Naissance d'une légende

Je ne suis pas monsieur Tout-le-monde. Je ne l'ai jamais été. Je ne suis pas « les gens », je suis légende. Une légende humaine, restons humble. J'ai commencé à me distinguer dès l'âge de quatre ans, en ne me maquillant qu'un côté du visage ou en portant les vêtements de mon père. Puis en jouant les mêmes airs de piano que ma mère, sans avoir jamais appris. Mon père, grand excentrique et professeur de physique nucléaire à l'université, me faisait admirer le fond de ses slips sales. Ses pets gras dessinaient de jolies figures sépia ou marron, comme sur les tests de Rorschach. Mon esthète de mère m'a très tôt mis un pinceau dans les mains. Elle me donna des cours de violon, de violoncelle, de piano. C'était certes son métier, mais elle était bien plus exigeante avec moi, son fils chéri, celui qui dormait avec elle lorsque mon père partait donner des conférences. J'étais son mari le temps d'un week-end. Je m'asseyais à sa place à la table de la cuisine, buvais dans son verre, portais ses vêtements, dormais à sa place dans le lit. Son piano devenait le mien et nous jouions ensemble, ma mère et moi, d'une seule main presque.

 

Ce dont mes parents s'aperçurent très tôt, c'était que la sélection naturelle m'avait doté d'une mémoire exceptionnelle. Plus précisément d'une mémoire eidétique. Je n'avais qu'à voir une toile une fois pour la reproduire à l'identique, dans le moindre détail. Je n'avais à entendre qu'une unique fois une œuvre pour la reproduire au piano, jusqu'à la dernière subtilité. Ce qu'ils s'attachèrent donc à faire, ce fut à me donner le bon type d'éducation, celui qui me permettrait de sublimer ces mêmes œuvres. De dépasser l'original, de le faire mien. Je fus donc éduqué par ma mère le jour, la nuit par mon père. J'étais insatiable, pugnace, velléitaire. Je refusais de me soumettre à l'évidence facile, je remettais en cause les préjugés, les acquis. Aucune branche de mon enseignement ne fut négligée, je devais m'ouvrir à tout afin de pouvoir tout ouvrir : arts graphiques, physique quantique, sciences sociales, politique économique, littératures antique et moderne, microbiologie, religions et tout ce qui gravitait autour de ces sujets. Ce fut néanmoins mon goût pour la peinture qui emporta mes faveurs sur le plan artistique. Je serai donc peintre, et rien de moins que le plus grand peintre engendré par l'homme.

 

J'avais les traits fins et la grâce de la jeunesse. J'étais beau et talentueux. Rien ne me résistait. Je n'avais qu'à rentrer dans une pièce pourvue d'un piano pour en ressortir avec une belle à chaque bras. Je n'avais qu'à me mettre à dessiner une cathédrale dans la rue, à main levée sur un bout de chiffon, pour me retrouver nu et satisfait chez une jouvencelle. Mais les concerts m'ennuyaient, les expositions et les gens également. Je ne trouvais aucun goût à ces œuvres maladroitement exécutées, à ce manque flagrant d'ambition. Il n'y avait là que de piètres talents que ma seule nature aurait écrasés si j'avais gravi l'estrade et pris leur place. Je n'ai aucune patience pour l'ordinaire, le banal, le normal. La norme signifie la mort de l'individu, de la diversité de l'espèce, de la pérennité du génie. Selon moi, on ne peut se reposer uniquement sur le don de la Nature pour nous pourvoir en matière géniale : il nous faut la cultiver, la nourrir, l'entretenir. La trier méticuleusement, la sélectionner si besoin est.

 

J'ai longtemps vécu en vendant des toiles que j'envoyais à ma mère, qui se chargeait de les vendre au plus offrant, et à celui qui les mettrait le plus en valeur. Il fallait me faire connaître pour obtenir une aisance, et donc une indépendance, financière, si nous voulions que je sois en mesure de changer le monde. Cette tâche monumentale, si noble et sublime soit-elle, vient d'être atteinte, à l'insu du monde lui-même. Je me souviens d'une discussion nocturne avec mon père, qui me disait que chacun de mes tableaux étaient grand et beau, mais qu'il fallait autre chose de plus impactant, une œuvre qui resterait dans les mémoires. Il fallait bien entendu continuer à produire de ces chefs-d'œuvres qui forçaient l'admiration de mes pairs et qui construisaient mon empire. Mais il me fallait un couronnement, une apothéose. Mon grand œuvre est donc né de la rencontre décisive avec la grande dame, au cours de cette quête qui me poussa aux confins de mon génie. Elle a su inspirer la grâce et le grandiose dans ce monde petit et veule, elle a su m'ouvrir les yeux sur l'invisible au commun des mortels. Nous avons vécu en symbiose antédiluvienne, en harmonie et dans une compréhension mutuelle, sans envie ni besoin, sans contrainte ni attente, dans le don réciproque et consenti.

 

Cette épiphanie eut pour cadre la Pointe St Gildas. Un endroit un peu reculé sur la côte atlantique, il y a maintenant plus de vingt ans, j'en avais moi-même tout juste vingt. J'y suis retourné récemment pour l'interview d'un grand magazine sur l'art, et tout y est bétonné, sillonné de chemins balisés. Rien d'aussi sordide n'aurait pu donner naissance à la légende. Deux décennies plus tôt, cet endroit était sauvage, presque hostile et peu visité par le grand public. J'y passai un mois, dans une maison de location qui n'abrita que mes sept dernières nuits, et tous les jours que Dieu fit je marchai, j'arpentai les chemins, les moindres recoins. Je cartographiai mentalement chaque parcelle de terrain, de sorte que je connusse les lieux aussi bien que ceux qui y naquirent, y vécurent et y moururent. Je pris invariablement mes repas face à la mer, qu'il ventât ou qu'il plût. Que la tempête ou l'orage grondassent. Trois semaines durant j'appris à connaître les éléments, à m'y adapter sans m'y conformer, puis au fil du temps, à les prédire et pour finir à les influencer en grand thaumaturge.

 

Ce ne fut donc qu'au terme de cette fusion avec la nature que je pus enfin commencer à peindre ce qui deviendrait le premier chef-d'œuvre d'une longue série. J'avais les tubes d'acrylique bien alignés en rang d'oignons à main droite, les pinceaux secs sentant bon le savon de Marseille à main gauche. La toile sur son chevalet en face de moi, blanche et immaculée. Je savais devoir commencer par l'océan. Je ne voulais pas d'esquisse, je voulais quelque chose de sauvage, de brut. Je n'étais pas bloqué, loin de là. Je savais exactement ce que je voulais, mais la mer et ses couleurs, du blanc écumeux au glauque en passant par le bleu nuit et le noir, ne m'ouvrait pas à ses mystères. Il me faudrait les percer pour les sublimer. Il me faudrait diluer l'acrylique, afin d'obtenir la consistance parfaite. Et je ne vis aucun pinceau qui eût pu convenir au rendu dans mon esprit.

 

Ce n'est qu'à l'aube du premier jour de la dernière semaine que la réponse m'apparut, nette, évidente. Mon érection la confirma, la justifia dans toute sa splendeur. Ma première semaine d'immersion avait été totale, d'une intensité inouïe. Les impressions furent imprimées profondément en moi, comme au marteau et au burin. Je mangeais les produits de la terre et de la mer, je buvais leur eau que je leur rendais en urinant, qui sur ses arbustes, qui dans ses vagues. Je déféquais ce qu'ils me donnaient en sustentation. Je couchais qui en son giron, qui sous ses cieux. Leur nuit m'enveloppait tout entier. Sur mes lèvres je goûtais leur sel, leur rosée, leurs embruns. Leurs eaux me lavaient. Il ne me restait plus qu'une chose à faire pour communier totalement avec eux. Et cette communion serait mon unique peinture, l'unique instrument sur la toile. Il ne fallut que quelques instants pour que, mon pinceau turgescent en main, la peinture ne coulât à flots, n'imprégnât la toile libératrice, n'y dessinât un amour dépassant les mots. Je poussai alors de longs soupirs de soulagement. Pures sensations de voir mon esprit ainsi déposé dans la fibre-même. L’apothéose de l'homme et de la nature conjuguée dans et par l'art. Chaque soir, je reprenais la composition. Dire que je pris du plaisir à la peindre entièrement est littéral. Le meilleur pinceau que j'avais jamais possédé était celui que ma mère m'avait mis dans les mains, celui qu'elle appelait affectueusement « mon petit pinceau ». Je n'avais jamais accompli que de basses choses avec, alors qu'à présent c'était la face du monde et de l'art qui s'en trouvait changée à jamais.

 

Je répétais l'opération en tout à sept reprises, à chaque fin de journée. Le tableau, une fois complet, était parfait. Jamais ce littoral ne fut et ne serait plus beau que sur cette fenêtre aux reflets blancs et irisés, aux longs traits écrus, presque invisibles. Je la présentai sans attendre à mes parents qui en restèrent bouche bée. Ils m'embrassèrent tour à tour, me demandèrent tous les détails de la naissance de ce prodige. Je leur racontai tout, de l'exil à l'union, de la méditation à l'explosion sur la toile. De la nécessité d'être rapide dans l'exécution de l'œuvre, puis dans sa conservation. J'avais recouvert la toile d'une fine pellicule de silicone transparent, parce que sinon l'ensemble aurait jauni et se serait en grande partie évaporé à cause de la grande teneur en eau de ma « peinture ».

 

J'étais le premier. Même les peintres grecs n'y avaient pas songé. C'était bien avant qu'André Jolivet ne fasse son livre avec la sienne propre, de peinture. Mozart, paraît-il, l'utilisait pour signer les lettres à sa cousine. Le peintre, dans La jument verte de Marcel Aymé, a peint les yeux de la jument avec la sienne, mais cela reste de la fiction. Certains ont fait des mélanges avec de la gouache ou de l'acrylique parce qu'ils manquaient de consistance, dans tous les sens du terme. Alors qu'une contemplation méditative et une alimentation saine et raisonnée ouvrent le champ des possibles tout entier.

 

J'ai donc sillonné le pays pendant trois longues années, durant lesquelles j'ai poussé mon génie jusqu'à son paroxysme artistique, sur des toiles parfois gigantesques. L'exposition, dans laquelle je promène actuellement mes pas, est une rétrospective de la première exposition qui m'apporta la gloire que mon père avait prédit. Elle est composée d'une trentaine de toiles que l'on pourrait, de loin, croire vierges et qui portent toutes le nom du lieu où j'ai vécu, où je me suis exilé, et chacune d'elles a trouvé la place due à une œuvre magistrale dans les plus grands musées d'art moderne du monde : Paris, Londres, New-York, Tokyo, Chicago. Je me souviens qu'à chacune de mes étapes, la nature m'a ouvert son giron et que j'ai su en extraire une substance de vie inconnue jusqu'alors : le nectar divin. Ce qui est exposé ici dépasse l'entendement de chacun des visiteurs. Ils voient tous la nature sublimée et le génie de l'artiste, tout en finesse et en suggestion. Ils ne soupçonnent pas l'origine de ma peinture, ils ne se doutent pas de ce qui lui a donné naissance et consistance, de ce qu'il m'en a coûté pour en arriver là. Chacune de mes œuvres est le fruit de mes entrailles, le produit de mon esprit unique et inimitable, incompréhensible pour le commun des mortels. Je suis adulé par le monde entier pour une raison simple mais qu'il ignore : j'exprime ce qu'il ne sait que rêver. On baptise des écoles à mon nom, je suis devenu l'étalon de comparaison sans que personne ne puisse contester ma suprématie. Quelques voix s'élèvent pour me traiter de fou, d'aliéné. Le fait est que l'art est né de nouveau avec moi, parce que c'est un art qui est plus proche de l'homme que toutes les tentatives précédentes. J'ai amené l'art à son apogée.

Je suis, désormais et pour les siècles à venir, une légende.

Hyperkundrium

It all started when I first put on a woollen hat in the middle of Summer. Dunno why – I just felt like it. Middle of June, but I'm losing my marbles. Could've been May.

Then I started pulling all of my grey hair from my eyebrows – they were bush-like. They mightn't have been all grey and perhaps I did pull one hair too many.

People started glaring at me, me who never had a single glance from anyone before. From the murky cranny of ignorance to the glaring blaring lights of onstage sympathy.

One day I felt like cutting my hair, they were neanderthal-like. And seeing how the clipper literally ate through the blackish mass felt exhilarating I had to shave my head.

It also coincided with me starting losing weight. I had stopped junk food first thing when I read in a magazine that there was so many cancer-prone things in it, then food altogether. Because you never know and then it was all so bland. Fruits and veggies tasted like water, meat had the consistency of rubber. The only thing that had taste left was soy milk. Boy I love soy milk. I used to drink gallons of soy milk a day.

Then I guess I thought I felt I became photosensitive. I shunned the sun and the day altogether and started living at night. So I had to have an ex-colleague of mine buy the soy milk and deliver it to me. I think she got scared shitless when she discovered the bags under my eyes. Or perhaps it was my face, she didn't say and I didn't have the opportunity to ask. But man, there's nothing like the night to soothe you, to take your time to listen to your own heartbeats and try and slow them down to a trickle.

Come to think of it, all of this must have happened during the same week or the following weeks. I lost track of time. Anyway.

People never said anything and I never said anything but I think they must have thought I had a cancer or something because they did look at me with pity in their eyes. It was kind of fun so I played along, just for a bit. And Good Lord Almighty it WAS fun. At least I got the attention I always wanted. People are way nicer when they see you dying – and even more so when they realise it's not contagious.

Eventually I had to take to my bed because my life was shit-like, dealing with joint pains and diarrheas and constipation and fever and delirium and blood transfusions and because of all the meds I started taking and I weigh now less than 40kg and doctors say I have acute and never-diagnosed-before and spontaneous forms of pancreatic cancer, leukaemia, lupus and lymphoma and something else but I forgot, all stemming from something they called hyperkundrium or something like that. Tomorrow, at best, I'll be dead.

Butterfly

 I was woken up by the faintest sound, like a fluttering of wings. It was about noon. I was taking my preprandial nap. It was a butterfly. I was astonished. I said so. “My, there's a butterfly stuck in the room.” That's what I said, word for word. Out of the few days or weeks this butterfly had to live in this physical world, he was doomed to spend a few hours here with me, banging and crashing on the windowpanes, circling the wooden beam in the middle of the room. I did open the doors. Wide open. A full-grown baby elephant could have manoeuvred in there without but brushing past a hinge. The lepidoptera didn't find the way out, though. I couldn't leave the door open too long – it was getting cold, you see. November can be cold after a cool summer. So it remained in the room – I still wonder how it entered it in the first place – until I saw it not. It was perhaps laying flat in some nook or cranny amid the junk and miscellany stored in here, waiting for something we can't understand the value of. I wish I had been a butterfly, or I wish I could be one, as much as metempsychosis would allow me, so that I could understand what it meant by that.

I understood then that much of men's behaviour could find an equivalent in the animals' behaviour. I was a butterfly. Some were snakes. Some were bulls or sheep or fish or worms. Some were giraffes and others elephants. The desert mole rat's behaviour might mirror that of Indians'. Europe is full of black-backed jackals. Some species are sedentary, some are nomadic. People who live on their own are a bloody pain. They never know what they want, pass it by without blinking and, being offered something else, discard it with a cantankerous wave of the hand. Perhaps a snicker. And then I knew the butterfly in me was dying. It was one of those nights when you could almost see the links between the stars, drawing the constellations for the naked eye. I decided to leave.

I took the first ship out of the continent, then learnt to ride a horse, learnt the rules of the desert and became aware of thirst and hunger. I rode and rode. I went to Samarkand. Mingled with the merchants for seasons unaccounted. On being attacked by a swarm of bandits, I left the caravan and joined the thieves. We roamed the deserts of Persia, assailed, plundered, haggled the stolen goods, caroused, slept with the glossy, tenebrious dome over our heads and bought whores and drank tea.

One night I stole the captain's horse and rode for ten days and ten nights. The stallion died and I pursued on foot. I arrived at dawn, dusty and tired, in Merv, in Turkmenistan. There I hid in the suburbs, stole fruits and vegetables from the back of stalls, washed downstream in the river, bidding my time. One day, I spotted the palanquin of a prince. I knew of him through legends and hearsays. He would ride in his palanquin, all curtains drawn. No one had ever seen his face for he constantly concealed it under a shawl. He was all mystery. I sneaked in his palace under the cover of darkness and hid under his bed for two full weeks, stealing occasionally from the various fruit bowls laying here and there. There I eavesdropped his every habit. He was a man of few words. He received no visitors. One night, I stabbed him in his sleep, pierced his heart with my dagger and unveiled his visage. Amidst tormented flesh and disfiguring scars were set a pair of pale green eyes.

This is how I became the Mysterious Prince of Turkmenistan. I found the name myself. I spent lavishly in parties I didn't attend at first. I offered exquisite jewels to splendiferous princesses. I donated money to the city council, erected orphanages and schools. I made love to princes and princesses alike, always making a point not to reveal my figure. Never. Not to anyone, under no circumstances. I was served in gold dishes, I shat in gold buckets. A slave wiped my buttocks clean. My scam could have gone on for ever were it not for the sudden appearance of the real prince's brother who, hearing on the coming out of the prince, thought his brother had recovered from whatever demons assaulted him and was finally blending with his peer. He was too sharp and suspicious a fellow not to die at my dagger's tip. I fled at once, only with the gold and jewels I could carry on my person.

I travelled on horseback without stopping to sleep or feed, took shelter in caves, slipped into caravans and ships. However cautious I was not to leave traces of my passage, I was chased after. I had to kill to live. I had to steal food to live, I was forced to pinch horses and mules and carts. On occasions I couldn't but ransack, despoil, embezzle and burn to the ground to save my skin. I was hunted again and again, relentlessly. I remembered the Erinyes in times long gone. Reward posters were pasted in every city I reached, forcing me to seek refuge in deserted areas. I was probably the most wanted man in the whole silk road, perhaps in the entire Ariana. I fed on roots and drank dew. Rats were my only companions and meals in the last ship I took.

I ultimately attained Sevilla. There I set up a shop as an alchemist cum banker cum general goods store. The knowledge I had acquired and the little gold and jewels I could save allowed me only this. But business was good, for I was not known. I experimented on various metals, obtained gold after much fumbling, tried my hand at dissecting living things, subjecting them to the absorption of the various gases I was using and multitudes of plants and medicinal herbs. Fire gave good results too. I compiled all my results in books with titles such as: “The Black Boke of Magick Spelles”, “The Boke of Torture and Various Methodes of Inflickting Pain”, “Anatomie of Man” and such like. They sold so many copies and people asked for so many more that I had to hire scribes.

I soon met my future wife because she kept on coming to my shop under various pretexts, started to help me, doing menial tasks at first, then entrusted herself to seeking out herbs on her own and gradually made herself invaluable. We were married a week later. She became heavy with child almost at once.

We now live in a comfortable house in the new part of town. Notables and princes from Spain, Morocco and such countries come to seek my advice or my potions. I count a handsome number of kings and queens as my clients. My chest is filled with gold and jewels and precious stones. My children receive a good education for I insist on the tutors to come every day. I trade silk and spices, carpets and saffron from the very cities that vowed to put me to death. A young gentleman whom I befriended recently wants to write a book on my adventures. He comes every evening after dinner, and I exchange wine and dates against an hour or two of conversation, a handful of words he conscientiously pens on dirty pieces of parchment. He is not the only one to revere me, I usually marvel at my being here, alive, in one piece and sane enough not to put my eggs in the same basket.

All of this happened because a butterfly was stuck in my room, and wouldn't come out. Funny.

The Encounter

He was one inch, perhaps two, under seven feet, which was of course quite unusual as people went, but one had to consider that he was a dragon-cum-monster slayer, and that in his line of work midgets indeed had an undeniable advantage at hiding, but in deeds they had that terrible drawback of being slow-paced and slow-witted, ergo of being chewable in one snap, fact that made them unqualified for the work – midget dragon-cum-monster slayers died out for lack of suitable candidates. Provided you found a small enough dragon or even a remarkably puny hydra, even your regular man was as good as mince pie.

He was not your regular man. His shining armour was the first clue. Brightly polished for a whole full-moon night by a dwarf – jolly good polishers, by the way, dwarves are, for they have that almost sexual attraction to metal that verges on devotion. The second clue was his steed. No one could ever call Stallion a horse. He was a magnificent pure-breed, white from muffle to tail. Even his hooves were white. Of course, Stallion was a magical warhorse, bound to him by a magical spell only Destiny could cast. Together they had roamed many a kingdom and fought many a battle. The third clue was his size. 'Towering' was by any means an adjective that befitted him like a gauntlet, but his bulk was mountainous. He could encompass the head of a man in his hand and he covered with one stride the same ground as a man would do in four. Muscular, mighty, masculine. In all humbleness, he could say that he was the ladies' favourite wherever he went. The claymore faithfully hanging at his side was the last clue to his über-manliness. It was a fathom long, i.e. the width of a man's extended arms, from tip to tip. Only him could wield Swörd, for he had been chosen by the Gods to unsheathe it from its rocky, two-thousand year old resting place. Swörd glowed with a special shimmering aura, parting the darkness at night and glowed red in the midst of the fray.

On a day-to-day basis he was feared by his enemies, loved by his countrymen, favoured by the Gods for his ruthlessness, for his courage and for his loyalty respectively.

So when he heard that he was being challenged to a duel, and when he set eyes on his 'enemy', he first laughed. But he had fought too many wars and killed too many monsters and evil men alike to overlook the stare in the herald's eyes. He was then told that his opponent had killed nine hundred and ninety-nine men in single combat. But the fame didn't quite match the figure. The herald must have been mistaken, they must have all consorted to play some prank on him. He knew the King of these lands very well, he had been a companion in peace and in war for many a year.

So on that fateful day, as he was passing by the village, he was stopped by his antagonist who was blocking the road, legs extended in an inverted V shape and his fist resting on his hips in a defiant posture. He set foot in the muddy ground, let Stallion wait by the corn trough and, after being warned by the herald, gave him his sheeny helmet and walked up to the warrior. Such was the scene in the early hours of the morning. It was the first days of Spring. Luck had it that he was in a perfect form.

He bent over his foe, towering and confident, hands on his knees and told him, in the sweetest possible voice he could: “And what are you going to do, precisely, kiddo?”

***

He was definitely two inches under five feet, which was quite unusual as people went, but one had to consider that he had yet to complete his eighth school year, kindergarten excluded. When he was woken up by his friend, who was dishevelled from all the running up and down, telling him that a knight was in sight and that he would arrive in the village any minute now, he jumped out of bed, put on his best suit and rushed to meet him, panting a little – he had almost slipped on the mud. That would have ruined his carefully crafted effect. He affected his usual posture in the middle of the only road in the village. He was born there. His parents and his parents' parents were born there. He knew everyone and everyone knew him. Luckily, today was a day off school.

So he was standing there, as proudly and vain as possible, and he quite liked the effect on the people around him. Everyone had gathered and was holding its breath. Expectant eyes were going from him to the knight and vice versa. Yet, and this was quite unusual, the stares seemed to linger more on the warrior – he had to admit that this one was, well, nothing short of statuesque. The...man, for lack of a better word, surely measured a staggering seven feet at least.

When he came up to him and bent over him, he could not see anything but him, as broad his shoulders were. This was the first time ever he was confronted by such a mountain of muscles and metal. The mud at every one of his steps seemed to be squashed into a pulp, on each side of his ironclad feet.

He just hoped the herald had not said too much, or too little.

***

Now he was much closer, he could distinguish the child's features: the unruffled hair, the pimples he should resent, the freckles that one could not really distinguish from the said pimples, the sleep at the corner of his blue eyes, the chubby cheeks. The school garments. Light blue shirt, black and blue striped tie, dark blue shorts, light blue socks, black shoes that had not seen a good polish in years, perhaps at all. Then his eyes were suddenly drawn to a glittering pen which was sticking out from the child's pocket.

***

They usually would come very close to him, talk to him perhaps, spur him on, observe him for a time then they would become interested in his pen. That was the time he would usually put it to good use. This one was like the rest and now was the time. Right on the cue. He had had doubts, looking at that gigantic man, but he just had to remember the story of David and Goliath to feel safe.

One day he had heard at school that quote from a French bloke: “If you kill one man, you're a murderer; if you kill millions of men, you're a conqueror; if you kill them all, you're God.” He was currently undertaking stage two. He was still in two minds as to pursue further after taking the life of millions of men. Being God seemed to him quite overrated.

The pen had been the top prize at a poetry competition earlier last year. A little less than a foot tall and entirely made of iron. The Provost had said it would last him a lifetime if he used it carefully. It was this same pen which he now swiftly took in hand and which he was thrusting into the knight's right eye, very deeply, until his hand knocked onto the man's orbit. As usual, the title of his winning poem would flash before his eyes: The Unexpectedness of a Pen Right into the Eyeball. The defeated knight fell dead in the mire.

He then cried, triumphantly, the last line of his epic: “The pen is mightier than the sword!” Blood and humours dripped abundantly from the glistening pen. With one hand clenched around the body of the pen he swiped it clean, then put it back into his pocket. With that he turned on his heels and walked home to get his breakfast. He was starving. “Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder” was also one of his teacher's sayings – “unless there's a pen sticking right through it”, he sarcastically added, with a grin on his face, from ear to ear. The carrion would be carried at the edge of the forest and left to the vultures and the wolves. Such was the fate of the defeated. Vae Victo.

***

The herald, for the thousandth time, was shaking his head as he and seven other sturdy men were carrying the body of the unfortunate...why didn't any one of those knights believe him? Couldn't they see the Evil in the child's eyes? Lucky the kid paid him well, otherwise he'd have cleared a long time ago.

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_ Youpi ! C'est toi qui commence à compter.

_ Pour changer ! Allez, va te cacher. »

Elle relève doucement la tête, une boule de Noël dans chaque main. Elle regarde son mari Antoine jouer avec leur fils Mathéo, bientôt 5 ans, leur fille de 2 ans dans ses bras, compter jusqu'à 20 et dire « J'arrive ». Elle est heureuse. Elle s'occupe de ranger les décorations du sapin. Les enfants généralement ne sont pas intéressés lorsqu'il s'agit de mettre un terme aux guirlandes. Mais le sapin a perdu presque toutes ses épines, et tous les jours ils ramassent une guirlande, un renne, un bonhomme de neige et une pelle pleine d'épines. Antoine a décidé de le jeter. Elle aurait bien aimé le garder pour le réveillon du Nouvel An. Tant pis.

Mathéo glisse plus qu'il ne court sur le carrelage. Comme d'habitude, il se cache derrière la porte de la cuisine et rapproche la poubelle pour ne pas qu'on le voit. Le but – tacite, parce qu'on ne dit pas ce genre de choses, mais on les fait – est de faire le tour de la maison et de chercher en dernier dans la cuisine, où leur petit garçon beau comme un ange trépigne d'impatience, la porte parfois tremblant aussi d'excitation.

« Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii ! T'as mis plein de temps à me trouver ! À toi à toi à toi !

_ Minute papillon, je laisse ta sœur dans les bras de ta mère. »

Elle se relève doucement, prend leur fille dans ses bras. Il dépose un baiser sur son front, sourit et part dans le couloir. Mathéo fait semblant de couvrir son visage, mais elle voit ses yeux briller. Il commence à compter.

« 1-2-3 »

Ses parents devraient arriver demain dans la matinée, en espérant qu'il n'y ait pas trop de neige sur la route.

« 4-5-6 »

Elle devrait peut-être les appeler et leur dire d'arriver dans l'après-midi, ce serait plus sûr.

« 7-8-9 »

Il serait temps de faire le biberon de la petite.

« 10-11-12 »

Elle s'étonnera toujours qu'Antoine ait réussi à lui faire retenir les chiffres jusqu'à 20.

« 13-14-20 ! »

Elle sourit. Décidément, bien comme son père.

Re-glissade sur le carrelage, direction en trombe vers la chambre.

Le chien en boule dans son panier. La cafetière vibre, goutte-à-goutte sombre, vapeur. La télé en sourdine, les infos. Pas en avance sur le bain. La petite dans sa chaise haute, qui joue avec sa cuillère.

« Mamaaaaaaaaan ! » Elle sursaute.

« Hé, maman n'est pas sourde. Tu m'as fait peur. Qu'est-ce qu'il y a ?

_ Je trouve pas Papa !

_ Tu sais, la dernière fois que tu as dit ça, c'est que tu n'avais pas cherché partout. Tu as cherché dans la salle de bain?

_ Il est pas là.

_ Tu as allumé la lumière?

_ Non...

_ Ah, tu vois. Alors allume la lumière. Tu sais, tu as le droit quand tu joues à cache-cache. »

Cœur qui bat encore la chamade. Perdue dans ses pensées. Le lave-vaisselle a fini de tourner depuis un moment déjà. Il n'y avait pas grand chose, de toute façon.

Elle sent la main de Mathéo à l'arrière de sa cuisse.

« Oui, mon ange.

_ Maman, il est pas dans la salle de bain.

_ Tu as cherché dans la chambre de ta sœur?

_ Oui !

_ Et dans notre chambre ?

_ Oui ! Et il est pas sous le lit.

_ Allons bon...alors on va chercher ensemble alors. Maman finit de vider le lave-vaisselle et on cherche Papa avec ta sœur.

Elle prend sa fille qui a déjà les bras tendus.

« On va chercher Papa ? Allez, on l'appelle ensemble.

_ Papaaaaaa ? »

Pas dans la chambre de la petite, ni dans celle de Mathéo. Pas dans la salle de bain ni dans les toilettes.

Ne reste que la chambre. Lumière grande ouverte, placards idem.

« Sous le lit ? » Elle se penche doucement, la petite s'accroche à son cou pour ne pas tomber. Pincement au cœur. Elle ne voit que l'autre extrémité de la pièce. Quelques moutons qui ont échappé à l'aspirateur.

Elle se relève rapidement. Ne reste que le cellier, mais il n'y a aucun espace pour se cacher là-dedans. Mais Mathéo est défendu d'y aller, même si la porte vers l'extérieur est toujours fermée. Mathéo qui lui a prit la main. Ils sortent de la chambre, vont jusqu'au bout du couloir. Elle peut voir la lumière filtrer sous la porte. Elle s'agenouille.

« Tu vois la lumière ? Chuchote-elle à l'oreille de son fils. Ça veut dire qu'il y a quelqu'un dans la pièce. Papa est coquin d'aller se cacher là, hein ? »

Elle peut voir dans la bouille boudeuse de Mathéo que son père a enfreint une autre règle tacite : on se cache pas là où l'on ne peut pas chercher.

« Vas-y mon ange, ouvre la porte. Maman te donne la permission. »

Ampoule à nu, lumière blafarde. Rien que des victuailles, le deuxième réfrigérateur et le congélo vrombissant de conserve. Porte vers l'extérieur grande ouverte. Quelques flocons sur le seuil. La lumière dehors perçant l'obscurité sur quelques mètres, puis le noir glacial.

La main de Mathéo qui serre plus fort.

Des traces de pas dans la neige. Instinctivement elle les suit. Il fait vraiment froid. Les traces font le tour de la maison, vont vers le portail, continuent après le portillon. Elle frissonne, sa fille l'étrangle presque. Son fils lui broie quasiment la main, silencieux. Il tremble. Ils sont sortis sans rien sur le dos.

Elle ne dit rien alors qu'ils retournent rapidement dans la maison.

Elle habille la petite et se rend compte que ce n'est pas sa fille qui l'étranglait, mais elle a un nœud dans la gorge. Écharpes, gants, bonnets, manteaux, bottes. Elle prend une torche. Mathéo s'est habillé seul. Elle ferme la fermeture éclair de son manteau. Elle se dépêche.

Retour dehors. Moins froid, mais elle frissonne. Neige qui crisse. Flocons épars, dansant au gré de l'absence de vent. Silence froid et jaune dans la lumière des spots. Les traces de pas, distinctes dans le faisceau de la torche, continuent jusqu'à la route, puis jusqu'à la départementale. Puis plus rien. Plusieurs traces figurant du sur-place. Des traces de pneus, mais ça ne veut rien dire. Elle enlève ses gants, prend son portable.

Pourquoi. Pourquoi. Pourquoi. Les larmes aux yeux. Sa fille accrochée à son cou. La main de son fils à l'arrière de sa cuisse.

« Allo, la gendarmerie ? Je suis très inquiète, je crois que mon mari a disparu. »

Elle veut oublier les gendarmes, ses parents, les battues, les avis de recherche dans le journal, au moment même où tout ceci arrive. Il n'a pris que sa veste, ainsi que son portefeuille. Elle veut oublier les questions embarrassantes, la possibilité d'une maîtresse, d'une autre vie comme on en lit parfois dans les journaux à sensations. Elle veut oublier le regard des autres. La pitié dans leurs yeux vitreux.

Elle veut oublier les pourquois d'acier seule dans le lit. Les yeux qui piquent d'avoir trop pleuré. Elle veut oublier la déclaration de décès. Elle veut oublier la « viduité » que le notaire lui a infligée. Elle en vient à préférer le mot « veuvage ». Oui, il a créé un vide par son départ, et un sacré foutoir, mais elle referme sa plaie et avance, ne serait-ce que pour les enfants. Penser aux enfants avant tout. Une vie normale les attendait. Essayer de sauver les meubles.

Elle veut oublier le détective qui lui fait des avances, lui promet un rabais. Elle veut oublier l'autre détective qui lui dit que la carte de crédit d'Antoine a été utilisée en Italie. Qu'il est allé sur place et que le guichetier l'a formellement reconnu. Qu'il a pris un billet d'avion pour le Brésil. À partir de là, le détective prévient que si elle veut continuer, ça va lui coûter sa maison. Ça aussi, elle veut l'oublier. Elle veut oublier sa décision d'avancer sans lui.

Elle veut oublier les cauchemars, ceux où elle rêvent qu'Antoine lui sourit de sous le lit. Ceux où il sonne à la porte, un bouquet à la main et les larmes aux yeux.

Mathéo a dix ans. Il souffle ses bougies, assis sur les genoux de celui qu'il a tout juste commencé à appeler « Papa ». Il ne parle plus de son vrai père, sauf à la psy. Il y a encore beaucoup de colère en lui, et la psy dit qu'il y en aura toujours tant qu'il ne saura pas pourquoi il est parti, s'il est mort ou vivant. Elle aussi est en colère. Elle ne comprend pas. Ses parents à lui ne comprennent pas. Rien, pas un mot, pas une nouvelle. Elle a décidé sur un coup de tête de refaire sa vie. Benoît, un ancien camarade d'école, est arrivé. Il leur a fallu un an avant de se lancer. Lui est divorcé, sans enfant. Mais il a l'âme d'un père.

Elle veut oublier le nœud dans sa gorge, et parfois elle y arrive.

Fête hier avec les petits camarades de Mathéo, dans le jardin. Gâteau, cotillons, toboggan et piscine gonflable. Frisbee, football, on joue à la guerre. Pas de cache-cache. Elle veut oublier le regard de terreur dans les yeux de son fils quand un jour un de ses camarades lui a proposé d'y jouer.

Presque deux heures trente. Sa mère nettoie des verres alors que son père débarrasse la table. Elle n'a rien à faire. Puis elle se souvient qu'elle n'est pas allée au courrier ni hier ni aujourd'hui. Elle prend les clefs, embrasse le front de ses deux anges, sort. Il fait bon en ce début de printemps. Mathéo a eu de la chance de pouvoir passer toute la journée d'hier dehors. Gravillons crissant sous ses chaussures. Elle ouvre le portillon, puis la boîte aux lettres. EDF, deux cartes d'anniversaire sûrement. Une carte postale qui a souffert pendant le voyage. Une plage bordée de cocotiers. Viva el Costa Rica. Pas d'expéditeur, ni de date. L'oriflamme est presque effacé. Une phrase biffée et re-biffée sous un paquet de ratures. Dessous, une seule ligne.

Je n'étais pas prêt. Si vous le pouvez, oubliez.

Enfoiré. L'écriture n'a pas changé. Antoine, pourquoi. Tu aurais été plus utile mort et enterré. Oublier ? Ils s'y emploient, jour après jour. Et c'est plus facile pour la petite, mais Mathéo n'est plus le même. Elle n'est plus la même, mais ça ne compte pas. Ils auraient pu en parler, pourquoi est-ce que tu as fui ?

Elle veut oublier le coup de fil du détective, quelques jours plus tard, qui lui certifie que sous le paquet de ratures il y a bel et bien inscrit : « Et si je revenais ? »

Aujourd'hui, elle ne souvient que du jaune de la flamme qui a dévoré la carte postale. Aujourd'hui, elle ne se souvient que du sourire de ses enfants jouant avec leur père.

 

The Cackling Hen

 

Old Jim O'Donnell was no mean farmer. Back in Sligo, County Sligo, Ireland, he was – o' course – one of the most prominent landowners, sheep and cow herder around. None of us would disagree 'bout that. Some people said that he had a whole pot o' gold hidden in the trough of a river, guarded by a fierce leprechaun. Not only that, he had fields goin' way further that the eye could see, barns aplenty, rabbits and chicken by the thousands. Indeed, it would ha' been hard ta find a family who hadn't a lad or two warkin' fer him.

Old Jim O'Donnell was rooted ta the land. He was born on the farm he was now warkin' and livin' in, inherited from his ma and pa. His ma deliver'd standin' not three feet away from the pig-sty. Couldna go any further, what with her arms full of chopp'd wood, and the pain. His pa was built like the door ta the house: stocky and knotty. Sometimes, the sottish folks jok'd that he could ha' been carv'd outa this door. A two pound, hefty pat on the back would suddenly sober 'em up. His pa lik'd his joke too.

Even as an urchin Old Jim O'Donnell was big and burly. He lik'd ta hunt the boar in the wild all right. Rain or shine, in the corn or in the brine, he always walk'd barelegg'd, the long, curly red bristle on his legs wavin' under the breeze. He reminded us of those Vikings of yore, with their big, briary beard and their colossal, gnarl'd arms. Specially when he wielded that double-edge axe of his ta chop down some yew ta build a shed.

Old Jim O'Donnell, when he heard early one mornin' from one the laddies that there was some commotion in the hen house, he made one of 'em gestures that none of us in their right mind would care ta contradick, even though we saw in the lad's eyes somethin' akin ta fear. But the ol' farmer couldn't be ars'd, he had other fish ta fry, like a farrowing sow squealin' like someone was slittin' her throat. We remember it took the best o' the mornin' to get 'em all piglets out.

That very same day, for lunch, Old Jim O'Donnell had smok'd herring, mutton stew and bread and butter. He didna touch the boil'd egg his wife never fail'd to cook for him. Didn't ha' time ta, poor old farmer, for he was call'd by his best mate Patrick: the brand new combine harvester he'd purchas'd not two days ago was stuck in that field yonder. None of us could make it wark. So he trudg'd toward the field, grumblin' that if anyone had marr'd it, he'd crease the ears of the culprit. And we knew he meant it, literally.

Old Jim O'Donnell lik'd his swearin'. Gosh he did. The priest us'd ta say that the ol' farmer could set your ears a-bleeding just by swearin'. Some would make us chuckle, some others would make us cringe. But none of us could outswear him, that's for sure. His imagination was runnin' wild, we tell ye. Anyway, he did manage ta fix the monster of metal, just in time ta hurl one last swear that the day was almost done while the field wasn't even half-way. None had his ears creas'd, that we can remember.

Old Jim O'Donnell hadn't pass'd the gate that the carpenter's apprentice was runnin' ta him, all sweaty and shaky in his boots: the roof of the barn was collapsin'.

'Twas a bad day indeed for the ol' farmer o' Sligo, even though they shor'd up the barn in time with the bustlin' help of all the farm hands. Even though they could re-pen all the sheep that had gone through a great gap in the fence. Even though only one of 'em hay balls got burnt in a roarin' fire. So when Old Jim O'Donnell trugd'd the path back ta his cottage, as the sun set behind him, he knew that the day couldna end like this. Somethin' was gnawin' at him, since early in the mornin'.

Because Old Jim O'Donnell could smell a rat a mile away. Literally. He hated the blighters so much he'd skewer 'em with his pitchfork which he'd throw like a spear, sometimes fifty yards distant. That was Old Jim O'Donnell for ye. So a rat he smell'd, right before dinner time. Nothin' was stirrin', not even the mistletoe. Somethin' brewin' in the air. And then he heard it. 'Twasn't like somethin' rappin', more like...someone talkin'...or like...cacklin'. The hen house.

Old Jim O'Donnell ran. That was a sight to see. Like a fast-moving stone wall pounding on the ground. We all follow'd him but he was too quick, even though he was by far the bulkiest of all. Not even Bréanainn could wear the farmer's shirt without lookin' like an idiot outa the circus. When we finally caught up with him he was comin' out of the hen house, his face all white and sweatin' like a swine on a summer day. None of us dar'd speak. Finally, Patrick ask'd him whatever was the matter. We could see his hands were shakin'.

“One of the hens just laid an asteroid.”

 

The Snow-boy

 
Hi Folks,

Here is a new short story. I took quite some time write it and get it neat and tidy, but it is still "work in progress".

I thank Caren for giving the impetus (the reason more like), Carmen for an early proof-reading and Natalie for helping me out with the details, the Malay (saya "really" perlu pelajaran <= and I'm quite sure I bungled this one too) and the proof-reading.

Tell me what you think.



The Snow-boy



Once upon a Time, there was this strange boy who was shunned by everybody because he was made of snow. He was always cold to the touch and dripping water, and when he sneezed, snowflakes were coming out of his stalactite of a nose.

He used to spend his time in the freezer during Summer, and started to look happy when Autumn came. During Winter, his schoolmates would try and make snowballs out of him. He would laugh at this prank because he only had to take snow on the ground to grow a new arm or a new leg.

Time passed, because that's what Time is good at doing. The snow-boy grew up and became quite a tall snow-boy. He was usually sad because his friends always considered him as a snowman, whereas he was just a boy made of snow. He would remember pranks played upon him, like the time when they tried to attach a carrot on his face, or when they unplugged the freezer, just for fun.

And then the weather changed. Nobody knew why but the days grew hotter; Summer lasted longer, Winter shortened drastically and became colder – even the snow-boy felt the cold grip his legs and arms. His parents, seeing his condition worsen, decided to move up North, where it was said were gentler climes. At the end of Winter, they bought a new house in a small village near the Arctic circle.

He was worried his parents would not sustain the low temperatures, but they put on jumpers, muffs and woollen hats – they were like you and me, you see – and scarves and gloves and boots, and they smiled because their son was happy there. He would miss his friends from time to time, but here people wouldn't look down upon him or frown at him, tutting and shaking their head. In his new home, he even put on some weight, there being so much snow. He didn't miss school any longer. He could attend it every day of the year, and even went to school during the weekend, for what he learnt there pleased him immensely. One teacher grew rather fond of him, and with him he learnt a lot about the world. He gave him plastic gloves so he could read books without ruining them. He would put plastic bags and buckets under the chair so that he could watch movies.

He eventually realised his former friends had not been friendly to him at all, and he got new ones who didn't play tricks on him, but with him, including him in their games during lunch break. He would spend days on end outside, watching the Northern Lights, making snowmen with his friends, loitering in the library and reading books in the freezer.

Then came the day when he stumbled across an old, weather-beaten travel-log, half-hidden at the far end of a rack, at the very back of the library, where the books that were no longer in mint condition were confined. It had been written by some explorer who had discovered a small island off the East coast of Malaysia. Starting off from this country, which he described at length, he fought great seas and greedy pirates and other water leaks to finally reach this patch of dry white sand beach riddled with lava boulders, all covered in a thick layer of guano. There, in the island's thick jungle, he discovered what the reader could interpret as dragons the size of baby elephants – whatever size that represented, for he had never seen any elephant, nor any dragon – beautiful, rainbow-coloured birds, trees aplenty that yielded fruits as big as a man's head, and sweeter than apples. There, he discovered what he described as a “Treasure more precious than gold itself.”

The book made a compelling impression on him, but even more so did the rough sketch done by the unnamed explorer, the which he found on the very last page of the log. It represented the Island from a distance. You could see a lush jungle, the emerging peak of a mountain which looked strangely like a volcano, boulders the size of houses lying across the beach, birds flying all around. On the far right, one could make out skerries and other jagged, frothy rocks. Day and night he dreamt about it. In fact, he borrowed the book for so long that the librarian forgot to ask him to return it. Nor did his teacher. Long did he ponder on the presence of such a book in such parts. How did an original travel-log, written God knows when by some unknown explorer near the Equator, actually land in a country where only snow could be found all year round? Nobody could come up with even a fancy explanation. The librarian could only raise his eyebrows – the which drove deep furrows on his forehead – and shrug – the which doubled his prominent chin; he didn't know how or when this book had ended up on the shelf, for it was not referenced anywhere.

One day, because he could no longer stay put, he decided to leave and go to Malaysia. Ultimately, he wanted to find this island, but he didn't dare tell anyone lest they would make fun of him. Everybody in the village tried to persuade him not to, but he was adamant. He was fed up travelling through books, or tales, or films. He wanted to see the world through his own eyes.

“Why Malaysia, my son?” cried his mother one day. “Why not Sweden, or Siberia?”
“Because I want to see something new, something different, and I want to live something challenging.”
“But you will die there, son, it's too hot for you!” would reply his father.
“No. I know I won't die.” His parents would then realise that pushing the argument any further was useless. They found out, that day, that their son was no longer a boy, nor even a teenager: they realised he would become a man soon.

As for him, he knew he wasn't going to die, at least not from heat, even though he could give no rational explanation to his belief.

So, with the help of his teacher, he prepared his trip meticulously. He would wait until Winter and then fly to Siberia, then travel down through Mongolia and China and stick to the most mountainous parts. He would then walk along the frontier with Burma until he reached the end of Yunnan in China.

“Then you will have to learn to deal with heat and dampness and rain, my lad. I don't know how a snow-boy like you will manage that, but I have no doubt you will succeed.” Yet in his teacher's voice he could hear hesitation, and what sounded like a knot. For his teacher was a very logical person, and he knew the geography of the world very well.

Everyday he was watching the weather broadcast in the world down under. On the first day a snowflake appeared, he left. His parents made him promise to write often, and to come back if he felt he was in danger or that he could not succeed. Everybody in the hall of the small airport was sad, some were even crying and sobbing loudly, for they had grown used to the queer presence of the snow-boy. They all waved him goodbye and it was with a heavy heart that he went, on the first day of Winter.

His first journey by plane went well, and after he landed in Siberia he immediately set out on his path. He stopped at the exit of the airport and asked two men the way to Mongolia. They were rubbing their hands around a brasero and had tiny icicles dangling from their eyelashes. They looked surprised, and then laughed very loudly. One of the men put out his arm very decidedly in one direction.
“This way, sonny. Not left, not right, this way, straight!” The snow-boy thanked him, taking care not to approach the fire from too close. And on he went.

He didn't know how long he walked through snow-riddled plains, lichen-covered deserts, across snowed-in mountain passes, meeting no one but few rare animals, who scampered as soon as they saw him. Strangely, he didn't fear anything. He was sleeping in plain view of the full moon. He didn't need to shower, and as usual he was eating very little.

When by chance he finally came across a party of people pushing and pulling a cart, they fled screaming. He waited a long while by the cart for them to return, but seeing they didn't come back, he left. The direction he needed he obtained from a fellow traveller who was heading up North. He was very old and walking with a stick of wood which was just knots over knots, like eyes set in wood.

“Mongolia? You are walking in Mongolia. If you are heading to China, you want to follow that road. Where do you want to go, young man?” He replied that his final destination was Malaysia. “Well, my boy, you still have a long way to go. I come from Thailand, which is just North of Malaysia, and this is already a long way to walk. But I can see you are set on going, so I'll bid you farewell. And good luck with the heat.”

He thanked the old man profusely and took his leave. He hadn't walked two steps that he heard the man from behind his back.

“What are you going to Malaysia for, if I may ask?” He was so taken by surprise that he didn't know what to answer. His thoughts were racing like swallows chasing after sunset's mosquitoes. For an unknown reason, he didn't want to tell him the truth.
“Surely a snow-boy like you know that only death awaits him in these hot parts. So no doubt you must be chasing something of great value.” Then it happened. He faced the voice. The old man, was propped on his stick, both hands and his chin resting on top of it, his eyes glittering.

“I am looking for an island. Off the East coast of Malaysia.”
“Then what you are chasing, laddie, is nothing short of a dream. The figment of a reverie thinner than yesternight's dream. You should go back home before it is too late. Before you are nothing but a cube melting into someone's drink. I have warned you. Your parents should know better than letting a snow-boy like you risk his life for a dream. I don't wish you luck, as this is folly. May you change your mind at the first drought. So long, snow-boy.” And with the slightest tip of his hat, he spinned on his heels and walked away briskly.

For days he could remember every word of this conversation. He dreamt of it at night. He was floating in a glass, thinning and thinning; some blurry people were laughing behind the glass wall. Or the old man was scolding him from a distance, saying things he couldn't hear, but which sounded like imprecations, warnings and threats. Why had the old man threatened him? He was talking as if he knew straight from the start of which particular island he was talking about. How could he possibly know of it? Yet he had other fish to fry, for the weather was getting milder and the days were growing hotter. At night he could still make some progress, but during the day, sometimes, it became so unbearable he had to take refuge in caves, or in crevices. He lost considerable weight in the progress, dripping along the way, but still the occasional vulture would turn a disinterested eye on him, of which he was more than thankful.

When, after what seemed to be weeks and weeks of arduous trudging in the mountains and in ever-thicker jungles, he finally reached Malaysia, he was very skinny and looked rather like a Mr Freeze. Yet he drew considerable attention from the locals, who had never seen a snow-boy, let alone snow. Those people were so kind to him that they brought him crushed ice in large pails, which he gulped in large quantities and rubbed on his limbs. In every village there always was a crowd of noisy kids who fought together to get hold of a large fan or a large palm leaf to cool him down.

It took several days until the newspapers started hearing from him, by word of mouth. Next moment, all he knew was that they all wanted to interview him. But he would plough on, unheeding their appeal for a few words – his mind was set and time was of the essence. One day, a pretty journalist and a cameraman tagged along with him – for he always refused to stop – and asked him if he could answer some questions. He almost stopped when he saw the journalist's eyes: never in his life had he seen such light blue eyes – which reminded him of something, though he couldn't recall what. Her face was a pretty light brown, intensifying what he thought was a gaze that bore right through him. But he carried on. For a couple of strides he was in two minds; eventually he nodded to her. She clicked her fingers at the cameraman who immediately set the camera to his eye. In the meantime she faced him, walking backwards. He could do nothing but to slow down.

“Where are you from, Mr. Snow-boy?” she asked. He thought she was very professional, despite her relative young appearance.
“I am from a very cold village up North, near the Arctic Circle.”
“This is very interesting, Mister. What is the purpose of your visit in Malaysia?”
“The purpose of my visit is my own business...but hey! Is this going on TV?” He was having an idea.
“Yes, Mr. Snow-boy. Everybody in the country wants to learn more from you. You have become a star.”
“So, if you could I would like you to show this in my country, because I couldn't write to my parents and they must think I died or something. Can you do that?” The look in the journalist's eyes changed suddenly.
“Of course I'll do that. When did you last see your parents?” Her voice had changed.
“I began my journey on the first day of snow.”
“But that was months ago! And you didn't give any news to your parents?” She put the microphone very near his face, as if she had just reminded herself she was a journalist and that she was on duty.
“Hey! If there were mailboxes in the Mongolian plateaus and in the Chinese mountains, I'm sorry I missed them.”
“I just put myself in the shoes of your relatives and friends. They must miss you a lot.”
“I know. My apologies. I'm sorry I vented my anger at you. I've come a long way and it's very hot in your country.”
“No problem Mr. Snow-boy, I understand. This journey must surely have left you in a pretty bad shape. Since you don't want to tell us what is the purpose of your coming to Malaysia, please tell us how you heard about our country, you living so far away from it?”
“Isn't this the same question?...Well...I suppose there's no harm in telling. I first heard about Malaysia through an old book, a travel-log to be precise. It was written by an explorer who gives ample descriptions of the fauna and flora, of the customs of the people, of its history and of the geography. I fell in love with your country thanks to this book, and I decided to see it with my own eyes – Hey, watch out!”

Walking backwards, holding the microphone near enough and being so absorbed listening to his story, she wasn't paying any attention to the road. A large pothole was running almost the breadth of the dirt track. He caught her hand as she fell backwards.

***

He couldn't forget her look, even after a couple of days, nor the warmth of her hand. She had thanked him in a whisper, panting for her breath, and had looked straight at him. They had parted without any another word. Nevertheless, he was hoping she was keeping her promise. Of course, he missed his mum and dad, and his teacher, and everybody in the village, and even though his physical condition worsened because the weather worsened, he couldn't think of going home to them. He had an island to rediscover. With luck, they would learn news about him through her, and they would no longer worry.

Day after day he was dripping his way in the dust, yet he had to wear plastic gloves not to spoil the travel-log. He was reading the directions from it, directions which he had underlined during his numerous readings, which he had even annotated.

It was becoming more and more difficult to see clearly, as drops would blur his vision. He finally reached the sea, at the tip of a peninsula called Kampung Punggai. A small village composed of about two dozens small houses hung there, facing the South China Sea. The houses were arrayed in clusters of two to four houses. He went to the one closest to the shore, for there were boats lying idly on their sides, ready to spear the seas. There, he saw a man lying in a hammock suspended between two coconut trees. One of his white legs was dangling and was setting the hammock rocking with a slight upward motion of the toes. He couldn't see the man, but he recognised the walking stick well enough. His heat raced.

“Fadzli, come over here, lucky bugger.” He beckoned someone behind him with a lazy hand. A young man in his early twenties, who had been sitting on his heels at the threshold to one of the shacks near the trees, sprang up and jogged to the hand. The old man held out three blue notes. “It appears that you have won. Don't get drunk with those.” He sat up suddenly. “My, looking at you, I think I have lost by a very slight margin. But you made it anyway. You surely are persistent.
“So are you.”
“Why, you still have some strength and some nerve in you. I don't know where you find those, perhaps congealed in that cold heart of yours. Anyway, you have got temperament and that's good, because the island is an entire day's sail from here and the temperature will certainly raise your temperament, or vice versa. I suppose you still want to go there, whatever happens?” He didn't like his smile, nor the way he was grimacing at him.

“I suppose you don't want to help me get there, by any chance, seeing you have discovered it?” He was gazing at him, boring straight into his eyeballs, trying to out-stare him.

“You suppose rightly. But I won't try to dissuade you now that you are here. As you like it, son.” The old man was grinning like a Cheshire cat, and for the first time in his life, the snow-boy felt cold inside him: he could almost have shivered. But he collected his wits and said:

“Then I suppose there's only one thing left for me to do.” He turned to the young native who had stayed, completely awed by his appearance. He was still holding the three notes in his hand. “Do you know that island on that map, right here? I want to go there.”
He shook his head. Then he turned to the old man and asked: “Fren, what island?”
“It's Pulau Kematian,” he replied, a wry smile across his face.
Had his skin not been so dark, he would have seen the young Fadzli blemish. He turned a desperate look at him: “Don't go, little man! You die. Don't go!” He said in broken English, waving his hands.
“I don't know what you have told him, but now you have scared him senseless. Anyway. Can I have a glass of ice, please? Minta ais segelas?” The native nodded sharply several times and said “can can” and left.

“Not bad, for an orang putih who has just arrived. So, how will you go there? I can see you thinning, and it's quite something I tell you.”
“Even if I have to borrow a boat, I'll go there. I have sailed before.”
“But never on your own, am I right? You'll never make it.”
“Why do you insist so much? I don't understand.”
“I don't your parents to mourn their snow-son.”
“Funny one, first timer really. I don't get it: why have you written this book if you didn't want anyone to find the island? Eh, why don't you answer me?”
“The rest is silence, my young man. Go find that island if you so burn with the desire, but don't expect to find Heaven, you are sailing to your death. I wash my hands of you.” He gripped his walking stick and limped away from the shore.

In the meantime a small crowd had gathered and has brought pails of ice. They looked expectant. They waited until the old man was out of sight. He was brought inside a small, wooden house. There they poured the ice into a large barrel and motioned him into it. He liked the precise movements of the women's hands, their intent eyes, the way they looked after him. He let out a sharp cry. The feeling of cold, after the intense heat, was almost painful. Tears were rolling in his eyes. Under other circumstances he would have smiled at his having to re-adapt to cold. It felt gradually better and better. He fell into a dreamless slumber.

***

When he opened his eyes, a face was staring at him. He recognised the native who had won the bet.

“You good?” His eyes were darker than his skin, pitch black.
“I feel better, terima kasih.”
“You want to go island?”
“Yes, more than ever. Will you help me?” He tried to hide his anxiety.
“I not going, but I give you sampan. Sampan is boat.
“Terima Kasih, Fadzli. I'll go now, I can't wait.”
“OK. Come.”

He followed him outside. He could tell the sun would set in a short while, but it was still stifling hot, the sand sizzling from the day's heat. The white man was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is the old man?”
“Old man very cross. He go to drink. Here.”

The boat was made of spare planks loosely fitted together, but still it was better than nothing. A mast was fitted not quite in the middle, as if it had been placed there by accident, or by an absolute and clumsy necessity. The sail was torn and mended in more than a few places.
“Here.” Fadzli presented him with two oars, pails of ice and what smelt like spicy food carefully folded into banana leaves. He didn't know what to say, even 'thank you' seemed meaningless in the face of such disinterested generosity.

“Well, thank you so very much, you shouldn't have. I don't know what to say.”
“Selamat Jalan, anak salji.” He shook his hand vigorously. When they parted, he left a small compass into his hand. He looked up at the man who was smiling. He felt the sudden urge to hug him, which he did. He could feel the man shiver at his contact. He even saw goosebumps riddling his shoulders, but he was hugged in return.
“You cool. Come back fast.”

With his help, he put everything at the bottom of the boat. Then an idea shot across his mind. He turned towards Fadzli:
“Hey, have you bet with the old man again?”
He beamed at him, revealing two wide rows of white teeth. “Come back, fren.”

The evening grew gradually cooler, and a slight wind which ruffled the sail also helped him keep fresh. But he was dripping, already, as he was rowing quite steadily, the compass put right in front of him on a plank. The wind was not strong enough to fill the sail. After about two hours of intense rowing, the reality started to sink in. Here he was in the middle of the sea, the land behind him drawing a small ridge on the horizon, with a little food, pails of melting ice, a compass and a map, with about an hour of daylight left, probably less, ahead of him. He felt a sudden pressure in his chest, and a knot blocked his throat. It was quiet, apart from the regular plonk of the waves lapping the side of the boat. He pulled the oars in.

Almost all of the ice had melted, but the water was still quite cold. He decided to use it all, because it would evaporate by next morning. So he bathed his limbs and gulped the rest. In one last effort, he pulled the heavy anchor overboard. The definite splash made him confident he would stay put, and therefore not drift off course. But the sound also made him nostalgic. He thought of his parents, of the nice blue-eyed girl who had interviewed him. He thought it was best to sleep now, which he did the moment he closed his eyelids. This time he dreamt.

He dreamt of his parents waving at him from the shore of Kampung Punggai, tears in their eyes. He was on a boat, but a different one from the one into which he knew he was sleeping; someone was pulling at an oar next to him: it was the blue-eyed girl, the journalist. She was smiling at him, telling him things he had never heard before. He couldn't help smiling in his turn. He felt a hand grip his shoulder amicably. He turned around and his eyes met the old man's. There was Fadzli as well. Both were smiling and their smile drew wrinkles at the corner of their eyes. Then he saw it, right in front of him, looming on the horizon. A dark mass of clouds. Thunder was brewing. The air suddenly became dense and damp. He glanced at the shore: they had been so close and now they were drifting away. The storm was visibly getting closer. In a few seconds, they were drenched to the bones. They were rowing as hard as they could, but they lost sight of the shore, and thunderbolts were clapping very close to them. He could feel the grip of the old man's hand loosen and then he could no longer feel it. He knew that he was gone. He glanced very quickly over his shoulder and saw Fadzli disappear in the rain. Soon, too, the girl disappears and he was left alone in the swaying boat. He was holding onto the edge of the boat. Every wave could have the cockleshell capsize but so far none didn't. Until the trough deepened so much he knew no common wave was in the making. The enormous surge covered the sky above him, one sinister mass meant to engulf entire cities. Darkness came.

He woke up lying at the bottom of the sampan. He sat up. His limbs were aching all over. The boat was half-sunk. The mast was lying askew; the sail was dipping into the water. Evidently a bolt of lightning had cleft it right in the middle. The cord of the anchor had snapped clean on the rim of the boat. His dream had been quite close to the reality. In any other circumstances he would have panicked. But what he saw took his breath away. In the distance, unmistakeably, lied a familiar sight, even though he had long observed it from closer. The island was there, he knew it.

He was weak, and tired, but the sight of the island invigorated him. He bailed out the water with one of the remaining pails and started rowing. But the mast and the dipping sail were slowing him down. He let go of the oars, and stood up. There was only one thing left for him to do. He estimated the island to be less than a mile away.

He took a deep inspiration, and dived.

The contact of the cold water refreshed him. The excitement was strong enough to renew his energy, but he was fighting against it to preserve his strength. It was no mean distance. But he was making good progress. The island was closer at hand. He started feeling the counter-current when he least expected it. In a few minutes he was exhausted. So tired. A feeling of numbness overwhelmed him. Closer to the island the water was becoming tepid, warm at times. He was starting to melt. If only he had enough energy to pull one last effort. He felt a stitch in his right side. He was panting and he couldn't help choking on seawater. All of a sudden he heard shouting. Was he still dreaming? Was his exhausted mind playing tricks on him? He turned around at great pains and saw a sail, then a boat, and someone standing at the prow and waving at him. Was it a mane of black hair flowing in the breeze? He thought he saw the old man too, but this was impossible, he was still drinking his life away, his soul gnawed by regrets. The island was so close yet so far and a few strokes would put him on the shore, but he wasn't sure he could make it.

***

“Go faster for goodness' sake! Please Fadzli, row faster! And you, old man, move that sail closer to the wind.”
“Hey, watch your mouth, you won't teach me anything about sailing,” – even though she was right, he thought. He, too, had glimpsed him struggling less than a hundred yards from the shore.
“Look, he's still swimming!” The girl was frantic.
“Don't rock the boat! Come on, pass me that oar.” The old man was exhilarated. “Courage my friend! I have seen him, we'll be able to give the lad a hand. Quick!”

But Fadzli was the quickest to sense something was wrong.
“No no no. Look!” They could see the white head bobbing once, twice, then disappear under a sea.
In one motion the old man stood up, yelled “No!” and dived. He reappeared meters away and started crawling.

The girl took the oar and they rowed where they had seen the snow-boy disappear. The old man had already dived a few times.

“I can't find him, he shouldn't be too far. I can't find him. Fadzli, help me.” The young man didn't hesitate for one second and dived.

The girl was on the lookout, and more than once cursed the tempest first for slowing them down and then for stirring the bottom of the sea. Nothing could be seen from the surface. Seconds stretched like hours, she couldn't stand it. They had to find him, he couldn't have gone this deep or drifted that much. They had crossed in record time according to the old man, they had to be on time to save him.

Suddenly the two men reappeared They shook their heads at one another then looked at her. She wasn't looking at them, instead she was slowly pointing a finger to the shore, utterly bemused. Her mouth was agape. The two men turned around and saw a white man standing on the shore.
“Can this be him, Fadzli? My eyesight is not so good.” asked the old man.
“Him no anak salji.” said he, rubbing his eyes.
“Let's go back into the boat and elucidate this,” said the old man.

The girl was now sitting at the prow. She couldn't take her eyes off the white apparition standing on the beach. It only took a few pulls at the oars to send the boat screeching on the wet sand. All three jumped on the shore.

From up close they could make out a young man. He was watching the jungle intently. When they came close to him, the girl asked:
“Snow-boy? Is that you?”
He only turned his head. He had fine features and long blond hair. A large smile lit his face. “I told you I would find the island.”

***

The fire was roaring. Fadzli was still busy gutting out the fish they had caught. The boy and the girl were whispering together, their heads very close. He was standing, very erect, and looking at the boy. What had happened back there, in the sea? He had dived in a snow-boy, he reached he shore a young man. He had seen many strange things in this world, but none so amazing. Anyway. The sun was almost touching the horizon. They would have to spend the night here and set out at dawn. They would reach the compound before nightfall.
He sat near Fadzli. From time to time he would dart a quick glance at the young man. Finally, he asked the old man:
“He a witch-man?”
“No, my Malaysian friend. I just think this young fellow has the strongest willpower I have ever seen in any man. Come, let's fry these fish.”

They had made the most of the remaining hours of daylight to gather as much food and firewood as they could. They had collected mangoes, coconuts, papayas. And fish. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. They were all eating heartily around the fire, and Fadzli tried to crack a few jokes in his broken English.
The old man cleared his throat, but it sounded more like chocking.
“Eh? Bone, boss?” Fadzli was looking at him, his hand full of fish halfway to his mouth.

“No. No such thing, don't worry. Ahem, young man, I think I owe you an explanation.”
Both he and the girl stared up from their banana leaves. The young man's eyes were glittering, small reflections of the flames were dancing in his dark pupils.

“My name's Lawrence, and I have started travelling this world at around the same age as you have. I have walked on every continent under the sun, lived through many dangers and seen and done many great things few people can boast of. When I reached these parts, and especially this island, I was so fascinated I decided to stay here and began writing a travel-log. Originally, I wrote it just to help me remember of the names and directions, but soon I realised it would be dangerous to keep it with me. I remembered crossing a village, a long time ago, lost in the tundra near the Arctic circle. I thought the book would be secure there. I arrived late one night, after a long stretch in a sleigh which had started in Siberia. I didn't recognise the place, even though I was quite sure of its location. I originally wanted to bury it but the ground was too cold. So I found and then broke into the library, put the book where I thought no one would dare take it and went out in the boreal night. I gave my sled dog a few hours' rest, sitting there in the snow, watching the borealis illumine the starry skies...Finally, I left.

“But my task was far from being over yet. I had to come back to Malaysia in order to dissuade the few people who knew about the island to go there. They were all intent on going so as to find the “Treasure more precious than gold itself”, as I came to call it. How did they come to learn about it, you may wonder? I was young at the time, and what I had done was reckless. No one knew about this island, no one had dared venture there because of the pirates and the frequent storms. I wanted those people to admire me. And to me I had found a Treasure. I thought this was the most beautiful and the most precious thing I had ever come across in this world. But people failed to take this just as it was: a poetic image. The whole island was untouched, unspoilt. Wild and preserved from any human harm. The entire island was the Treasure. A diamond set in an azure sea. But people just listen to the words that matter most to their petty minds, and dismiss the rest. I had left the island because I didn't want to spoil it, and because it was dangerous to stay there. There's is written 'meal' across your forehead for some creatures there. But I soon discovered that I had endangered it by my irresponsible behaviour.

“I was foolish enough to talk, and people blabbed. Soon, by word of mouth the news spread like a summer fire in the bush, and expeditions were set up by wealthy patrons. I had to protect the island. So I did what anybody would have done in my place, I sabotaged every ship, spread the wildest rumours about wondrous beasts and carnivorous plants and cannibals inhabiting the jungle. I wasn't far from the truth, except that no human being lived there, so it wasn't hard to believe me. But some people are more stubborn than others. And more greedy. I eventually went to a graveyard, dug up a rucksack of bones, sailed to the island and scattered them all about the beach, just in case they reached it.

“You see, I had never been precise about the location of the island, but they were bound to spot it, just like I did. When I came back from the island, after having dispersed the bones, I pretended I had seen sailors being eaten alive by a whole tribe of cannibals, right on the beach. I looked panicked and haggard. One of the richest men in Malaysia, who hd come all the way down from the Capital city paid me a whole lot of money to tell one of his sailors the location of the island. I reluctantly gave it to him, and him only. It was a bold move, as I wanted them to find the island, but to be so scared of going that they would leave it alone. It turned out that only a small party of sailors went there...and never came back. It settled everything. The name of 'Death Island' took hold, never to be removed, or contested...I have kept watch ever since, and I think it should be kept this way. When we get back tomorrow, we'll just say we rescued you after the storm, that you were holding onto some flotsam for dear life.”

The young man, just as the girl and Fadzli, was listening quietly. His eyes wandered to the fire, the old man and the dark, aqueous expanse behind him. When the old man's tale came to an end, he said:
“Thank you, Mr. Lawrence. For explaining this to me. I agree with you that this island must remain intact. When I decided to make the long journey from my village to this island, it was because of you. Your words conveyed a genuine admiration and respect for Nature, but also a contagious thirst to discover and an unfailing love of the world. You indirectly taught me the importance of these values. Without you I wouldn't be where I am now, and I’m not speaking geographically.

“When my parents got me, immediately they called me Nival. It means 'snowy' in Latin. They were so happy, even though they had to sacrifice a lot because of me. They have lost more than most by having me. For many people I was, and always will be, 'Snow-boy' and nobody else. Just like my parents after my birth, I am different now I have seen the island, and more different inside than outside. It's hard to explain.”

“Nival...I think we understand each other, at long last.” The old man said.
“But I would like to know one thing, Mr. Lawrence.” continued Nival.
“Sure.”
“Why did you come to my help?” He averted his eyes for a second, then look straight at Lawrence.
“It's because of that sweet, stubborn girl sitting next to you. She threatened to investigate on my past and promised me she would dug up all the dirt she could find about me. She has that sort of look that means “If you don't believe what I'm saying, try me.” He was smiling saying this, but a flicker in his eyes betrayed a lurking fear.
Nival turned towards her. She had wrapped her arms around her knees. She was smiling. “Would you have done it, Asha?”
“Of course I would. I had to find you. Like I told you, I promised your parents. And yeah, you made quite on impression on me the time we met. I wanted to know more about you and, you know, it's not every day someone like me meets someone like you. We sort of look alike, inside.”

They talked for quite some time, laughing at times, serious at others, like old friends do when they are under a starry sky and sharing a meal by the fireside. Then they set up watches to keep the fire going until the next morning. When the sun rose on the other side of the island, the island looked different, less wild. They cut open juicy papayas and mangoes for their breakfast, and everyone was in a good mood. Even the old man was smiling. He was restless. He kept glancing at the jungle, standing up on moment and sitting on his heels the next.

Then Nival spoke quietly: “Lawrence, now that we are here, why don't we explore the island a little? No one is in a hurry. What do you think? Perhaps there is a treasure hidden somewhere.” He stood up and started walking. He was soon followed by the girl who caught his hand in hers, and by Lawrence and Fadzli.

***

When they reached Kampung Punggai a week later, they were greeted by the entire village. Standing on the shore were Nival's parents, waving and crying. Just like in his dream. And Asha was rowing by his side. When he turned around to meet the eyes of Lawrence and Fadzli's smile, he knew he wouldn't see any dark clouds hanging low on the horizon. Instead, they would reach the shore and he would run and embrace his parents who would have no doubt whatsoever that he was their son.

They would also have many a wondrous tale to tell and amid the happiness and the cheering, two young people would sometimes eye each other and think that yes, there were still many an island left to discover.