The Mysterious Force

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  “No!” objected Sir George. “For the retreat, Sydney, it’s better that it should be me. I can turn round more easily if it’s necessary to face the enemy.”

  Sydney gave in; the little troop rapidly retraced its underground route. When they reached the drill, the Englishman murmured: “We’re lucky. The exit might have been blocked.”

  It took more than half an hour to get a collapsible canoe into a functional state. Hareton and Philippe worked in the trance of those condemned to death, but a dark determination coordinated their efforts. Like Guthrie, they thought it necessary not to lose any opportunity.

  Sir George was to guard the camp, with Patrick, Dick Nightingale and the majority of the Africans. The pursuit expedition thus consisted of Ironcastle, Guthrie, Philippe, four natives—including Kouram—and the anthropoid. The last-named played a role analogous to that dogs would have played.

  The men had been given capes of tarred canvas that assegais would have difficulty penetrating, but the gorilla would not tolerate any kind of clothing.

  Before embarking, they tried an experiment. Sylvius, allowed to move freely, immediately headed for the tunnel. In consequence, it seemed improbable that the Squat Men had been on the surface, at least in close proximity to the camp. On the other hand, Muriel’s transportation up the cliff seemed impracticable. Everything converged on the hypothesis of a flight across the lake.

  “All aboard!” concluded Guthrie, since a choice had to be made.

  The motor juddered, and the boat ploughed through the torpid waters. It stopped at the first island, where Ironcastle, Guthrie and Philippe landed with the anthropoid, which gave manifest signs of irritation.

  “They came this way,” Hareton concluded.

  A crocodile slid into the lake; furtive animals glided through the mist, and large-winged bats flew through the branches. The man of the woods, however, having sniffed the ground, suddenly launched himself across the island. He had become wild and formidable again. His ancient soul was reborn, and all the instincts that guided him through the mystery of the forest.

  “He’s free!” muttered Guthrie. He’ll only have to get it into his head to climb into the trees, and we’ll never see him again.”

  Having crossed the island diagonally, the gorilla arrived at a little creek. Philippe bent down and picked up an object glinting among the reeds; it was a tortoiseshell hair-pin.

  “Muriel!” the father groaned.

  The anthropoid grunted, but did not move again—and when Hareton put a hand on his shoulder, he made an almost human gesture.

  “No doubt about it,” Guthrie affirmed. “The vermin set sail again. Let’s visit the other islands.”

  There were three of them, and a few islets. The explorers found no further trace of the passage of the Squat Men.

  “Oh Lord,” Hareton prayed, with his joined hands pointing to the stars, “God of Heaven and Earth, have pity on Muriel. Take my life, and let her live!”

  Part Two

  I. The Aerial Men

  Ouammha, the Blue Eagle, climbed up into the baobab. Three huts there contained his wives, daughters and sons. The Blue Eagle had snowy threads in the dark weave of his hair, but there was still strength in his limbs, courage in his heart and cunning in his granite skull.

  His amber gaze wandered among the Palmyra-palms, the oil-palms, the doum-palms, the pandanus and dragon-trees, punctuated by fig-trees and Andropogon grasses. The baobab formed large islands within them. For centuries, they had accommodated the huts of the Goura-Zannkas, the Sons of the Star. Conical, reminiscent of large termitaries, the huts were resistant to the sunlight and solid against the rain.

  Ouammha commanded the five clans of the tribe. It included 500 warriors, armed with jade hatchets, clubs and assegais. There were other tribes to the east, and others still in the Valley of the Dead. They made war against one another, because humans multiplied superabundantly. Prisoners of both sexes were eaten. Sometimes, the tribes made alliances to repel the Squat Men, who coveted their abundant territory.

  That year, a war had just been concluded. Ouammha’s men, having defeated the Sons of the Red Rhinoceros and the Black Lion, had captured 50 warriors and 60 women; feasts were being prepared that would continue until the new moon. They had been plunged neck-deep into the lake, and would be marinated there until the hour of their consumption; it would make their flesh tender and more flavorsome.

  The fires had been lit in the Great Clearing. Ouammha knew the words he had to say and the gestures he had to make in order to appease the Powerful Entities that were in the Water, the Earth, the Wind and the Sun.

  The Goura-Zannkas understood the hierarchy of Forces. In the Invisible, there are those that resemble men and beasts; they are the smallest and least redoubtable. Then there are those that have the shapes of great vegetables; their power is inconceivable. Those which have no form and no limits, which flow and change, shrink and increase, and whose language consists of storms, lightning, conflagration and inundation, are not Beings but Entities; compared with them, Beings are nothing!

  Once Ouammha was in the baobab, he shouted loudly, and his sons and sons-in-law came out, assembling in the branches. Then Ouammha made a speech.

  “Sons of the Chosen Clans—the foremost aerial clans, of which Ouammha is the master—here are my commands. One warrior in ten will set off for the west, the north, the east and over the lake. Unknown men have come, with camels, donkeys and goats. Several are strangers unlike the Sons of the Stars, the Sons of the Red Rhinoceros, the Black Lion or the Marsh, or even the Squat Men. Their faces have no color, their hair shines like straw and their weapons are incomprehensible. Our warriors will surround their caravan. This evening they will camp close to our borders. We shall annihilate them, or make alliance with them! Ba-Louama will lead the warriors, and Ouammha will follow tomorrow with 300 men. I have spoken!”

  Ba-Louama therefore selected one warrior in ten, initially from the Blue Eagle’s baobab and then from the entire forest, and set out to encircle the men with the colorless faces.

  “That is good,” said the Blue Eagle, when the expedition had gone. “May victory be consecrated!”

  Hegoum, the Man-with-the-Sonorous-Horn, blew toward the four Heavens; the clans gathered in the Great Clearing, and the Blue Eagle raised his resounding voice.

  “The Goura-Zannkas are masters of the forest and the lake. The Sons of the Black Lion and the Red Rhinoceros have risen up against us; we have broken their skulls, opened their bellies and pierced their hearts. Their entrails have been spread over the ground, their blood has run like a red river. We have captured many warriors, women and children. Twenty warriors, who have been soaking in the lake all night and all day, are ready for the Great Sacrifice…”

  The clans uttered an immense cry, prolonged like the roaring of lions. They were not at all ferocious. In times when the assegai of war was laid down, they had benevolent souls, and met the men of neighboring tribes without fury—but war being sacred, it was a duty to eat the captives.

  “Let the fires be lit!” ordered the Blue Eagle.

  The fires were it; they struggled against the feeble light of dusk, and their light dominated that of the crescent moon, half of which was silver and the other half gray.

  Then, brandishing torches, the clans went down to the edge of the lake. The captured warriors had been immersed there since the previous day. Only their heads were visible, because their bodies were attached to blocks of granite. At the sight of the torches they knew their fate, and were not astonished.

  “Sons of the Red Rhinoceros and the Black Lion,” Ouammha proclaimed, “on the day of his birth, a man is already ready for the day of his death. Where are the innumerable ancestors? And what will soon become of those who will lead you to sacrifice? Your death is beautiful, Sons of the Rhinoceros and the Lion. You have fought for your clans and we have fought for ours. Many Sons of the Eagle have fallen beneath your assegais. We have no hatred, but it is necessary to obey the E
ntities, for the Entities are everything and living beings are nothing!”

  Already, the captives had been pulled out of the mud. Their legs could no longer support them; it was necessary to carry them to the fires.

  They began to laugh when the women, in accordance with the millennial custom, arrived with the millet cakes—for the meal of the vanquished is as sacred as the meal of the victors. The Sons of the Black Lion and the Red Rhinoceros forgot death and devoured the cakes.

  Meanwhile, Ouammha gave the signal for the ritual dances. A warrior, his face painted red as if he were steeped in blood, beat the dragon-wood drum, while two others blew into reed-flutes. The beats set up a dull counter-rhythm to the monotonous song of the flutes; the warriors’ upper bodies began to sway, very slowly at first. As the voice of the flutes accelerated, and the dull drumbeats multiplied, a more confused exaltation lit up in their eyes, while the oscillations of their bodies followed the rhythm of the music and the women joined in with the men.

  Then the drumbeat became frantic, the flutes screeched like jackals, and the Goura-Zannkas joined together in a grim saraband. They became entangled, with shrill cries, an oily mass that flowed over the ground, braying, howling and roaring. An intoxicated ferocity shone in their eyes; men and women bit one another; blood ran down their breasts.

  Standing still on a mound, with an impassive expression, Ouammha contemplated the spectacle. When the excitement threatened to become homicidal, he uttered three loud cries—and almost immediately, a profound silence was established. The nacreous and mercurial Moon seemed to descend upon the crowns of the baobabs; the light of the pyres effaced the stars—and the captives, having consumed their food, awaited death.

  The Blue Eagle gave the signal. Armed with green sacrificial knives, warriors advanced—and several captives, gripped by sudden terror, uttered muted plaints, trying to get up or extending imploring hands.

  Each warrior had joined his victim, his eyes fixed on Ouammha. When the chief raised his hand, the jade knives cut the throats and red springs gushed out over the ferns. Then the eyes of the vanquished ceased to swivel, and the quivering bodies became still. Thighs, arms, heads and torsos spread the odor of roasting flesh into the night, and the Goura-Zannkas knew the delicious joy of devouring the Enemy.

  Then the Blue Eagle issued his commands; as the stars were extinguished in the four firmaments, the Goura-Zannkas rose up in force to combat the Phantom-Warriors.

  II. The Bellicose Dawn

  About two-thirds of the way through the night, Kouram was on watch by the fire, getting up occasionally to fight off sleep and sniff the air. He knew that the Squat Men were no longer prowling around the camp, since Muriel’s abduction. In his savage soul he was delighted by that, for the young woman was nothing to him and he secretly wished that her trail might be lost—but he divined other dangers, for Houmra, the subtlest of the scouts, thought he had glimpsed men on he caravan’s flank.

  Having sent Houmra and two other natives to investigate, Kouram wondered whether he ought to wake up the chief. There were no white men awake except Patrick, and Kouram did not bother to warn him; although he judged him powerful in combat, he thought him deficient in his sense of smell and discernment.

  Situated on the lake shore, in a gully surrounded by fires, the camp was ready for battle. At the first signal, Africans and Westerners alike would be at their posts. Kouram had a religious confidence in the chief’s wisdom, the repeating carbines, the elephant-gun and, most of all, the terrible machine-gun—but it was necessary not to be taken by surprise. The lake shore did not permit any direct attack, and there was a grassy surface behind the fires where no human body could hide. The nearest cover was 500 paces away. Thus, whatever maneuver the enemy attempted, he could not approach without coming out into the open.

  The stars moved on, the Southern Cross positioned over the pole. Eventually, silhouettes appeared and Houmra became visible in the firelight. He had a body as light as a jackal’s and the eyes of a bearded vulture.

  “Houmra caught sight of men in the direction of the sunset and the direction of the Seven Stars,” he said.

  “Are there many of them?”

  “They are more numerous than us. Houmra was not able to count them. Houmra does not believe that they will attack before the stars have fled the light.”

  “Why does Houmra think that?”

  “Because most of them are asleep. If they were not waiting for other warriors, they would try to surprise us during the night.”

  Kouram nodded his head, for the argument was reasonable, and he looked eastwards. The sky was not yet pale. The stars, bright in an exceedingly dark sky, were arranged in the order in which they had been arranged before a single man or beast had appeared on Earth. Kouram knew, however, that the gray daylight would extinguish them one by one within an hour.

  The silence was deep and pleasant. The animals designated to perish and remake the flesh of other animals with their own were no longer alive. Even the voices of the jackals had died away.

  Having received reports from the other scouts, Kouram checked the fires and the sentinels.

  “Anything?” asked Patrick, who was on watch at the southern tip of the camp.

  “Men are watching us,” the man replied.

  “The Squat Men?”

  “No, men who have come from the forest.”

  Patrick laughed silently. A man who gave little thought to the future and was full of bravery, he looked forward to battles. “You don’t think they’ll attack?” he asked. In the firelight, he displayed a head topped with chestnut-colored hair, ultramarine eyes and a long face with a pointed chin.

  “They’ll attack if they think they’re strong enough.”

  “So much the worse for them,” the Irishman growled.

  Kouram withdrew, scornful of this response. It seemed to him now that he ought to warn Ironcastle. Going to the chief’s tent, he lifted the flap and called out.

  Hareton had slept badly since Muriel’s disappearance. He got up, put on a jacket and appeared in front of the man.

  “What is it, Kouram?”

  There was a confused hope in the question: any event, any statement and any thought immediately made him think about the young woman. Chagrin was eating away at him like a disease. In a matter of days, his flesh had weakened; a frightful remorse was corroding him painfully; because he had brought Muriel, he felt as guilty as if he had murdered her.

  “The camp is surrounded, Master,” said the man.

  “By the Squat Men?” Ironcastle exclaimed, with a convulsion of wrath.

  “No, Master, by black men. Houmra thinks they have come from the forest.”

  “Are there many of them?”

  “Houmra was unable to count them. They’re hiding…”

  Hareton bowed his head and reflected sadly. Then he said: “I’d like to forge an alliance with them!”

  “That would be good,” said Kouram, “but how are we to talk to them?” He did not mean that it was impossible to understand them or to be understood, because he was an expert in sign language, which he had practiced a great deal. “They will throw assegais at anyone who tries to approach them,” he said. “However, Master, I will try when daylight comes.”

  The stars were still sparkling, but dawn was near. The twilight would be very brief; the Sun would appear soon after the initial emanation of diffuse light.

  “I don’t want you to risk your life,” Ironcastle said.

  A vague ironic smile creased the violet lips. “Kouram will not take risks,” he said, adding, naïvely: “Kouram does not want to die.”

  Hareton made a tour of the camp and checked the machine-gun. I should have brought more than one, he thought. Then he studied the locale: the lake, where the starlight was elongated; the grassland; the brushwood; the distant forest. It was a peaceful moment. Sly nature promised happiness—but, as he respired the velvety air, Hareton’s heart was beating horribly.

  He turned to the Southern
Cross. “O Lord of my salvation,” he prayed, “I have cried out to thee night and day…”

  He continued in the same vein, mingling despair with hope and faith with dejection. Fever gleamed in his hollow eyes. An ardent remorse continued to gnaw at his heart.

  The tropical dawn arrived and passed in seconds; a rapid twilight divided the light momentarily, and already a Sun the color of copper and blood was climbing over the waters of the lake.

  “Should I call on them now?” Kouram asked.

  “Yes.”

  Kouram went to fetch a singular flute, carved from the stem of a young papyrus, similar to those used by some of the peoples of the Great Forest. It rendered a soft, uniform sound that expanded into the distance.

  Then, making a sign to Houmra, who followed him, he went out of the camp through a gap between two fires.

  They took 200 paces into the plain and stopped. No man could advance to within javelin range without being struck down. Kouram raised the flute to his lips again, and drew monotonous and melancholy sounds from it, and then his voice rang out: “The men of the camp wish to make alliance with their hidden brothers. Which of them will show himself, as we are showing ourselves?”

  He was not hoping, in speaking thus, to make himself understood to men who spoke a different language, but, like countless generations of savage and civilized men, he believed in the virtue of words, attributing an evocative, organizing and creative power to them.

  “Why do you not reply?” Kouram shouted. “We know full well that your warriors are besieging the camp. Houmra of the eagle eyes has seen you in the direction of the Seven Stars and the direction of the setting sun.”

  There was still no response—but noises could be heard in the depths of the brushwood. Houmra, whose hearing was as subtle as his sight, said: “I think, O wise chief, that other warriors are arriving.”