Malicroix

by Henri Bosco

  I was abruptly pulled from my dreams by a cry. I jumped and almost fled.

  Near me, no more than twenty yards away, the strange animal whose laments haunted the island had suddenly raised its voice. A sort of human call coming almost from ground level—it was impossible to know what mouth, in what obscure pain, emitted those heartrending sounds, almost tender, yet at times also mutely cruel.

  Unmoving, I awaited its appearance. Some reeds quivered to my right, but the creature had most likely smelled my presence; I heard it moving away through the bushes. It yelped one or two more times —but was it a yelp?—farther away, toward the east, and then it was silent.

  I returned to La Redousse, anxious about an absence that seemed long. But everything was quiet. Only Bréquillet, lying across the doorway, kept vigil.

  • • •

  I looked at the time. It was late, nearly midnight.

  I stirred the coals and set the lamp down in front of the hearth. Then I unhooked the reed cross and drew the codicil from its hiding-place.

  I unfolded it carefully. The document had been written in Cornélius’s own hand.

  I read.

  The first words flowed into me all at once. They possessed me.

  I stopped reading and lifted my eyes . . . Who was there? . . . But the words that had come down into me abruptly rose back up, and, terrified, I heard myself speaking. Right before my eyes, the written words were breaking free from the writing. They were becoming sounds. Strangely, they came from my voice to express a thought that was not mine, yet all of whose accents overwhelmed me.

  “I was born under the sign of Saturn,” this Shadow was saying,

  but Providence has deigned to brighten its rigor with the clarity of Jupiter. The fact remains that such an influence leads us toward violent ends. Born with gifts of strength and mastery, one needs a restraining will in order to temper their dangerous ardor. The Malicroix have hardly known such a restraining will. Among them, as wild as I have been said to be, I am perhaps the least harsh, if I am to be judged impartially. May God be willing! . . . Regarding this violence, I am certain that when you arrived on the island to take from his hands the legacy of your fathers, my notaire, Maître Dromiols, recounted the events. The man does not love me, and I know it; but he withers under a clear gaze, and I know that too. He will seem redoubtable to you. He is. But my Shadow will be with you, if you are a Malicroix, which for me would be unquestionable even if you had no more than one living drop of my blood. After all, you carry within you the inviolable power of legal right and sacramental lineage. You are my son. I want you also to be my soul on earth. My body will disappear from this world, and without a body, the soul can no longer reach earthly beings. It departs for other destinies.

  You, living, remain. Now, for as long as your body sees the light of life, you can touch water and earth, air and fire. And so it is through you that I hope to complete what I was unable to accomplish. I tried during my old age, but now that I am, in death, a soul cut off from your earth, it is impossible for me to succeed.

  You know the story. Maître Dromiols will have told you. He likes to repeat it, and he thinks about it constantly, because he hates us. Apart from thoughts about us, nothing disturbs him. He lives only through the memory of our grandeur. Still, do not thrust him too far from our shadow, whose majesty you—the last of the Malicroix—carry. Let him find some shade there. But keep him on shore, where he should remain.

  It may be that he has some claim on our indulgence, my son, and, although he has profited from our misfortunes, whose curse nevertheless torments him, there is one name that still troubles him, a name I never utter, which belongs to only one soul, the soul I will rejoin, and toward whom, through you, I must descend.

  Hear me. No one has yet received the confidence I am about to entrust to you.

  The blind ferryman is the same man who long ago, in his youth, through his crime, destroyed our house. You know how. Mathias Matefeu, called Le Grelu, bears on himself the weight of murder. And this weight has crushed him. A long time later, he returned to the river and reestablished his ferry in the very spot where he once crossed the waters. I saw him arrive. I recognized him. But he was already blind. Still, I needed to punish him. Long deliberation makes for certain vengeance; despite my resentment, I waited. For months I studied his strange movements. I saw that he never carried anyone in his boat, and that he never landed on the other shore on the east side of the river where the calvary stands. I understood. He was doing penance. This upset my plans. Like a true Malicroix, I like vengeance—but we are a fair people; however hard and pitiless our justice might be, it remains equitable. I could not kill him. Another had taken my place.

  You cannot see such a Judge; but you can fear His mercy when you have the Malicroix blood, loath to pardon.

  I thought it over and planned my revenge. But within me, the gentlest voice in the world opposed everything, and hearing this voice, my heart yielded. In the end, though, I ignored that voice and tried my justice. You know (Dromiols having told you) how, embarked on the ferry with the blindman, I cut the cable in the middle of the river. We headed straight for the Ranc. The man was not afraid. He did not see me. But he knew. I did not want to drown him. I wanted, once we reached the reef, to force him to confess his sin, and then, righting the boat with one stroke of the oar, I planned to cut across the current and land under the calvary, on the shore where the ferry should have taken us that long-ago night when my youth was blasted.

  In this way, I would have punished the man without harming him; I would have cleansed him of his sin and delivered him to the peace of the shore he could not reach by himself. I had counted too much on my strength, and I was perhaps not worthy to be the instrument of my own justice. You know the rest. I weakened. My old arms were unable to right the heavy boat. Balandran saved us.

  And so, my son, it is to you that I entrust the task of once more undertaking this difficult deed. You, as a Malicroix, must do what Cornélius could not. It was on July 16, sixty-seven years ago, that the ferry was lost. It will be on July 16, the year after my death that, alone, embarked on the ferry with the blind ferryman, you will go to the middle of the river to cut the cable; you will descend through the rapids directly onto the Ranc. I count on your youth to right the prow and reach the foot of the calvary on the eastern shore of the old river. There, for our mercy, the sinner will find peace and my Shadow will join another Shadow, which, unseen, you will carry with you, so that I may at last continue my journey in the next life.

  That is my wish.

  If it should happen that Mathias is dead, it goes without saying that, released from all testamentary obligation, you would no less, and immediately, be the possessor of the Malicroix name and property. I hope, however, that, surviving me, he will allow you to undertake the trial. For it is through this that you will enter into possession of the blood that is in you, but which most likely still slumbers. Have no fear, my child, it is a blood that always awakens. I know. And count on my soul.

  •

  When I had finished reading, my first impression was of silence. Everything was silent. The sound of the august words had ceased. The voice had departed.

  I looked carefully at the whole room. Everything stood in its usual place. Balandran on the bed, the dog beneath. The fire was burning slowly, quietly playing its part. It was a hardworking fire, sparing with its short flames, determined to last and to keep us warm.

  This humble peace of things perfectly suited the stillness of my spirit.

  I carefully refolded the papers and placed them on a corner of the table. Then I drank a cup of coffee. A full pot was simmering on the hearth. As it was strong and sweet, I enjoyed it and it did me good. This well-being, the warmth of the fire, and the peace of the house fostered my soul’s rest; not a single thought was rising from it. I savored the pleasure of being alone and warm, in familiar surroundings among objects and living beings. They made me feel that I was here, quietly, like them. Just lik
e them. This reassuring feeling allowed me to hear, with no anxiety, all the intimate noises of the house that, caught between outer cold and inner warmth, sometimes creaked a bit.

  •

  It was in the middle of this peace that someone came and scratched at the door. I was not disturbed. It could not be Anne-Madeleine. Why? I would not have been able to say . . .

  . . . But Uncle Rat slipped swiftly between me and the door he shut hastily. Barely a shadow. His appearance, the swiftness of his step, stunned me. In my surprise, I felt the blow of one thing—fear. He leaned against the door panel and lifted his hand. He was panting. His signal for silence evoked the outdoors, night, the approach of some danger and, perhaps, a secret presence.

  His anxiety passed into me. I was suddenly annoyed. I pushed Uncle Rat away from the door. He looked at me pleadingly.

  Bréquillet growled. But I cocked my ear in vain; I could hear no sound outside. Still, a strange fear took hold of me, so calm until now. I was waiting. I held Uncle Rat by the wrist, which transmitted a mysterious fear to me. Uncle Rat was afraid. He was not trembling. He was afraid deep within, solely deep within. He was hearing something there—a step, perhaps. He did not see anything, but the sound of this isolated, solitary, lumbering step shook his soul with terror. No one was outside, at least as far as I, who have a very fine ear, could tell—I would have sworn it. No one other than the night itself, mute; but its power was everywhere, and the shapes of its shadows sometimes seemed human. This is how terror takes hold of us.

  “I saw nothing,” Rat suddenly murmured. “I saw nothing; and yet, before I reached the hut, I passed someone fifty yards from here. The path is narrow. But still he passed, and he did not touch me.”

  I pushed Uncle Rat toward the fire and made him sit. He finally grew calmer. So I said to him, “Now tell me, Uncle Rat, what were you doing on the island tonight?”

  “I come here almost every night,” he answered, raising his eyes. His look, at once defiant and tender, moved me.

  Still, I said, “These winter nights are hardly welcoming to a casual stroller like yourself, Mr. Rat.”

  The sarcasm hurt him. He turned his head aside, and then, with an effort, faced me again with a sad, silent look.

  I was hurt in turn. I lowered my eyes. After a moment I heard his voice. “And yet, it’s possible to like the night . . .” he murmured.

  His voice drifted in the air, as if the incomplete thought could not reach it. All that remained of it was a feeling that troubled my mind, along with the hidden thought of the night whose shadow and strength rested in me.

  Then Uncle Rat spoke again. He spoke of winter. “A black cold,” he said. “It freezes you.” He was curled up in front of the fire.

  I said, “It must have snowed in the Alps and perhaps in the Cévennes.”

  He sighed, “Yes, snow . . . February is harsh.”

  Bréquillet came and sniffed his feet and legs. With a wary look, he settled between Uncle Rat and the hearth, from which the household warmth calmly radiated. A glow crowned the embers.

  After a moment of silence, Uncle Rat said to me, “You have won.”

  I said nothing in reply. I sensed the return of his cunning. I needed to not feed it, to restore the silence between us.

  “The girl is good,” he concluded by saying. “She is the one who saved everything—you, Balandran, Le Grelu, me perhaps . . .”

  “You, how?” I had been unable to keep from speaking.

  He presented a deaf ear. “She played for high stakes,” he confided with a false look. “She will pay for it.”

  My heart was pounding. But I remained cold, motionless. I had to keep silent.

  “Le Grelu, first of all, will pay.” As he was unable to draw a word out of me, he added more harshly, “Alone, what will he be able to do afterward? A blindman, alone, can hardly last . . . Cold, hunger . . .”

  (They will take her away from him then, I thought.)

  Again, I let a long silence go by. I clearly knew that he was waiting. But my silence interfered with his plan, and without any aid, he must have abandoned it for the moment. He returned to the cold.

  “What dreadful weather! And it’s time for me to go. It will soon be midnight.”

  I had to save Le Grelu. I took the codicil from the table and removed one sheet. Only the final sentences were visible, the ones where, in the event of Le Grelu’s death, Cornélius released me from the ordeal.

  “Uncle Rat,” I said, “one task remained. But here I am perhaps released! Read this.”

  He took the sheet. He read. He folded it back up and returned it to me.

  I confined myself to saying, “Without the girl, Le Grelu dies. And I am free.”

  He considered. “And if he does not die, this trial—”

  In the blink of an eye I saw the night, the river, the boat, the wild descent . . . The dark waters came toward me. I shivered. Uncle Rat was waiting, his eyes half-shut. He sensed my trouble; he scented my terror. But he did not know what trial Cornélius bid me face.

  “I have five months to decide,” I said. “The deed authorizes me.”

  I placed the sheet on the table.

  Uncle Rat calculated, “It will be summer then. At that time the nights are lovely.”

  He rose. If he did not know everything he wanted to know, at least he knew something.

  Before he left, he drank a cup of coffee and said, “I will be less cold. The river is freezing.”

  When he reached the door, he turned toward Balandran. “He sleeps well,” he remarked.

  I did not reply.

  He was smiling hypocritically and, as he was hesitating—was it to speak? to leave?—I moved away from him. And so, as if regretfully, he half opened the door and I saw no more of him.

  • • •

  The foul weather intensified around one in the morning, and it began to rain. I fell asleep not long after. The next day, I woke late, but well-rested. Bréquillet was now completely well. He went out and disappeared into the woods. Balandran was continuing to regain strength. We spoke a little, still about us, the house—never about him. Yet he said, “In eight days, I will be on my feet, Mr. Martial.”

  To my words of caution, he replied, “It’s an illness that comes and goes.” He deliberated, then added, “When you don’t feed an illness, it’s the thing that dies.”

  The sentence’s meaning was clear enough. It reminded me of the dangers that threatened us from the mainland, and I thought of La Regrègue and the flock. The fate of Anne-Madeleine and the old man now seemed more secure. Uncle Rat had understood me. I confidently awaited night. “She will return tonight,” I thought, as I listened to the rain beating against the windows. But within every hope anxiety prowls, and sometimes my heart, unexpectedly clenched, pained me. The day was cold and gray, and a great deal of patience was needed to maintain the fire’s little bit of heat in the big room, where the walls, through their damp whitewash, breathed the rain’s penetrating odor. Sometimes it seemed to me that our thoughts, borrowing the flame’s reflections, flitted across the bare white wall. Without speaking, we understood each other.

  It was a very calm day. Bréquillet returned before nightfall. He was soaked. His fur steamed as he lay in front of the fire. He looked as if he had accomplished some important task, for he sighed with satisfaction as he stretched his hairy legs.

  “About the flock—” Balandran suddenly said, “—the Sacristan would have let us know. It is safe.”

  I replied, “I had thought he was dead.”

  “I did too, Mr. Martial. But we were wrong, both of us.”

  Night was falling, as was the rain, which came with the wind in brief showers.

  Balandran ate and drank a little. In his own way, he was thriving. I took my meal beside him. As we ate in silence, we had complete leisure to listen to the wind and rain.

  I daydreamed. Bréquillet daydreamed like me. Only Balandran was thinking; for as I was clearing the table, he said, “He is cunnin
g.”

  He was still thinking about the Sacristan.

  I smiled. “Balandran, sometimes it’s necessary.”

  He looked at me sharply. “Indeed, sometimes it is,” he murmured.

  Then he turned away and fixed his gaze somewhere on an image only he could see.

  “He has thought,” I told myself, “about last night and Uncle Rat. Most likely he was not asleep. He was listening.” I did not dare draw him from his vision, and even if I had wanted to, I doubt whether I could have brought him back toward me and my banal presence. What he was looking at in front of him must have been emanating from some powerful being. Perhaps he saw only its shadow, cast onto the wall. And he was keeping entirely still, afraid lest the outline of that shadow fade.

  As for me, I was listening to the wind.

  •

  When she returned, he was sleeping soundly.

  • • •

  This return seemed entirely natural to me. I was sitting in front of the fire and I was waiting for her that night. The storeroom was not bolted shut. She came in from there without a sound. I had my back to the door and was warming my legs. As usual, the coffee was keeping warm in its stoneware pot beside the embers. Bréquillet had stretched out in front of me, his muzzle toward the door. He was the one who saw her first. He simply whimpered, without moving. (A whimper I knew well, drawn from his very tender heart.) Anne-Madeleine came in and said to me, “Now here’s a good fire. I need it. It’s so cold out!”