Similarly, as if at a given signal, the Oyas interrupt their feast. Only a few bronze children continue to fill their rounding bellies. One by one, or in couples, the adults flow back toward the elders, listening gravely to the revelations that fall from the lip of Tereko.
Tereko wanted to chase away his hunger with oysters. A little while ago, he went to the beach, and there, on the strand, a prodigious spectacle has struck his eyes. Like very pale men, a group of gods has emerged from the water, and hoarse groans are emerging from their lips.
At this redoubtable news, hands seek one another out and clasp one another. The women begin whimpering. All faces turn toward the elders in whom wisdom resides.
Tereko is a child of the armadillo. He is in possession of his reason. His tongue does not assemble words at random. Might he not be the victim of an illusion, though? In order that his words might be verified and that everyone should give further thought to them, he repeats his deposition, and then repeats it again. The terms are identical, but further details are added. The unknown gods are as numerous as the fingers of a hand. Near them, on the shore, all kinds of debris have been washed ashore. The sounds they are making are emerging from the nose and the throat. A terrifying odor emanates from them.
Humans live night and day in the midst of spirits. The latter include visible ones and invisible ones. They are resident in the waters, under stones, in the trees, in animals, and in human bodies themselves. In addition to drinking, eating and sleeping, and before love, the greatest concern of the Oyas is to capture their benevolence, or, at least, to ward off their hostility. The evil that they might do is far superior to the good that can be expected of them. The arrival of the new gods is, therefore, not a very extraordinary event in itself, but it is surely calamitous.
Fragments of old tales rise up in memories. Several times before, the white divinities have emerged from the sea. Perhaps a few of the elders should contemplate their faces. They know what can be done to placate them.
From the lips of Manga-Yaponi, who has just manifested his sagacity in such a decisive manner, the Oyas await the precepts that will dictate their conduct. To be sure, fear is making their hearts beat faster, but also an infantile curiosity. Good is never entirely good, nor evil entirely bad. There were white gods accompanied by thunder, from which a dazzling death flowed, but they possessed in bizarre seashells a bitter and delightful beverage that gave forgetfulness and magical dreams.
To aid him, Manga-Yaponi has summoned old Haoré and also Kupu. They hold council, watching the images rise within them that this adventure suggests to them, comparing them—and sending away Mao, who, as usual, tries to intrude his worries into their august deliberations.
After a time, they get up. “Listen!”
In the midst of his attentive people, Manga-Yaponi formulates the oracle. Everyone gathers together, and, with the elders at the head, the entire tribe sets off. On the way, they ornament their hair and necks with garlands of flowers. Women collect bananas, guavas and mangoes in banana-leaves.
The shipwreck is complete. Of the valiant submarine U-37A, the pride of the imperial navy, nothing remains but a few formless items of wreckage dispersed over the shore, and those that the sea is continuing to wash up.
The entire crew has perished, with the exception of the five unfortunates who, as dawn succeeds the night of the disaster, have got to their feet and gathered together. Cadet Waldmann and Seaman Klein, carried to shore together, found Sub-Engineer Schwartz half a mile away, who had just recovered his senses and was bandaging his broken arm as best he could. They have been joined by Seaman Freiguth, whose scratches are benign. And among the half-dozen more or less mutilated bodies that they have identified, over which the vermin of the sea are already swarming, they have succeeded in reanimating—with what joy and veneration!—that of Doctor Otto Klagenmeyer. His presence cheers them up, but, bruised and weak, with no weapons and no food, and their clothes in tatters, what hope is there for them on this hostile coast?
Dr. Klagenmeyer has swallowed a few handfuls of mollusks, and cracked the carapaces of a dozen crabs between his teeth. Thus restored, he has recovered enough lucidity to take stock of the situation. And while the sailors continue to collect mollusks and crustaceans, he formulates his conjectures to Herr Waldmann.
In fifteen hours of the typhoon, U-37A, without a rudder, has been driven completely off course. It is impossible to estimate in a precise fashion where they have landed, although it is surely on one of the reefs of the Murray Bank, the immense coralline plateau from which occasional atolls project, theoretically possessed by England or France, but whose approaches are carefully avoided by mariners because of the still-general ignorance of its rare and shallow passes.
It is one of those points of the globe that nature has defended most ferociously against the curiosity of the white man celebrated by Kipling. If Germany had planted her flag there, the secret would doubtless have been forced out long ago, but it is doubtful that any English or French navigator has ever set his footballer’s or absinthe-drinker’s foot on this island. If it is inhabited, it is by aborigines reduced to the lowest degree of humanity.
“It’s necessary for us to expect the worst treatment, then?” asks Herr Waldmann.
“Including being roasted and eaten—for a substantial part of the domain held by the champions of civilization against Teutonic barbarity is still populated, in Oceania as in Africa, by cannibals. Nevertheless, some of these savages have maintained in their mores the forbearance that tenderized Cook’s Biblical Puritanism and unleashed Bougainville’s humanitarian verbosity in the eighteenth century.”
“In any case, Doctor, we’ll soon find out.”
At the edge of the coconut grove, a few silhouettes are outlined. Other figures are emerging and advancing.
The frightened sailors gather around their leader. Dr. Klagenmeyer stiffens, and proffers, in a commanding voice: “We’ve been discovered. Flight is futile. Stand firm.”
Arms folded, his gaze haughty, he advances to meet the elder Manga-Yaponi.
At his approach, all the heads crowned with flowers bow down. The coppery hands offer their palms. Getting up again, the sage sketches a kind of entrechat and articulates:
“Blessed be the gods emerged from the sea. May their anger spare the Oyas. Ten years ago, and ten years more and other tens of years yet, when I was a young and robust man and the spirits of these people were still wandering in the woods, gods similar to you in the color of their faces—but their emanation, O divinity was far less fetid—similarly deigned to emerge from the waves. They set foot on this land, manifested their power by drawing thunderbolts from their hands and making us drink maddening and exquisite liquors. On that mountain”—the old man’s finger pointed to the bluff where, at the top of a mast, the taboo rag was fluttering—“they planted their totem. Under threat of the most frightful punishments, they commanded us to honor it, and then they went back to the whaling-pirogue that had vomited them forth. They surrounded themselves with thunder before our wonderstruck eyes and drew away majestically, probably returning to be swallowed up by the great soft Entity from which Raduo extracted Oaleya.
“Divinites, we have scrupulously followed your orders. As the evil spirits of the rain ate away your totem we have repaired it from time to time; we have carefully nurtured the red with the blood of the turtle-dove and the blue with the blue clay that our women knead and mix with oil in calabashes. Thus, redoubtable god, you are at home here. We are honored by your visit. We extend to you our arms laden with fruit and roots. If you desire fish and game, our hunters will bring them to you. If you desire amour, there are our wives. And if the bloodshed of any of us is agreeable to you, you have only to command.
The gods are strong, the gods are beautiful
We prostrate ourselves at their feet
The gods are strong, the gods are beautiful
When they speak, we obey, and are complete.”
When the Sage has spo
ken, all heads bow immediately, hands implore, and with a single voice, the tribe modulates the propitiatory hymn.
Of the old ape’s jargon, naturally, Herr Otto does not understand a word, but there is no doubt as to the benevolent attitude of the unfortunates. It is a matter of exploiting it—and to begin with, of eating.
Dr. Klagenmeyer puts his index finger to his lips in a majestic manner, clicks his tongue and belches, in a thunderous voice: “Essen!”
The divine verb is understood. Overcoming their sacred terror, the women pile up juicy berries and succulent roots before the castaways. The doctor and his companions swallow them avidly, without ceasing to overwhelm the indigenes with their gazes, which become more imperious as their hosts reveal themselves to be more inoffensive.
With enthusiastic approval, the Oyas salute the magnificent appetite of the fortunate, while the doctor whispers to Waldmann, making him party to a hope that has entered into him: “Herr Ensign, it’s possible that we’re saved. Prepare to become a god.”
While guzzling, his resolute mind ripens a plan.
“First, it’s important to reconnoiter. We’ll have ourselves guided to the observatory that the mummy pointed out to us just now.”
Klagenmeyer places his heavy hand on the old man’s quivering shoulder. He points to the cliff. “Up there! Vorwaerts!” And as the elder seems to hesitate momentarily, he shakes him hard enough to dislodge his last remaining teeth and make his eyes bulge. “Schnell! Right away!”
The order is grasped. Because of their singular color and the terrible odor they exhale, the savages dare not get too close to the livid gods, but they nod their heads, clap their hands, brush their mouths with their fingers and then extend them toward the totem of the heights. And then, making a sign to the visitors to follow them, they set forth.
At the edge of the coconut grove, Waldmann hesitates. “You have no fear of an ambush?”
Klagenmeyer shrugs his shoulders. “By the Devil’s grace! Don’t fail to pick up a few clubs on the way. It’s a matter of making an impression on these fellows and, to begin with, taking possession of this land in the name of our glorious Emperor.”
In spite of the terrible voices croaking in their throats, the gods do not seem to be irritated. They are largely satiated and have not demanded any sanguinary sacrifice. In the underwood, the tribe capers around them joyfully. While frightened kangaroos and macaques flee, the castaways pause to collect a few clubs. Docile to their desire, the savages hasten to their aid, fashioning them. At each thicket the women gather guavas and mangoes, offering them timidly. Having eaten their fill, the sailors refuse them. But the she-apes are not so very repulsive; Freiguth grabs one by the arm and pulls her toward him. She pales in terror, but allows herself to be drawn.
The doctor, perceiving the action, howls: “Let go! A fortnight in irons to the first man who approaches one of these sluts.”
For an hour they make their way through the tree-ferns and giant acacias. Marvelous butterflies and flower-birds take off from all the embalmed bushes. Nature lavishes all the grace of her landscapes, the sparkle of her brightest colors and the caress of her most delicate hues on the newcomers. She envelopes them with an immense seductive kiss.
Covetously, Dr. Klagenmeyer articulates: “This land seems blessed by the Lord. It’s scandalous that such resources remain fallow. The imminent triumph of Germany will ensure a more rational exploitation of the globe.
The curtain of trees brightens. They emerge into shorter and sparser brushwood. Here is the cliff. To the right there is the sheen of the ocean, the majesty of the smoke-crowned volcano. To the left palpitates the soft iridescent swell of the fortunate isle. An exceedingly soft murmur is comprised by the singing of all the birds and the buzzing of all the insects. The breeze is heavy with all perfumes.
“Tarteiffle!”14 bellows Klagenmeyer.
His eyes are bulging. With his forefinger he indicates the mast erected on the bluff that overlooks the sea. Until now, his myopic eyes deprived of spectacles have not suspected the scandal. Now that they are at the foot of the mast there is no more doubt. Although its colors are ludicrously distributed, that duster is definitely intended to represent a French flag. The insolent nation whose provocations have constrained peaceful Germany to take up the sword is claiming this Oceanian pearl as one of the links in the excessively heavy necklace under which the skinny shoulders of the slut in question are sagging.
In a vibrant voice, the doctor commands: “Take that down!”
Formidable is the accent of the god. Enthusiastic will be the obedience.
At the foot of the sacred mark that he is indicating for their veneration, the Oyas prostrate themselves, face down. Then, getting to their feet, the young people of both sexes surround the totem with a liturgical round-dance. And in a cheerfully-modulated chorus, they testify their deference:
Honor to the gods, jealous and paternal!
Blessed their taboo, great and eternal!
The professor’s plump cheeks turn crimson. Is this derision? He elbows his way the ingenuous dancers, falls upon the accursed emblem, swearing, takes hold of the mast and shakes it furiously.
There is a shiver of amazement. Any bizarrerie is permissible to the gods, since they are the gods, but if their desires are contradictory, one has to side with the strongest. Since time immemorial, the trophy on the cliff has been untouchable. It cannot he brought down without terrible punishments descending. The white god is undoubtedly fetid and animated by a redoubtable ardor, but has he measured the consequences of his own action?
A cry of prudence and desolation escapes. The interpreter of his race, Manga-Yaponi brushes the angry arm with his thin fingers and intercedes.
“Superb god, beware of allowing yourself to be carried away by anger. Remember that this sign was commanded to our respect by other divinities that preceded you. Ancient things are doubly venerable. Beware of attracting reprisals upon yourself, and upon us, from which even your vigor might not save you.”
If Klagenmeyer were fully in possession of his composure, perhaps he would moderate his fury. If he were to notice, at the present moment, a monstrous silhouette approaching, framed by two slender bronze figures, who is parting the ranks of the savages, sniffing, his rage would doubtless give way to another sentiment—but it is blind, choking. The honor of Germany is at stake. Since these people are begging, he has only to strike hard.
The doctor turns to his sailors and shouts: “Get that rag down!”
As Manga-Yaponi attempts once again to retain him with his long tremulous hands, Klagenmeyer pulls himself free with a blasphemy and punches the old man full in the face with his massive fist, causing the prophet to vacillate and swivel, his nose bloodied, and collapse abruptly, like a dead mollusk.
There is a murmur of consternation among the Oyas. Placid as their temperament is, the instinct of the race would precipitate them to the aid of the man who incarnates it—but their traditional submission to divine will paralyzes them. They hesitate.
Around their leader, the German sailors form up, twirling their clubs.
In the face of the enemy’s disarray, Dr. Klagenmeyer feels his strength multiply tenfold. He seethes: “If one of those brutes moves, hit him hard. And you, Freiguth, climb...”
What is it?
The doctor’s voice dies in his throat. Livid patches marble the scarlet of his cheeks. He takes a step back, hiccupping: “Mein Gott! I’m not dreaming! It’s really him!”
They will be the doctor’s last words. Kouang’s eyes have lit up. With a frightful growl, he pounces. Under his shove, the sailors go down like skittles.
The neck! Two iron fists grip the apoplectic neck...
Koua’s murderer struggles, chokes, turns violet...
All the Boches rush to the rescue, but the Great Hairy One’s action has freed the collective soul that was in suspense. It is sufficient for one buffalo to stand up to a tiger for the entire herd to charge. The Great Hairy One is also a g
od sprung from the waters. The children of the crab have adopted him. Manga-Yaponi’s spilled blood is crying out for vengeance. Adored for generations, the tricolor sign is flapping gaily in the breeze, while its profaner is dying on the ground.
The castaways’ clubs whirl in vain. A dozen clawed hands descend upon each of them, which strangle them, pluck out their eyes, or rip open their bellies. There is a frightful brawl, which only lasts a matter of seconds.
Everything is concluded.
Five frightfully mutilated bodies lie beside the mast. Raramémé lift up and drop the inert limbs, curiously.
Kouang is still leaning over Dr. Klagenmeyer’s body. He sniffs it avidly, feels it, contemplates it at length.
It really is him. It is his face, his neck, his odor. Back there, in the natal forest…the murder…blood for blood...
The death of Koua is not causing him so much pain.
Drunk with vengeance, Kouang stands up, parades a troubled gaze around him, and draws away, awkwardly, with his limping gait.
Rara strikes the cadaver one last time with his harpoon. “The Great Hairy One is a powerful god.” And with Mémé bounding alongside him, they both catch up with their friend, plunging with him into the green swell, which closes upon them.
On the battlefield, the tribe remains perplexed. The surge of atavistic rage having passed, a great deal of unease has resulted from that act of violence. It is not good to kill. Between the Oyas, quarrels are rare. There are very few murders others than those solicited by the victims. Even animals are not immolated, except to dispel hunger. Apologize to those you kill, for everything that dies exhales dangerous spirits that lie in wait for humans and which, penetrating into them, engender suffering, malady, madness and death.
From massacred divinities, extremely noxious effluvia are undoubtedly disengaged. It is urgent and indispensable to ward them off—but how? The embarrassment is cruel, all the more so because Manga-Yaponi, in whom all wisdom resides, is still lying face down in the grass. They turn him over. A feeble breath is still straying over his lips, but his spirit is absent.
The Children of the Crab Page 7
