The End of a World E-Book

Claude Anet

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The story of the last days of the People of the Bear, at the end of the Reindeer Age, when the reindeer that had formed the center of their lives for uncountable generations failed to return, and the round-heads with their packs of tame dogs appeared, and they were unable to stop them from settling around them. The story of Nô, whose beautiful sister Mah runs off with the son of a trader while he undergoes his initiation into manhood. Strong and fleet, he is instrumental in the capture of the totem cave bear whose sacrifice they hope will rejuvenate the tribe. But the effort fails... it was indeed, the end of a world... “about 12,000 years ago, in the place which is now known as the Eyzies de Tayac, on the banks of the Vézère, a few miles from where it flows into the Dordogne...” In this romance the author of Ariane records the last cycle in the history of a community of the Crô-Magnon period. Its members lived simply, earned a livelihood by hunting, and worshipped the spirits of the animals they had killed for food, clothing, and ornaments, which animals, they thought, lived again in the pictorial representations of them made by the slayers. In the story of Nô, hunter and artist, are reflected the development and the downfall of the whole tribe. After a life of submission to all the conventions and standards of his race, he is killed in an effort to show his people that their own culture has been outstripped, and that salvation is to be found only in learning from the strangers who have invaded them from the North.

Leseprobe

Claude Anet

THE END OF A WORLD

Translated from the French by Jeffery E. Jeffery

Copyright

First published in 1925

Copyright © 2018 Classica Libris

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Amid a jumbled mass of hills running back between shallow valleys to the horizon, the curves of a deep depression in the ground were to be distinguished. In some places these curves were gradual; in others they were looped back upon themselves, to form a kind of circus surrounded by cliffs. The depression denoted the bed of a river, which, in spite of the caprices of its course, flowed more or less regularly from north to south. Several little valleys, with streams in them, debouched on to one bank of the river or the other. Their sides rose up, here in gentle slopes, there, in contrast, steeply, in rocky walls, worn away and polished by the glacial waters of thousands of centuries, and hollowed out into wide shelters under the overhanging layers.

Bushes clung between the stones. A forest, with pines and birches in abundance, covered most of the landscape, but gave way to marshes in the low-lying parts and to prairie-land higher up. In the forest there were as many fallen trees as upright ones. Near the swamps the trunks of some were rotting and those of others were being gradually engulfed. A few oaks, with one foot still in the ground, as it were, preserved some foliage at their tops. Half-dead pines and maple-trees were leaning against their healthy brethren in the positions in which they had fallen when struck down by lightning, by storm, or simply by old age.

Mosses and grey lichen, impregnated with damp, covered the ground, on which rock often cropped out. A few sparse tufts of grass appeared in places. There were patches of snow still clinging to the northward sides of the hills.

The sun was sinking in a pale sky. It was cold and would freeze as soon as night came. Yet there was just enough balm in the air to make one feel that winter was nearing its end and that the buds would soon be swelling on the slender tips of the branches.

No human being was visible in all this landscape. It belonged, apparently, to the wind—which was from the west—and to the animals, who showed themselves every now and then. A musk-rat made a spring and disappeared. A silver-fox slipped along the edge of a wood, without hurrying, as though nothing interested him and as though there was no one to threaten him. A fishing-eagle was wheeling in great circles above the river. An owl hooted from the top of a larch and then, as though ashamed of having done so while it was still daylight, stopped abruptly. As far as the eye could reach, there was no sign of a field, or a road, or a steeple. There were not even any ruins to be seen. The country-side appeared to be just as it was when it had issued from the casual hands of nature and before man had set his mark upon it.

But as the horizontal rays of the sun touched the hill-tops, a bluish mist mingled with the golden mists of the sunset. It climbed the height of one of the cliffs by the river, was broken up amongst the bushes, and then, reaching the top of the escarpment, moved away in little clouds which were toyed with by the wind.

Rather farther away a thin column of smoke quivered in the blue before it was dispersed by the breeze.

Man was present, hidden, in this far-stretching country-side.

Chapter 2

When dusk came, a human form detached itself from the trunk of a larch-tree on the edge of a ravine. It was as though this form belonged to the tree itself, and the trunk had suddenly separated into two parts. The form advanced upwind with stealthy steps, and then bent down to examine the faint tracks made by some animal. The footprints led to a small hole, near which the hunter lay down. He was a beardless young man, wearing a short jacket of reindeer hide over his shoulders and chest, breeches of the same material, reaching to his calves, and sandals of plaited leather on his feet. The hide, pliant and well worked, with its hairy side turned inwards, was of subdued shades, passing from grey to beige and from beige to pale pink, like the lichens on which Nô, son of Timaki, of the tribe of the Bear, had just lain down. But for the darker tone of his chestnut hair he would have been indistinguishable, in the fading light, from the uneven ground on which he was lying motionless, face downwards and resting on his elbows. He had a small head, with regular features, a thin nose, and clear, deep-sunk eyes. His dull complexion was tanned by exposure to sun and wind. He remained in this position, as still as a stone, for a long time. The stars—the same stars which shine above our heads today—came out, first one by one and then by thousands in the sky. The air became icy, but Nô did not seem to notice it. Was he asleep? A mouse, deceived by his stillness, ran across him and stopped for a second to play with a tuft of moss. A moment or two afterwards Nô heard a slight noise in the ground. He held his breath. A muzzle peeped out. Reassured by the silence, the whole head appeared, and a pair of keen little eyes searched the darkness. But they had barely time to search it for more than a second, for instantly Nô’s right hand, which grasped a sharp flint, came down on the pointed head, and with a sharp, but carefully restrained blow, fractured the creature’s skull, whilst at the same time his left hand, with a movement no less swift, checked its fall and prevented it from dropping back into its hole at the moment of death.

He sprang lightly up and smiled with pleasure as he examined his prey. It was a superb sable, carrying its winter coat of thick, soft fur and a long, flexible tail, as bushy as though it were still alive. He gently caressed the head and then held the dead beast tenderly against his cheek.

“It was not I who took your life, little one,” he said. “It was the stone. And that was necessary, you understand. But see how I treat you! And tell your friends about it, so that they will not run away from me.”

He was nursing the beast in his arms as though it were an angry child whom he wanted to sooth.

Then he strode away towards the bottom of the valley. For an instant his tall silhouette stood out on the hill-top against a star-strewn sky. It was that of a young man of more than six feet, with broad shoulders, a slim figure, and long legs. His gait was easy and collected, like that of an animal. On reaching a cross valley which led to the river, he stopped. Facing him was a cliff, coming down as a mass of rocks to a stream which formed the boundary of the sacred ground where nobody dared penetrate except on religious feast-days. Nô could have followed the left bank of this stream, but he was still young—just eighteen—and his mind was filled with mysterious dread. How was he to know—child that he still was—how to deal with the invisible powers which prowl around? He had not yet been led as one of a procession to the depths of the grotto which had its opening in the rocks nearby. He was not yet “initiated.” The evil spirits which haunted the country alarmed him more than did the savage beasts which he ventured to encounter. Wherefore, springing from stone to stone and taking care to avoid certain bushes which were haunted, he ran along the side of the slope.

He came out at last into the valley, went five hundred yards or so up the river, reached a small boat tied to a tree, crossed over with a few strokes of his paddle, and landed under a shelter which faced east. Climbing up amongst the stones, he set foot on a wide terrace.

It was darker up there under the overhanging rocks. At a little distance from each other six fires were burning slowly, and in the flickering light of the flames or embers a hut, with walls painted in vertical stripes of vivid colours, could be seen behind each of them. The rest was lost in darkness. Everything was peaceful. Occasionally the sounds of a child’s cry or the sonorous snore of some sleeper could be heard. This particular shelter contained six families, and the fact that there was no one on guard over it testified to the security in which the People of the River had lived for centuries. Hyenas would come boldly up to man’s habitations, but the carefully tended fires served to ward them off, though the noise of their strong jaws cracking the bones which had been thrown out of the shelters during the day was evidence of their nocturnal visits.

Without delay Nô slipped into one of the central huts. Though he made very little noise, a man lying near the entrance raised himself and asked in a low voice: “What’s the news?”

“None,” answered Nô. “But I have been a long way and I have questioned everyone I met. People are uneasy all along the river.”

In a different tone he added: “I’ve killed this,” and brought the sable out of his jacket to show to his father.

The latter examined it and then said: “It’s fine.”

Then he threw it to the back of the hut, spread himself out, and went to sleep again.

But Nô, crouching near the fire, pulled a bit of meat from under a hot stone and began to eat it. When he had finished, he walked a few steps to a stream which flowed between two huts and lay flat while he quenched his thirst in great gulps. Then he scattered water on his face and hands. For a moment he stood looking at the crescent moon, which seemed as if resting on the summit of the hill he had just left. He heard the thousand whispers of the night—and every one of them had a meaning for him. Far away a great horn-owl was hunting. Some animal, going down to the river, brushed against the branches of a shrub a hundred paces upstream. “A boar,” muttered Nô.

He went back into the hut, slipped into a fur-lined sack by his father’s side, and was asleep almost at once.

It was already beginning to grow light in the east and there was a hard frost. Nô woke with a start and exclaimed: “I’ve found them during the night. I’ve found them! I ran on their tracks till I was out of breath.”

He was still panting.

“They were moving upstream towards the source of the river in this direction,” he went on, pointing with his arm towards the north-east.

“I’ll tell the Chief, presently,” answered Timaki, who was busy making up the fire.

At the sound of their voices two women lying at the far end of the hut stood up and came across to Nô. One of them was a full-bosomed matron, with a wrinkled face and kindly eyes. Bahili approached her son and looked at him admiringly. In the tribe of the Bear, which was renowned for its beauty, where would one find a young man who was better built, stronger, or more supple? His mother had indeed cause to be proud of him. But already her heart shrank at the thought that they were now enjoying their last few months together, for with the summer would come the “initiation,” which would separate them.

Behind her was her daughter, stretching herself, her arms outspread. She was three years younger than Nô, slim as a reed, but well-formed nevertheless, with gently curving hips. Her little head, with its delicate features, was poised on a long, graceful neck. She was called Mah and would take part in the nuptial games in the following year. She yawned, showing a row of healthy teeth, as white as the narcissus in the meadow, and her yawn ended in a smile that was meant for her brother. For so long as the customs of the tribe allowed—and they were strict in the matter—she sought Nô’s company and followed him when he sauntered round the shelters. They were, indeed, very like each other—she making good in charm what he had in strength—in their effortless gait, astonishing even to this hunting people, which excelled in walking and running. Sometimes, towards the end of the afternoon, when Nô was at leisure and the weather was suitable, they would take their spears and go down to the river. They would return at dusk, their eyes sparkling with joy, carrying at arm’s length a catch of beautiful fish, with scales like mother of pearl. The women whom they met would look at Nô and sigh. But the men, seeing Mah pass, would say to each other: “It will be a lucky man who carries her off and takes her as his wife.”

Timaki and some of the inhabitants of the shelter, crouching at the edge of the terrace, were watching the pale sun climbing a sky that was still wintry. Nô joined them, for the hut had to be left so that his mother and sister could dress in peace. First of all, Bahili roused a six-year-old child and packed him off to play round the fires with other children of the same age. These three were the only children left to her. Babies died in large numbers and she was considered lucky to have kept three out of seven. The women proceeded to remove their clothes and rub themselves all over with fine grass which had been well steeped in aromatic herbs. Bahili wore her hair held up with pins of bone. Mah generally had hers loose over her shoulders, though sometimes she would plait it.

When Mah came out of the hut, she was dressed like her brother, except that her jacket, which was fuller than his, was trimmed round the neck with blue-fox fur. Neat little bone pins passed through a leather edging and held the garment close to her girlish figure. She came and sat down beside her mother, to whom Nô had already handed the sable brought in the night before.

Nô joined them.

“When the merchants come this summer,” he said, “we will certainly get two necklaces in exchange for our skins. I shall wear one of them on the day when I enter the Place Which One Does Not Name. And the other will be for you, Mah.”

Mah clapped her hands joyfully and began to skin the animal. For this purpose she had a selection of sharp flint instruments. Nô, eating a bit of fish, watched her working. Having killed the sable, he had carried out the man’s share of the work. It was for the women to prepare the skin—work in which Bahili and Mah excelled. They took immense pains to keep the pelts pliant, and, thanks to their skill—which everyone envied—none of the natural lustre was lost.

At this time in the morning the shelter, upon which the beams of the rising sun were shining, was full of animation. The terrace, a hundred and fifty yards long and covered by a single slab of rock, was big enough to take the six dwellings, all of similar design, which had been built on it. Long strips of horse or reindeer skin, stretched vertically on stakes, formed the walls and were then continued and joined at the ridge of the hut, of which the base was a rectangle of about twelve feet by eight. The arrangement of these strips, an alternation of black, beige, and red, indicated that the People of the River knew how to achieve harmonious colour effects. The back of the hut was used as a storing-place for weapons and various tools and for furs and edibles. The inhabitants occupied the front part: the parents in the middle and the sons and daughters on either side of them—daughters behind the mother, and sons behind the father. There was only one opening, in front of which was the hearth, used both for warming the dwelling and for cooking. By its means slices of meat were grilled on hot stones; and in the same way mushrooms were cooked and berries and various herbs placed on a bed of lichen soaked in grease. Fish were hung from the ridge-poles to cure over the fire, and afterwards were piled away at the back of the hut to form reserve supplies for the difficult days of winter. Edible roots were buried under the warm cinders.

On the walls of the shelter bold drawings of animals were to be seen here and there. These were picked out in colour and an effect of relief was given to them by an extraordinary ingenuity in making use of the hollows and protuberances of the living rock. Sometimes a ring was carved out of the stone itself and in that case an offering suitable to the animal represented was hung on it. In front of a bison, for instance, there was a tuft of grass and there were worms not far from the gaping mouth of a salmon.

A stream issued from a cave and flowed at the foot of the rock. The inhabitants had cunningly divided this stream into five little rivulets and made one run along the side of each hut, where it filled a basin hollowed out of the earth.

The ground on the terrace was strewn with a mixture of bones and cinders to a depth of about six inches. Children, raising clouds of dust, were rummaging about right and left in search of dry twigs to throw on the fire. The elder ones were going off to the woods to collect pine-cones. Others were breaking off branches and piling them along the wall. And all this activity had its due accompaniment of jostling, squabbling, shouting, and occasional cuffs from impatient mothers. But there were also pranks, laughter, and caresses. Nevertheless the children, generally speaking, had an air of seriousness about them which showed that they were aware of the service which they were rendering to the community.

The women and girls were busy preparing skins and cutting them out to make them into clothing. For sewing they used dried vegetable fibre or sometimes thin sinews of animals which had been killed for food; and they stitched with little needles made of very fine bone. Every time they wanted to pierce the tough skin, they had to use a sharp-pointed stone, so the work progressed rather slowly. But time meant nothing and what could not be finished one day was put off until the next. The very idea of hurrying would have seemed ridiculous to such matrons as these.

Others were preparing meat and herbs for their meal. And others, again, were grinding large quantities of red and black pigments in hollow stones. These pigments were for use either for the walls of the huts or for the drawings of animals on the sides of the shelters and in the sacred grottoes or for painting faces and bodies on the many occasions when the members of the tribe assembled for some ceremony or other.

Whilst the women and girls were working, the men remained idle on the front of the terrace, or, if it were cold, near the fires. Their sole business was to keep their weapons in good repair. Of these they possessed axes, arrows, and various kinds of spears. They would go and inspect some trap or other in the forest close at hand or talk over tribal affairs with their neighbours. In bad weather they would take their ease thus between two hunting-expeditions in distant country, from which they would return worn out, but with enough game to feed their families for several days.

Chapter 3

From time immemorial the tribe had lived in this particular loop of the valley, using its numerous shelters, hollowed out of the living rock by nature, as an assured protection against cold, wind, snow, and rain.

The most ancient traditions, handed down from age to age, with no one daring to alter a word of them, made vague mention of a previous existence in a far-off country, “where the sun was burning hot.” Then came a time when, owing to great changes and cold, the tribe had had to move south “across desolate countries, treeless and always frozen, where one was sometimes reduced—unforgettable shame! —to eating rats in default of other food.” Lashed by a north wind which gave no respite, the tribe had fled, with corpses left behind to mark its track. Animals made the journey alongside the human beings. A herd of mammoths, shaky on their limbs and almost tame, so weakened by hunger were they, lumbered along with all the speed their heavy feet could muster towards the pasture they craved for in a more favourable climate. In the dark nights the roar of a lion hunting could be heard. The terrified reindeer were unapproachable and whole herds of bison were flying in panic. The days when their dumpy forms were seen looming up in the distance were the only lucky ones, for then the hunters would go out in pursuit of them and come back bending double under the weight of quarters of meat. It was impossible to settle anywhere. A halt might be made one year in a milder district, but the pitiless north wind would come to drive the tribe on. A grey sky and heavy clouds extended from one horizon to the other. Icy rains poured down on the earth even in summer; and in the autumn came the snow. Those animals which lived on grass and plants died in thousands, when once the winter, which lasted six months, settled in.

But at last the decimated tribe had arrived in this pleasant valley. And what was left of it? The four sons and the four daughters of the great Ancestor who, though he possessed the strength and courage of the bear, had only been able to save his own family. A bear he had become after his death—he having chosen to be reborn as the noblest of all the animals. And in that form he had never ceased to protect those who were descended from him and recognized each other as blood brothers of his race. Never was there a community more perfect or more deeply felt than this one. Yet there was no necessity to define it in words or to maintain it by laws. He Whom One Did Not Name, so greatly was he revered, so important was it not to irritate him by ill-chosen words, had not entirely disappeared—for was there ever a real end and was not all that was essential in man destined to exist for ever? The Father, then, would continue to watch over his cherished sons. Certain ones amongst them, more favoured than others, saw him sometimes, for he showed himself to those privileged mortals who could see what remained invisible to others and who could hear what ordinary ears could not catch.

With regard to the life and the disappearance of the Ancestor in this country where his fate had at last been settled after his long fight against the elements, the spoken chronicles remained peculiarly reticent: and though there might be something further to be revealed, it was certainly never mentioned in front of gossiping, incautious women. Only to the men were these mysteries revealed—one by one and by degrees, in solemn circumstances—during the ceremonies reserved for those who underwent the trials of initiation in the very grotto where the Ancestor had lived after quitting the world of human beings. He had left on the rock the mark of his claws, colossus that he was, nearly ten feet from the ground. No place was more sacred and he who set foot in it in any casual way brought instant death upon himself. For two hundred yards round it the ground was forbidden territory. If one mentioned the Ancestor, one had to speak in whispers and in phraseology which was intentionally vague with regard to “a great crime, so horrible that no human ear could bear to hear it revealed” and yet—strange thing! — “a crime which was necessary, nevertheless, and the consequences of which were beneficial to the community.” Was more known? But in any case no one would dare to talk about it for long outside the precincts of the sacred grotto, for the secrets by the possession of which a society endures and prospers must not be revealed in public.