Vamireh

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

The two troops had taken up positions that overlooked the mountain men, and all those who were carrying bows and arrows at the ready waited, while the women and children stayed behind and the bearers of lances and axes moved round in order to come at the enemy at right-angles. The watchman’s croak woke his companions one by one, but the first to stand up were struck down by arrows, and the others found themselves under the lances before being able to arm themselves.

  During the attack however, four lacustrians lost their lives, and three mountain men got away, pursued by enemy bands determined to kill them.

  Ten bound captives were brought back to the villages in the midst of a vindictive and howling crowd. For hours, their cries of agony spread out over the lake, amid the howling of dogs, the frightful delight of the women and wild dances—and when dawn broke, groups of torturers were still lingering over the bloody bodies, full of bloodthirsty hysteria and vile curiosity.

  The dawn quivered over the world in fragile rays, and weariness overwhelmed the cruelest. The massed crowd, as silent as a child whose rage has suddenly calmed down, were consternated on seeing the priests bowing down for prayer to the Orient from which the race had surged. They all bowed down fervently, and regret for needless murder added its weight to love of the city; war, soon to be engaged with fury, seemed heavy after the fatigues of the night. With white faces and dull eyes they looked at one another, frightening one another, finding everywhere the irritation and the alarm of the crime, less sure of their accomplices and less sure of themselves.

  Vi-King sang to the augured star, the light that was already steeping the mountains. A horse was led to the sacrifice. It was a spirited animal, with wild, enlarged eyes. It displayed its warrior profile and sparkling mane to the multitude, with its slightly thick lips, turned back with a nervous grace, and the nostrils of an animal once marine, in the proud coquetry of its bucking and prancing. It whinnied toward the shore, toward the crop-fields whose perfumes drifted on the wind, and a great laugh, as sad as a sob, shook the exhausted people. When Vi-King’s lance penetrated its breast and the noble beast collapsed, an anguished rumor ran around the village. After the ferocities of the night, the murder of an animal penetrated them with horror, and they returned to their homes very pale, with heavy frowns on their faces.

  The first meal, a few cupfuls of spirituous liquid extracted from mulberries and raspberries, hardened their hearts. The chiefs assembled in Wid-Horg’s hut, he being the oldest of them, but they did not want to discuss the situation while Rob-Sen was not there. After some hesitation, he came. He sat down in reproachful silence.

  Wid-Horg described the murder of the mountain men and explained that war was now imminent, since three of them had been able to escape. He said that the war would be ruinous, the wheat having just been sown and provisions of forage almost exhausted. There was no possibility of defending the plateau. The enemy would lay waste to the fields and it was necessary to bring the livestock in without delay if they did not want them to be stolen.

  The losses thus foreseen darkened the faces of the chiefs, and they were unable to find anything useful to say, their hearts weary, when Ver-Skag stood up. At the sight of him, Rob-Sen became furious. Taking advantage of his right as the older of the two, he cut off the brute’s speech, and proclaimed his indignation.

  This was not the moment to show themselves treacherous with redoubtable enemies, when the western lakes had just been invaded by a new race, powerfully armed. Ver-Skag would be the shame of the lacustrian tribes. Thanks to him, Lake Re-Alg would be lost, they would be driven back wretchedly into the mountains; instead of possessing the riches that accumulated in peace-time, they would live like the former inhabitants of the western lakes, presently established on the high plateau, assailed by the mountain men, or they would be reduced to slavery, tending the cattle and horses, excavating the quarries or fabricating the weapons and pottery of the conquerors. With the aid of the mountain folk, on the other hand, they would have been able to defend the passes; the enemy would never have got as far as Re-Alg. He, Rob-Sen, had said these things a thousand times. Were they so difficult to comprehend? Then why listen to a brute with a mind as disturbed as the water of torrents after heavy rain? Why abandon themselves to anger, like mad bees that kill themselves in wounding their adversaries?

  Fists were waved at Ver-Skag. He was afraid, but, with his habitual obstinacy, he tried to defend himself. He said that Rob-Sen was a coward, that he feared war like a woman. Had not the lake-dwellers defeated the mountain men a hundred times over? Why be afraid today? Were their axes less solid, their arms less vigorous?

  “But what about the newcomers?” cried his companions.

  He shrugged his shoulders. Newcomers had never before dared to venture as far as Re-Alg. Besides, why should these people come to the defense of miserable mountain folk? No, the war would be limited to Re-Alg and the summits. They would take possession of the high plateau, where the pasturage was excellent in summer.

  There was approval from a number of the chiefs, but Rob-Sen reproached them for such great folly. Soon, when they went to the grand council in the city, let all of them be careful not to take lightly the prospect of war against the new people, and let them remember the day when the lake-dwellers of the West had told the story of their defeat. They had attributed it to their insouciance; instead for forming a confederation, of marching against the enemy en masse, each village had risen in is turn and its people had gone to break themselves against the aggressors armed with unbreakable lances and axes that did not shatter. Ver-Skag would answer one day for his words, and those who listened to the imbecile’s voice would be like him, like thieves coveting a prize and not perceiving the owner’s club over their heads.

  Silence reigned for half an hour, and Rob-Sen, who knew his compatriots, knew that they were profoundly dubious. Beneath his muscles, his good red blood and his broad chest, he had a calm head, steady in thought and as sure as all his movements. There were people wiser than he, shrewder in their manner of speech, more skillful in the exercise of the bow and the lance—but he fired few arrows, and none missed their target; calm in the heart of battle, his arm never struck in vain. It was the same with his ideas: they were strong, judicious and clear. In that half-hour of silence he prepared his attitude to the grand council. His partisans would find him firm of gaze, with the intelligent strength that would attach them to his destiny, while the followers of Wid-Horg and Ver-Skag would reap nothing but anxiety and uncertainty.

  Meanwhile, the people gathered outside the house were chattering like the tongues of leaves in the autumn breeze. The Sun was already pouring forth its hot rays, warming their heads, and legends were going through their ancient brains. How many similar moments had there been in the life of that active race, and was it not natural to relive emotions and recapitulate deeds formerly accomplished as people slide towards their ruin? Those round-heads, rapid in synthesis, were the solid nucleus of the world, but destined to fuse with other, more flexible beings. Perhaps they had the prescience of a greater victory in the land of their adversaries, a victory symbolized by the beauty of the vanquished—and perhaps that prescience discouraged thought of an inferior beyond, causing them to maintain themselves energetically, to reproduce themselves, in order that, if they were not to transmit the poem of the civilization, at least its elements would not perish, and that everywhere, throughout the centuries, their resistant and concentrated body and mind might be found in the elegant skeleton, the tender flesh and the fluid thought of Northern humankind.

  A boat, coming from the island where the grand council was held, attracted attention. As soon as it was sighted, a man went into Wid-Horg’s hut and spoke to Rob-Sen. The chief announced that his son In-Kelg was coming back from the island carrying a message. The furious Ver-Skag complained that the young man in question, his personal enemy, had been sent as a messenger, and would certainly have slandered him. Many of them then used this pretext to criticize Rob-Sen, for they had steeped their
hands in the blood of the mountain men. They gathered around the chief, who waited for them, surrounded by his faithful followers. Wid-Horg demanded why Rob-Sen had made use of a child with a loose tongue. Rob-Sen replied that In-Kelg was wiser than many men, and that he would have said nothing beyond his commission. The two parties measured up to one another for a moment longer, but no one thought himself capable of taking on Rob-Sen’s sovereign muscles. Even Ver-Skag retreated with the others. Rob-Sen watched him angrily and scornfully, and both of them murmured muted threats when In-Kelg came in.

  His father asked him to speak straightforwardly. In-Kelg raised his arm and said that in anticipation of the war, Rob-Fer and Rob-Set, his uncles, Wid-End and Kor-Ting, the chiefs of the principal city, and the priest Mana-Lith had decided to gather the chiefs of all the villages of Re-Alg. Vi-King was to transmit the signal. Then the chiefs went out, and the men, women and children of the village, along with the excited dogs, accompanied them to a spot where the platform had no houses, in the middle of which an exceedingly tall mast rose up. As the crowd shouted, demanding news, Rob-Sen suddenly extended his arm. A large square of gray canvas floated over the island.

  “The Grand Council!” murmured the crowd.

  That made a religious impression on every heart—but Vi-King attached a large piece of canvas like the one undulating above the island to a thong, and hoisted it to the top of the mast in his turn. Instantly, all heads turned toward the neighboring villages, and a vast clamor went up over the lake when they saw the Grand Council’s order floating over three settlements.

  Boats covered the lake. The chiefs were in them, bearing arms and offerings. The crowd, massed on the edge of the platform, threw weapons and items of pottery into the water as sacrifices to the aquatic divinities; some of them were finely modeled bowls, knives or beautiful axes, but more often, by virtue of cheating, they were old objects of no more use. Meanwhile, everyone was excited by the file of boats, cheering the chiefs whose names had resounded in previous wars. The people of distant settlements were weary from journeys of four or five hours, but they straightened up as they passed by, striking their breasts and shouting their names. The villages were singing the battle hymn; the growing fever even infecting the children and dogs.

  Singers seated at various points recited improvised songs in vague couplets; some vibrated with the general joy, telling tales of triumphant war, glory and booty; others contrarily inspired and more original, wept for the death of warriors and the misery of women wandering around after the fire and pillage. In response to the monotonous music, the dogs howled plaintively, and the multitude, their souls suspended between hope and terror, became even more frenzied, attaining the elevated crises in which creatures forget themselves, becoming no more than a vast collective beast, ripe for monarchic orientation.

  Soon, the flocking boats reached the island. The chiefs greeted one another, grouped between relatives from distant villages, and the assizes were held in broad daylight. It was a gathering of wild men. Force reigned within them and over them. They exchanged the glittering glances of provocative predators, reverted to animal ways, like herds of urus on the plains or bellicose groups of horses or chamois. They were simultaneously possessed by a pride higher than their valor and a personality more fluid, more resigned to death, as if they really had been absorbed into collective life—but they fell silent, for Mana-Lith raised up a sovereign fetish, displaying it to the four corners of the horizon.

  He was an old, stocky priest. There was a fanatical tyranny and a covetousness in his round eyes, and he demanded sacrifices. Hair bristled then, and a fury like an excess of alcohol passed through the chiefs. They promised that each village would give one maiden, one goat, one ox and one horse for immolation. Mana-Lith withdrew. A quarrel broke out between two chiefs who had drunk too much fermented raspberry juice; they struck one another with their fists and gashed one another with axes. They were separated, and the growling crowd drowned out their voices—and Rob-Sen, one of the superior chiefs, spoke.

  A hero of his race, he sensed its destiny more clearly than the rest. He repeated what he had already said at dawn about the mountain folk and the redoubtable invaders. He accused Ver-Skag of being the cause of the war. He asked whether it was admissible that a single man could oblige everyone to take up arms. He said that a man who did not have the strength to constrain himself for the sake of the general welfare should perish. Then he envisaged the war itself. He wanted it to be serious, important and decisive, to impose on the newcomers a terror of all aggression. Emissaries would be sent to the central lakes, as far as the great lake of Ten-III,12 which lay to the north. Alliances would be demanded everywhere, and warriors obtained. From the next day onwards, it would be necessary to occupy the mountain passes, set up ambushes and take possession of elevated positions.

  Ver-Skag got up, along with five of his followers. Interrupting Rob-Sen, he denied that there was anything else to be done than fight the mountain men of Re-Alg. Why send emissaries to the central lakes? The lake-dwellers of Re-Alg would suffice, and if Rob-Sen was afraid, then he, Ver-Skag would take responsibility for bringing the adventure to a glorious conclusion.

  From the majority, fearful of Rob-Sen’s vast project, there was the cowardly murmur typical of assemblies, the welcome for facile words, for impracticable hopes, annoyance at the idea of a long war, covetousness for rapid booty. Rob-Sen took account of these things, and was overwhelmed by sadness; the decline of his race sounded in Ver-Skag’s false promises. Then came a giant’s anger. He stood up, called to his followers, and proclaimed his wrath; he insulted the blind chiefs, more innocent than children and he marched toward Ver-Skag. There was a rumor in a hundred throats, like the growl of a storm over a forest. Ver-Skag, encouraged, awaited his adversary, and Rob-Sen, his gaze tranquil, was like a rock that divides the fore of a cascade. With one blow, his fist knocked the brute unconscious; then he threatened Ver-Skag’s followers with his axe, and they all drew back.

  “I will assume control of the war!” said Rob-Sen.

  His friends cheered him; the others, fascinated, fell silent. But when Ver-Skag was carried away, a group got up: the group of those who had massacred the mountain men, and who were afraid of putting themselves in Rob-Sen’s power. They came forward, concealing their weapons—but Rob-Sen, bringing his axe down, split the skull of the foremost. In their amazement, they all sensed that a leader had come among them.

  And Rob-Sen assumed control of the war.

  Part Two

  I. The War

  Since the arrival of the warriors who had escaped the massacre, the trumpets had not ceased to resound over the mountain slopes, and great fires tinted the firmament red by night.

  The mountains had accepted war ruggedly. Already, 500 young warriors were pillaging the frontier zones, stealing herds and ill-guarded fodder. They avoided any considerable battle, in favor of harassment and surprise attacks, massacring isolated troops and keeping watch on the enemy’s large-scale maneuvers.

  Kiwasar, Hsilbog, Tawr, Luighaw and Doukh dominated the assembly of the chiefs. Hsilbog was the most redoubtable of the chiefs for temerity and divination, as prompt to make decisions as to identify ambushes. Everything about him—his glacial gaze, which was undeceived in the crepuscular hours when shapes become confusing to humans, his rapid and violent expression, his warlike lips, on which the stubbornness of good leaders of men quivered, and his speech, as fine and strong as the pine-branch that draws its life from the cold atmosphere—was imperious, robust and dominating. His only fault was the desire to prolong victories—not that he stubbornly attempted the impossible, or that he lacked foresight, but that he wanted to push success beyond the mysterious limits that certain people sense but of which those who have more warrior spirit are unaware.

  Kiwasar, whose leaden face shone less brightly in battle, was less prone to spot the enemy’s ambushes or maneuvers, but he had a sense of the limits of what might be achieved. His gaze was reminiscent o
f springs that run in the shade, clear but devoid of brightness, his will as strong as the compactness of his forehead, but without violence and almost without anything unforeseen. In the previous war, overwhelmed by superior numbers, he had not suffered any crushing defeat. He had been able to hold favorable positions, calculating his maneuvers in such a way that no decisive surprise was possible against him.

  To Hsilbog unexpected victories were owed, and unlooked-for booty, but also less certain results and a few fatal defeats. The peace concluded by Kiwasar had been as unhumiliating as possible, and the mountain men admitted that the war in question would have been more lamentable with Hsilbog—or anyone else—as its supreme leader.

  At the assembly of chiefs, Kiwasar was elected as supreme commander in spite of Hsilbog’s cunning and eloquence. Hsilbog walked out of the assembly disdainfully, and avenged himself by a spectacular action. He left by night with 300 companions, took the lake-dwellers by surprise, and captured livestock and prisoners. The young chief Tholrog, who served under Hsilbog, had played his part, penetrating in an audacious move as far as the pilings of a village and abducting Rob-Sen’s own daughter. At daybreak, Hsilbog returned to the mountain, having lost scarcely a dozen men, and made mock of Kiwasar’s slowness.

  Kiwasar had, however, thanks to the spies of Tawr, the most cunning of the chiefs, discovered Rob-Sen’s plan of campaign against the allies of the West and the mountain men. He knew that the lake-dwellers’ leader was proposing to take the plateau of Iordjolk by surprise or to force the passes of Oydahm. The occupation of either of these positions would paralyze the mountain men’s freedom of movement, cutting off any maneuver useful to their enemies. The lake-dwellers had never succeeded in doing that before, but Kiwasar knew that they were going to mass all their forces and condense them into a formidable alliance. Moreover, their numbers had increased considerably since the last great war, while those of the mountain folk had remained static.