamed turbulently. In a trice, nothing remained of the vessel than lamentable debris, to which the Flayed clung in vain. Then, with great outbursts of laughter, the marine maidens had thrown themselves upon the shipwreck-victims stupefied by their green eyes, and playfully detached their arms from the pieces of wood to which they were clinging, gripping them in a mortal embrace, and had dived with them, with a flip of the tail, into the depths of the sea. Soon, they reappeared, alone, smiling more broadly. Oiotoro and his brothers blew furiously into their conches. Thus perished, one after another, all the Accursed Ones who, thanks to their pernicious handiwork, had set out to tame the sea...
At Oiotoro’s tale, a murmur of satisfaction circulated among the sovereign animals, happy in their strength and confident in the future. Nonchalantly lying on the occidental beach, satiated by the benefits of the nurturing island, they never wearied of watching the suns sink, one after another, into the ocean.
And that went on for several years. But one spring, the weather was rainy. An epidemic broke out among the fauns. The youngest lost their appetites and grew thin; their tongues swelled and became painful, and their eyes became gummed up. Several eventually died. There were no more births among the centaurs, and the previous season’s last-born was found dead one morning. A malign fever did not spare the most robust. It was necessary to give death to Perik, who had become so weak that his legs could no longer support him. Even the tritons were not unaffected. They remained inert for hours on the sand, and complained that the sea-water tasted foul.
Heavy downpours fell. Many fruit trees perished. Even two or three of the most flourishing rheki fields were swallowed up by flooding rivers. Several times, gazing at the black clouds that were rolling across the sky, the centaurs remembered past catastrophes. The easterly winds crossed the protective barrier of the mountains for the first time. By night, the sovereign animals were unable to warm up their limbs under the foliage.
Klevorak wondered whether he ought not take his people to camp close to the Smoking Mountain in order to combat the chill, but when the dominators approached it, the rumbling of the ground frightened them, and they decided to seek another shelter. After having explored the island from north to south they came back, guided by the instinct of their race, to the western beach where the habitable land terminated.
On many evenings, nostrils flared, they wandered along the shore, whipping their flanks with their tails, going knee-deep into the water, sniffing the odors of the sea as if they were searching for the distant perfume of another land. At the horizon, however, the sky and the sea were confused. For three days and three nights, Gurgundo swam toward the setting sun, without seeing anything but the murmuring waves. Kadilda allowed sinister memories to rise up in her soul.
Then the evil days passed. The victorious strength of the sun dissipated the clouds, and cut off the deadly winds at their course. Under the warm caress, the splendor of the foliage became greener again, and the embalmed island was ornamented by flowers and succulent fruits. The hearts of the centaurs did not remain sad in the universal delight; they resumed their hectic races over the meadows and the hills. The turbulent fauns got drunk on grapes, sloes and juniper berries, and the tritons chased one another again over the surface of the waters. Even Kadilda felt her melancholy melt away and was obliged once again to rejoice in the beauty of things and the fact that death was far away from her.
But the joy of the triple race on the fortunate island came to an end.
It is late afternoon; the centaurs have been playing their games on the western beach. Taking turns, they have competed with one another in races, jumping and wrestling. Loud acclamations have celebrated the victors. Now, out of breath, covered in sweat and dust, they are heading for the sea to wash their soiled limbs there.
Klevorak watches them go, pensively, but does not follow them. A few days ago, he put his foot on a rabbit burrow that collapsed beneath his eight. Having damaged his pastern, he is walking with difficulty.
In any case, age is weighing heavily upon the old centaur’s shoulders. His hooves are worn down to the crown. Long gray hairs cover his shanks all the way to the fetlocks. His legs have gradually become knock-kneed. His ribs jut out from his bare flanks; his back is concave and his thin torso leans forward. It is only with effort that he can still raise his head and scan the distance with his fading eyesight. His gums are exposed and his white beard hangs down beneath his knees. For at least two years, he would not have been able to satisfy the ordeals of running and jumping. So, in accordance with the old customs, he has asked for death several times over—but with a single voice, his people have begged him to endure the insults of age.
It seems that the humor of the centaurs has softened since they have been living on the fortunate island. When it was necessary for him to raise the club over Perik, Hark felt his throat tightening, and the mere idea of striking the old chief sets his pectorals trembling. Klevorak has not persisted. As the centaurs no longer have to undertake long journeys, and there is abundant nourishment for all, his life is not a burden, so he has allowed himself to be touched by the love of his people.
He has confided to Hark and Kolpitru the care of direction, alternately. Over them, he still commands. Every day he takes a few steps to seek his provender and prevent his limbs from stiffening. Then, for hours on end, he remains lying on the beach, watching with a benevolent gaze the games that testify to the strength of his people, or contemplating the decline of the sun...
What’s happening?
The centaurs, ceasing to roll around in the waves, have come together in the water in a single group. The unequal murmur of voices is audible. Arms agitate, and suddenly, Kadilda detaches herself from her brethren and hurtles toward the chief. The sand flies under her hooves. Although the flower of youth has passed, she is still the most beautiful of her people and the old male’s wrinkled face splits into a smile as she approaches.
She stops, out of breath. “Father, come and listen to Glauvonde’s words; we are in peril.
Painfully, the ancestor raises himself up on his heavy limbs and goes down the beach, hobbling, leaning on the virgin’s shoulder. The centaurs draw apart in front of him. In their midst, a few tritons are crouching in the water.
Proud of having an audience, Glauvonde recommences his story. In a single surge, he has raced from the eastern extremity of the island to tell his brethren about the prodigy he has witnessed. Opposite the rocks that overlook the beach where the three tribes once came ashore, the sea was covered with monsters gliding over the surface. When he came closer in order to recognize their race, the triton was amazed to see the silhouettes of the Flayed standing on their backs, and realized that the floating masses were not animals at all, but strange assemblies of wood. Several broke in reaching the coast and a large number of the Accursed were drowned, but the others disembarked safe and sound. Their multitude covered the strand. Gripped by horror, the triton fled at top speed.
All gazes fix themselves on Klevorak. Has Glauvonde reported what his eyes have seen, or, on the contrary, has his loquacious tongue taken pleasure in fabricating a tale? Only the perspicacious intelligence of the old centaur is capable of figuring it out.
Meditatively, he caresses his flanks with his thinned-out tail.
What does Gurgundo think of Glauvonde’s adventure? The perplex triton blinks and shakes his head.
Noisily, Oiotoro takes the floor, punctuating his statements with loud splashes in the water. Certainly, Glauvonde is telling the truth. He has seen such monsters himself. He invokes the testimony of those of his brethren who accompanied him, two years ago, in his great voyage.
Everyone starts speaking at the same time, but Kadilda utters an exclamation and points to the beach, where three fauns are trotting along with their hopping gait. From afar, the centaurs recognize the gray beard of Pirip. Futh and Puiulex are with him. Before they have spoken, everyone has seen the distress on their faces and knows that they are bearers of bad news.
Suddenly, Kadilda remembers the distant day when Pirip, out of breath, came to the centaurs to announce the death of Sadionx and to summon their vengeance against his murderer.
In a halting voice, the faun recounts that in the morning, Futh and Puiulex had left the tribe to collect mulberries, which are more abundant in the vicinity of the Smoking Mountain. They were placidly picking the black berries from the brambles when whistling sounds had suddenly cut through the air. Futh felt a sharp pain in his arm; he had put his hand to it and pulled out a pointed stick...
Pirip handed Klevorak a small branch, short and slender, stripped of its bark, terminating in a hard point, as shiny as the nacre of seashells. Astonished, the centaurs take turns to feel it, sniff it and admire the fact that such a light object was able to transpierce Futh’s arm...
Pirip resumes his story. When the surprised fauns looked up, the whites redoubled; similar pieces of wood sank into the grass to the side of them, and suddenly, through the thicket, the grape-eaters saw crouching white bodies that were spying on them. A single glance was sufficient. They have run all day to tell their brothers that, by some unknown prodigy, the Flayed have fallen from the sky or emerged from the bowels of the earth...
The triumphant Glauvonde swells with pride; he alone has told the truth: the impure ones have crossed the sea.
It does not matter. Their bare feet will not tread the forbidden ground for long. In a trice, an intoxication of wrath inflames the brains of the centaurs. What! The Accursed Ones dare to track the sovereign animals all the way to the fortunate isle! Threats of death ring out, Fists are raised. Forward! Forward! To the death! Hooves paw the ground.…
Klevorak calms his people down. The sun is sinking into the waves. Before long, darkness will fall. Will the centaurs go forth to pursue the humans through the dark woods? Let them wait for tomorrow’s dawn. It is in broad daylight that it is appropriate to deliver battle. Perhaps, because of their number and the pernicious weapons that their industry has forged, the Flayed will dare to stand up to the attack.
At that idea, loud laughter shakes breasts. The expectation of combat, forgotten for so many years, excites the dominators, and they employ the last moments of daylight in collecting clubs and fashioning lumps of wood into cudgels, which they whirl around, hurl into the air and catch in their hands.
Meanwhile, in spite of their impatience, Hark and Kolpitru crouch down beside the chief. Because of his great age and his injury, for the first time, Klevorak will not lead his people into battle. He informs the two giants as to the shouts of command and the rules of strategy. According to the ancient customs, the entire tribe will march behind them. The only ones who will remain with Klevorak are those whose great age retains them, as it does him: old Hekem, Miorak and the tremulous Babidam.
However, Hark proposes that Kadilda should remain too. She alone is able to dress he father’s wound, and if a sudden reflection is born in his prudent brain, she will go in his name to transmit it to the combatants. As the centauress finds the odor of blood repugnant, she does not protest against the decision of the chiefs.
Darkness has descended upon the occidental beach. Only an indecisive light still indicates the horizon where the sun has set. Then the voice of Klevorak rises alone within the three tribes, and intones a solemn hymn.
He recalls how, at the cost of cruel suffering, the sovereign animals reached the fortunate island and have renewed their peaceful splendor there. Now, as far as this last refuge, the Accursed Ones have launched themselves on their track! Let a pitiless punishment repress their imprudence permanently! Peace only germinated in fields sown with blood. By nightfall tomorrow, let none of them soil the sacred isle with his presence.
The chief falls silent. A long murmur approves his words; then, going back to the thickets, the sovereign animals lie down, and the powerful rhythm of their respiration soon rises up.
Only Kadilda remains awake, for a long time, her heart quivering. At the idea that the delicate feet of humans are trading the soil of the island, she is gripped by such emotion that she presses both hand upon her throat in order not to cry out. Abruptly, old memories come to assail her mind. The prospect of the morrow’s battle fills her with horror; and yet, a shameful regret troubles her of not perceiving once again the brethren of the pale child who once placed his hand on her flank. Immediately, however, she rejoices that her eyes will not see their fragile bodies smashed by the furious blows of the centaurs...
Then her thoughts become confused, and she falls asleep.
The woods wake up. The songbird-chicks chirp in the hollows of their nests. The quadrupeds shake themselves and rustle through the thickets. The nascent rays of the sun set the foliage ablaze, on which the countless pearls of the dew scintillate. The centaurs prance through the grass in the radiant freshness of the dawn. Puiulex, the faun, is trotting at their head. He will guide them as far as the brambles where Futh received his wound yesterday by his side. From there, they will easily pick up the trail of the Flayed.
The faun’s pace is slow, and the progress sufficiently fastidious to make the six-limbed folk impatient. There is no evidence of the approach of the impure ones, so, in order distract themselves, they all poke fun noisily at Puiulex. Undoubtedly, Futh and he were dreaming; they had mistaken the silhouette of a birch gleaming in the sunlight for a Flayed.
“And was it a birch that pierced Futh’s arm with one of its branches?”
Abruptly, the voices fall silent. Puiulex indicates a thorn-bush with his finger. The ground is covered with darts similar to the one that was drawn from Futh’s arm. The centaurs pick them up, turn them over in their fingers and then throw them far away, clutching their clubs in their strong hands and searching the surroundings with their piercing eyes.
The recently-trodden ground, the trampled plants and the broken branches indicate the passage of a horde. A small number of humans can do as much damage as a herd of cattle. Another sign denounces them. The birds fall silent in the trees. The quadrupeds have disappeared—all of those, at least, that were able to do so, for Haidar bends down over a clump of furze and picks up the still-warm body of Lull by the ears, transpierced by a dart. All night, the hare has lain there, twitching in agony. Around him, a pool of blood has blackened the soil. At the suffering of the little brother, a surge of anger warms their hearts. Woe to the filthy race!
Bending down over the ground, without saying a word, the centaurs follow the trail. They no longer have any need of Puiulex. The sickening odor of the impure race poisons their nostrils. Evidently, after having perceived the fauns, the Flayed have taken flight. Doubtless they anticipated punishment. One sole dread haunts their minds: what if the adventurers have already taken to the sea?
Hark, who is in the lead, utters the cry that commands a halt and silence. Everyone stops and listens, ears cocked and neck extended. A precipitate gallop is heard through the high furze. It is neither the gait of the red deer nor that of the wild boar. Besides which, the beasts do not run away at the approach of the dominators. The herd clears a path through the thicket. Tregg utters an exclamation of triumph. He has found the trail of the fleeing humans. There is no doubt about it. All of them follow it, noisily, unworried by the possibility of an enemy ambush.
The undergrowth becomes thinner and lower. The chestnut-trees are smaller and more widely spaced. Soon they will reach the heath that precedes the wood of cork-oaks and the coastal hills. Another thicket of dwarf holm-oaks, and there it is.
Hark emerges from the bushes and utters an exclamation. His brothers stop behind him, nonplussed.
Facing them, a long voice-range away on the edge of the wood of cork-oaks, is a numerous and motionless troop. Its appearance strikes the centaurs with amazement. On four feet, like their own, there are similar bodies surmounted by two heads. One resembles that of a hind, the other that of the sovereign animals themselves. Thin arms are brandishing pointed sticks or feeble clubs. Between the quadrupeds move the pale silhouettes of the Flayed. Their hands are clutching pieces of wood or stalks of an unknown shiny substance. Some are kneeling; one arm extended forwards is holding a flexible piece of wood, the other is drawn backwards.
It is Haidar whose subtle mind dissipates the astonishment of his people. “Remember what Oiotoro said. The Flayed have made Kahar their slave.”
Haidar is right. The centaurs recognize the elongated head and mane of the horse. A growl of anger emerges from their throats. Their own pride is wounded by the humiliation of Kahar, whose form is that of their lower bodies. The Flayed are the torturers of everything that lives. The centaurs bear within them the soul of animality entire.
