A Strange Country

by Muriel Barbery

  “What’s going on?” asked the boatman, while Petrus was apocalyptically spewing his guts out.

  “He’s mist-sick,” answered Paulus.

  “I’m sorry,” hiccupped Petrus between two bursts of pâté.

  The boatman and the two deer looked at him, stunned.

  “Didn’t he have tea at the way station?” asked the boatman.

  No one answered. For a moment, they could see that the boatman was piecing a series of concordant clues together and, gazing at the finished picture, finally understood that he was dealing with a madman. Just then, Petrus let out a final spasm and the boatman laughed so hard it caused the entire barge to shudder, bursting the deer’s eardrums. His laughter gradually subsided and then, looking at the pale squirrel clutching his clothes close to him, he said:

  “Well, dear friend, I have no doubt that an interesting destiny awaits you.”

  And we know he was right about that. At present, however, the voyage had become a nightmare, and Petrus’s stomach, emptier than it had been in decades, was now regurgitating nothing more than a little bitter bile and the shame of having soiled his clothes.

  “I won’t kill you,” Marcus said, “that would be letting you off too lightly.”

  But Petrus shot him such a pathetic look that he softened his tone somewhat.

  “I hope this has taught you a lesson,” he sighed, in the end.

  As for Paulus, he was far more positive.

  “I’d never seen one of our kind throw up,” he said, showing a lively interest. “It seems really horrible.”

  The crossing continued at its slow pace, rocking Petrus with nausea. The others enjoyed sailing through the mist. The boatman had closed his eyes and the barges moved along smoothly, in close collaboration with Nanzen. It was an hour for prayers, and all the elves knew this, without ever having learned as much. Immersed in the inhabited void of the mist, in symbiosis with the living creatures of the world, becoming the vapor that conveyed the message, and, beyond, turning into water, air, mountains, trees, and rocks, the passengers were lost in gratitude for the great cosmic mix. That is how our prayers that do not require liturgy are recited, and how our hymns are sung, when the point is not to worship—if praying, as I believe, really means loving life. The barge plowed its way through the mist, life turned gently back in on itself, and everyone nestled in the furrows of the mystery of being there.

  Then the journey was over. The channel began to close over again behind the barges and they could see a pier on the shore similar to the one in the Southern Marches.

  “You will get off first, and go straight ahead,” said the boatman to Petrus once they’d docked. “Here there are no dolphins, but there are divers who don’t want to jump in just when the passage is closing over.”

  Petrus, obeying conscientiously, hopped as fast as he could toward the shore and collapsed, panting, before he even knew where they’d landed, and it took his breath away.

  Directly opposite, Hanase sat at the top of a hill of mist so thick it seemed to be lifting the city skyward. Gray particles, rising up from gardens of trees and rocks where smaller, rounder shapes could be discerned, floated upon the scene.

  “Hanase,” said the boatman.

  Everyone stood silent and motionless on the shore. In keeping with ritual, he added:

  “The dead must tend to the living.”

  And they stayed there, silent, honoring in their hearts those who had passed away before them.

  The dead must tend to the living

  The living shall know strange friendships

  Book of Prayers

  2Pronounced “He-ay.”

  3Pronounced “Ha-na-say.”

  ASH

  Ash is the boundary of matter and dream, the world made visible in near-evanescence.

  PRAYERS

  Is the Book of Prayers the oldest book of all? Some think it requires the prior violence of battles. But those who hear the great clouds speak and the breathing of trees know that the first breath is also the first prayer, since no one can fight without first taking in pearls of air.

  Like a day slipping between two clouds of ink, like an evening sighing in the weightless mist, wrote the poet. The breath that brings the world to life is necessary to this relaxation from the world—the ecstasy that helps humans to escape themselves, and the magic allowing the world to enter gracefully into them, are the literal text of the first oration. In this impalpable trance, they breathe in unison in the mingled air of the living and the dead, and thus they know what their fathers before them fought, and painted.

  AN IRIS FROM RYOAN

  1800

  Hanase, the City of Ashes, the second sanctuary of the mists.

  “I seem to recall that the year we studied the four sanctuaries, you were snoring at the back of the class, after stuffing yourself with redcurrants,” said Paulus.

  “Ah yes, the four sanctuaries,” said Petrus, struggling with a vague memory buried by digestion and naps.

  They set off. Night was falling, and the lights on the hillside were coming on. Petrus could think of nothing but a good bed and something to fill his stomach, and he found the straight path to the city monotonous.

  “The four sanctuaries,” he murmured, nodding off and tripping over his tail.

  Behind him, Marcus gave a sigh.

  “Oh,” said Petrus again, stopping short, “the four sanctuaries, Hanase, the City of Ashes.”

  “Well done,” said Marcus, giving him a thump.

  “I mean, now I remember. But I’m almost certain that I was asleep during that lesson,” said Petrus, captivated by the mechanism he’d just discovered, and beginning to suspect that his awkwardness and distraction could also be his genius.

  For now, along the narrow strip of land, the evening mist sighed to the rhythm of lazy twists and turns; although it was almost pitch dark and they couldn’t see any trees, the passage was shrouded in those shadowy scatterings of light formed by foliage in good weather, and their nocturnal stroll was resplendent with the lightness of dragonfly wings falling from invisible branches.

  “The transparencies of the way to Hanase are renowned,” said the boatman, coming up to Petrus. “They are said to be even more beautiful than the ones in Nanzen. Whatever the case may be, they both share the memory of the origins.”

  “The origins?” echoed Petrus, who was thinking of other things.

  He had a headache and everything was muddled again.

  “The memory of trees,” said the boatman, looking at him, somewhat puzzled.

  “What does that have to do with origins?” muttered Petrus out of mere politeness.

  The boatman stopped in the middle of the path.

  “What do you mean, what does it have to do with origins?” he asked.

  “Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere,” said Petrus. Suddenly wrested from his thoughts, he didn’t understand a thing, but didn’t want to get in trouble either.

  The boatman began walking again.

  “There are some, nowadays, who forget the origins,” he said, with a mixture of anger and sadness; “it does not bode well.”

  “Would you be so kind as to close your trap until tomorrow?” muttered Marcus.

  “I was thinking of something else,” Petrus replied, “my head is upside down and my stomach is empty.”

  “He’s thinking about eating,” said Marcus, turning back to Paulus.

  “By the way,” said Petrus, “the memory of trees, the whispering of pines, the breathing of the world—I had my fill of all that in the Deep Woods, don’t start on it again here.”

  Paulus tapped him curtly on the head.

  “Shut your mouth,” he said, “I don’t want to hear you blaspheming.”

  Petrus rubbed his scalp reproachfully.

  “What is this city of the dead, anyway
? If someone would tell me, maybe I would shut up.”

  Paulus sighed and, working his way toward the front of the procession, went to speak to the boatman.

  “Could you tell us where there might be a teahouse open at this time of night?” he asked.

  “I’ll take you there,” said the boatman, glancing with dismay at Petrus. “You can also sleep there.”

  But after a short silence, he gave a smile that spread from ear to ear on his silken otter face.

  “At least you don’t get bored with this one around,” he said.

  Before long, they arrived at the gates of Hanase. The streets were narrow, but as they walked up toward the top of the hill, they passed large gardens where gray flakes were rising, then enveloping the city. It was dark in those enclosures, and they could just make out the shapes of trees and rocks, and other, rounder shapes, from which the ashen sequins seemed to be wafting. Petrus, who had forgotten his headache and his hunger, followed his companions in silence, absorbed by the unusual atmosphere of the city. They passed a crowd of elves wandering through the halo of cottony particles, along the sides of beautiful houses where wooden verandas were adorned with low tables and comfortable cushions.

  “Pilgrimage houses,” said the boatman to Paulus, pointing to one of them. “You could have spent the night there, too. But I think your friend needs a more robust experience.”

  At the very top of the city, they stopped outside a dwelling plunged in darkness. On the wooden sign to the right of the entrance they could only make out the sign for tea.

  “The oldest teahouse in Hanase,” said the boatman.

  “I hope they have room,” said Marcus. “I’m exhausted.”

  “It’s Nanzen that ordains the flow of tea,” said the boatman. “There is always room.”

  He bowed amiably.

  “Now I shall leave you,” he said.

  And to Petrus, half-derisive, half-kindly:

  “Good luck, my friend.”

  The three companions, now on their own, looked at one another.

  “Do we have to knock?” asked Paulus.

  “Would you rather sing a serenade?” replied Petrus testily.

  He was hungry again and he felt a shooting pain in his head. Raising his hand, he prepared to knock.

  Before he had time to complete his gesture, the door soundlessly slid open to reveal a vestibule perfumed with an aroma of undergrowth and iris. On the dirt floor, three large flat stones, freshly rinsed with clear water, invited them to move forward into the darkness. At the back of the entrance, an elevated wooden floor led to a doorless opening, enhanced with a short, two-paneled curtain bearing the sign for tea. It had been calligraphed in a style whose name our friends didn’t know, but I may reveal it, if you like, because it matters to the beauty of the moment: and so, drawn in the style of wild grasses, the sign for tea invited them to enter. Beneath their bare feet the water was like the ford of a river. In an alcove on the right, an incense stick gave off its fragrance of fresh breeze and humus, wrapping them in a veil of iris and moss.

  “I love irises,” murmured Petrus (who was not only a stomach, but also a nose).

  They sat down on the edge of the floor and waited for the soles of their feet to dry. Then they headed toward the opening and, crouching down, crept under the curtain.

  In front of them was a long corridor; on either side, closed sliding doors; all around, the dull, gentle sound of rain on stones, although it was dry in the building and there were no signs of the rainstorm, apart from its resonance. The soft melody, however, making its way into the recesses of their hearts, made them feel like crying. They followed the corridor as far as another opening marked by a curtain printed with the same sign. Beyond it was darkness. Paulus, the first to crouch down, went under the cloth, and Marcus and Petrus heard him cry out from very far away.

  “I’ll bet you that on the other side we’ll fall into an endless vortex,” murmured Petrus.

  “I’m surprised you know that word,” said Marcus.

  Behind the curtain was a dark vestibule, where it seemed to Petrus all his senses were on the alert; then the scene that had caused Paulus to cry out was revealed to them.

  They were standing on a podium overlooking a garden. The moon had risen and illuminated the entire scene, with the help of stone lanterns where torches had been lit. Three earthenware bowls awaited them on the floor. Beyond them was the garden. A stream wound its way to a pond where the dark sky was reflected. Crowning the motionless waters were the bare azaleas of winter, their branches reaching out in battle order, and they offered the eye even more joy than the summer generosity of their flowers. All around the pond was a beach streaked with parallel lines. In a few places, they could see the leaves of a heavenly bamboo plant standing above the furrows on the shoreline; in another spot, three rounded stones added commas to the text of the sand. Further still the moon, streaming with a weave of light, polished the leaves of the maple trees. But although the garden was very beautiful, it did not derive its substance from its natural elements: at the end of the pond, a bronze basin tossed light ashes up into the twilight; they flew into the ether like moths, rising slowly from the bowl into the sky.

  “It is a funeral urn,” murmured Petrus.

  “It is a funeral urn,” said a female voice, causing them to turn in unison to see a snow-white mare smiling amiably at them.

  She changed into a female hare, her fur sparkling with moonlight, iridescent with silvery shimmers. When at last she became a woman, they could not take their eyes off her timeless face, a delicate mother-of-pearl that seemed to have been dusted with a transparent cloud, and this eternal beauty, and the exquisite texture of her complexion, left Petrus with the impression of an unfamiliar, grandiose world.

  “The boatman asked us to receive you this evening,” she said.

  And, to Petrus:

  “If you will give me your garment, we will wash it.”

  His fur turned crimson.

  “You will be more comfortable as a man, to drink tea,” she said.

  Then she added:

  “Apparently the boatman likes you.”

  Petrus, in torment, handed his soiled clothes to her, and she disappeared behind the curtain.

  Paulus and Marcus looked at him and guffawed.

  “Luxury cleaning,” said Paulus, mocking.

  “You offloaded your puke onto the most beautiful creature in the universe,” Marcus pointed out.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Petrus, wretchedly.

  “That’s worse,” said Paulus, “that means you’ll do it again.”

  They gazed silently at the garden. Stones had been laid on the bed of the stream in order to create the loveliest melody, and now the scene was lulled with its special music. This type of activity had always bored Petrus as much as tea calligraphy and flower arranging, along with pottery and singing, that were part of a young elf’s education for an unbelievable length of time. He got pins and needles in his legs when it came to art lessons, and his only consolation was the presence of flowers, which he loved passionately. Most of the time, alas, he had to make do with looking at some unfortunate peony withering on its stem before it was stuck in its vase beneath the tea poem. But whenever he tried to complete the exercise, which meant he rummaged at random in the floral display, the professor looked vexed and, shaking his head, murmured some vague excuse before grabbing the flower from his hands.

  “You just put a white tulip under an ode to three scarlet camellias,” Paulus said to him. “Can’t you try and read, at least?”

  “If only we could eat them,” sighed Petrus in return.

  In fact, he did nibble at them now and again, in secret, for not only was he crazy about the perfume of flowers, but also their taste, and he knew all the ones that were edible. You must understand the extent of Petrus’s extravaganc
e: elves do not eat much in the way of flowers or leaves, any more than, by nature, they eat any part of an animal, since the former are the source of life and the latter are their brothers—and so a feast of that kind was tantamount to devouring the very cause of their existence or worse yet, devouring themselves, and Petrus was always very careful to hide when he indulged in his vice. Clover, violets, and nasturtiums featured in the trio of his preferences, but he wouldn’t turn his nose up at a wild rose, either, and they grew in abundance around the family home, because his mother knew of nothing more refined than their fragile corollas above their black thorns. As Petrus feared his mother more than any other secular power on earth, he was doubly mindful when pillaging the woods. As a result, he was never caught, and remained awkward when it came to subjects that did not interest him, but crafty and furtive when his desire was aroused.

  This time, Petrus was sensitive to the charm of the stream. Night was deepening and something inside him was slowing down. A flake landed on his paw and he gazed at it with curiosity.

  “No one knows who we are looking at,” said the hare elf, startling him.

  He looked again at the ash, so light and potent in its near-immaterial state.

  “Are they our dead?” he asked.

  She handed him his clothes.

  “They are our dead,” she replied.

  Petrus regretfully allowed the ash to fly away and he took his clothes back, covering himself just as he was transformed into a man.

  “You are a high-elf,” said Marcus. “This is the first time we’ve met a representative of your house.”

  She motioned to them to sit down by the three empty bowls. A high-elf, thought Petrus, that is why there is an invisible burden on her shoulders and a perfume of hidden worlds all around her. Maybe that’s what I am looking for.