What Became of the White Savage (30 page)

Casting around again, he picked up a handful of lichens and fallen leaves from a hollow in the rocks and piled them up meticulously between three stones. Then, he took two pieces of hard wood and rubbed them one against the other, eventually producing some smoke, which he slid under the lichens. A small flame appeared, then another and his fire took. He blew on it gently, added a few twigs and in no time at all we had a good fire. Then he carefully passed the sharpened tips of his harpoon over the flame to harden them. When they glowed red and were about to catch fire, he doused them in the sea, alternating hot and cold several times. Without showing any hint of pride in his work, he handed me the finished harpoon, as if this was the most natural thing in the world and he was simply doing what was expected. I was speechless. We proceeded to fish with the aid of our respective instruments, I without managing to catch a single fish and he soon filling his basket.

It was the ingenuity he displayed that impressed me most. Imagine, Sir, if you will, what would happen if any one member of our Society were to be left on a beach on the Île de Ré on a winter evening. Would he be able to fashion a harpoon with just what he is able to find on the beach, to light a fire, and catch a fish in under one hour? I trust you will concur that Narcisse’s skills are indeed extraordinary.

You will say that he is merely demonstrating the knowledge he acquired from the savages. Undoubtedly. But this means that we must accept there is a store of knowledge among the savages. What kind of knowledge is it? And what further treasures are contained therein?

That same evening, another notion occurred to me as I awaited my supper, sitting by the fire in the dining area of the island’s only inn. Three villagers were enjoying a drink at the neighbouring table, talking about this and that. One phrase stood out from the background hum of their indistinct chatter and made me sit up and listen.

“…I was walking home the other evening at nightfall and I saw that lunatic from the lighthouse on Conche beach. He was out there, still fishing!”

The ‘lunatic from the lighthouse’; this is how the new member of the crew of the Baleines Lighthouse is known. It was said without malice, and I must confess that I have seen enough of Narcisse’s eccentricities to hear it without taking umbrage. It is an epithet that is less cruel than some that have been printed, you will agree.

And when all is said and done, what if these good people are right? Is Narcisse mad? We know that excessive suffering and unhappiness can tip the most well-tempered minds into madness. Pelletier the sailor undoubtedly had some terrible experiences, and of these he never speaks. Either he has knowingly thrown an impenetrable veil over eighteen years of his life, or has unknowingly forgotten them. Is this a symptom of madness? Is it a particular kind of madness?

I was deeply troubled by this line of thought. If Narcisse is insane, he is in need of a doctor. My good intentions will have deprived him of the care required for his condition. And if he were indeed a madman, he would no longer be a resource for science – and I would have been wasting my time, as would you.

I was loath to accept this judgment and decided to seek a definitive answer to the question. I have no knowledge of such matters and I therefore made some enquiries after my return from the island. I was able to visit some asylums. Heaven preserve you, Sir, from the spectacle of the infernal scenes to which I was witness. My pen refuses to describe what I ascertained – the nature of madness, the many varieties of lunacy – and the methods that are used to treat the deranged, none of which offer any hope of a cure. I also had long discussions with several notable alienists.

I shall not venture to propose a general definition of madness. But from what I have seen and understood, and from my discussions with the best specialists, I gleaned only that Narcisse is not deranged: he is not suffering, nor does he cause others to suffer; he does not refuse to engage with the world around him; he knows who he is. His silence on his years in Australia might, as one eminent specialist suggested, indicate a profound and inexpressible longing. Or perhaps it represents the stigmata of indescribable torments. Or – I venture to express a most singular notion to you – an intermingling of the two. For myself, I know what it means to experience at times that silent longing for the skies of the Pacific, and this does not make me a madman.

I trust that you will see, from these few haphazard notes that I have penned, how much Narcisse has brought to science. And that you will understand the extent to which the Review, in publishing only those two sorry and unworthy pages, has failed in its mission. I shall not forget the affront the Review has made to me, but to be frank, there are greater satisfactions for me elsewhere: in observing Narcisse and reflecting on his condition, I find fulfilment of an entirely different nature.

I remain your faithful servant…

They walked all day again the following day.

This time Narcisse was determined not to suffer as he had the day before. Before they set off, he searched among the ashes, picked out some charred bits of bone and feather and crushed them between his hands to make a blackish paste. He rubbed the paste all over his body and sprinkled himself with sand. If anyone were to see him now, naked and bearded, coated with sweat and dirt, spattered with grease and soot, carrying two water gourds made from animal bladders, what would they think? Would they recognise in this apparition the dashing sailor from the
Saint-Paul
?

The forest quickly gave way to a sort of desert. No more trees, not a single bush, only the odd tuft of dried grass. The red earth lay like a shield over the land, its armour plating pierced here and there by patches of red gravel. Rock formations appeared, white stone streaked with grey. Now, instead of the flat plain, they were walking over undulating terrain, small valleys about ten metres deep, some of them steep-sided, their walls like petrified high seas. At the crest of each hill, there was only the next valley and the next hill to be seen. Unchanging, difficult walking even for someone equipped with a good hat, a sturdy pair of boots and a belly full of good food. For Narcisse, it was gruelling, his feet torn and scratched by the scorched ground. The children too were having difficulty keeping up the pace: they didn’t cry – none of the children ever cried – they dragged their feet or got their mothers to carry them.

On they went, never wavering from their course, due west as far as he could tell. Were they going to cross the whole of Australia like this? And how would they survive in this godforsaken land devoid of any source of food or water?

By late morning, the tribe had stretched out into a long column, the weakest no longer able to keep pace with the men. They stopped at the foot of a huge lone rock, as big as a barn. Its shape was irregular with an overhang on one side. They took refuge in the shade provided by the overhang and shared out a few barely cooked lizards and the last of the water. Thankful for these few mouthfuls, Narcisse worried about what would happen now that the water was all gone. Forty or more people, with children among them, crossing the desert without any access to food or water.

Huddled in the hollow of the rock, they waited for the hottest part of the day to pass before setting out again. The men walked on ahead, soon disappearing from sight, leaving Chief to guide the rest of the tribe. Towards evening, the terrain flattened out, the exhausting march over hills and valleys giving way to easier walking on a plateau where the earth was still of the same red. The plateau ended as abruptly as it had begun, to be replaced by a landscape of sparse scrub with a few scattered trees. They stopped to make camp beneath some trees and soon the old woman was brandishing two full water gourds. She went off again – Narcisse was too exhausted to think about following her – coming back with more, replenishing the water supply. At dusk, Broken Nose arrived carrying a hunk of meat in each hand; it looked as if it had been ripped from the animal, complete with skin and fur. Broken Nose said something to the group in general, put down his prize and started to walk away. The women bustled about lighting the fire and a few of the youths followed in the hunter’s footsteps. Waiakh gestured to Narcisse and convinced him to go along with them too.

They walked for fifteen minutes before coming upon Kermarec and Scarface, who hadn’t waited for reinforcements to arrive and were already busy taking apart the carcass. Narcisse wondered how the three of them had managed to kill an animal bigger than a man without any weapons to speak of – all they had was that stick, some stones and their darts. It was a strange beast: it had a small head, red fur and disproportionately large hind legs with a long, powerful tail. It must have weighed as much as a good-sized calf. The hunters had used stones to cut through the skin around the joints, twisting the limbs and tearing off pieces of meat or still smoking entrails. A smell of blood and death floated above the carcass, attracting clouds of voracious flies.

The beast was quickly cut up and everyone headed back to the camp carrying as much meat as he could. Only the feet, the spine and the ribs were left. It was a welcome bounty after the harsh crossing of this rocky desert. Broken Nose carried the head triumphantly, and swelled with pride when he saw the other groups returning empty-handed from their hunting forays.

Narcisse smelt the aroma of roasting meat before he got back to the camp and his mouth began to water. He knew he would have to wait until after the men had been served, but this time Wanderer would not be able to prevent him from claiming his share. The feast had been announced to the whole tribe.

They spent a full day at the camp, sleeping and devoting every waking moment to eating.

As the next day dawned, they set off and walked again all morning, still heading due west. Towards the middle of the morning, Narcisse saw what looked like a sand dune rising gradually on the horizon. As they approached, it began to take shape into a great rock, as high as a mountain and white as milk.

The rock was shaped exactly like an egg, lying on its side and buried up to the middle. It was smooth and pinky-white in colour, like a shell. There were no cracks or hollows for earth to take hold; no trees, no grass grew on its surface. A single groove snaked from the base to the summit and looked like it might be a path. Rising more than a hundred metres from the sandy red earth that bore it, the immense rock loomed like an alien, its outline unlike any other on the horizon.

For a man from the lowlands of the Vendée, it seemed immensely high. He felt that he was gazing up at a great steep-sided cliff. They had walked in a westerly direction for three days and had covered at least ten leagues. This mountain was marked on no map, nor was it visible from the coast. He would not have believed it possible, but now he felt even more lost than he had during those days and nights on the beaches.

It was evening when they eventually arrived at the foot of the mountain, in the middle of an arid plain dotted with scrawny bushes. They found a small hollow with a grove of imposing weeping willows, or their Australian cousins, that grew in a great oval, marking the edge of a meadow of thick green grass. With every breath of wind, the leaves rustled in a metallic murmur. It was in this strange place that the tribe chose to make camp. Narcisse noticed they were speaking in hushed voices and talking even less than usual. The children seemed particularly overawed, even the older ones like Waiakh.

The next day, Chief – why did he think of this old man as the chief? – spoke all day long. From the moment the sun rose, he sat cross-legged, muttering continuously: it wasn’t a speech, but nor was he making it up. It was more of a recitation. The others would come and sit close to him, listen for a few moments, leave and come back again; there didn’t seem to be any logic or pattern to their comings and goings. The bard continued, not stopping to drink or eat, even when the sun was at its highest, one phrase following another for twelve hours at a stretch, with not the slightest hesitation. He betrayed no emotion, no joy, fear, anger or surprise. Was he reciting the tribe’s
Iliad
? Their
Odyssey
, or a list of ancestors perhaps, of events, names of places or animals? Narcisse remembered having to memorise multiplication tables, reciting a list of departments with their principal towns and sub-prefectures, intoning them in the same way. None of it had sunk in, despite the teacher’s efforts to encourage them with whacks from a ruler.

As the sun slipped below the horizon, Chief stopped abruptly. And everyone went back to their ordinary evening chores.

When the darkness was all-enveloping, the women gathered the children together and shaved their heads, working more carefully than usual, in complete, contemplative silence. The old woman proceeded to shave Narcisse’s head, running her fingers over his shaven skull once she had finished, feeling for lumps and indentations.

He went to sit beside Waiakh, and without stopping to think, silently took the boy’s hand in his own.

In the red glow of the firelight, the child’s hand rested in the young man’s. They stayed there silent and motionless, both of them seemingly at peace. In the half-light, the black hand in his own.

The whole of the next day was devoted to the mountain.

Vallombrun, 5th December 1862

Monsieur le Président,

I beg you to forgive me for imposing once again on your valuable time. This letter brings you news of my protégé, which I believe will be of interest to you.

As we had agreed, the master of the Baleines Lighthouse has been sending me brief monthly reports on Narcisse Pelletier. A man of few words, this excellent fellow informs me that he can find no fault with Narcisse’s work as storekeeper. Narcisse does not simply obey orders, he applies himself to the task with enthusiasm. He is tireless and courageous, always good-humoured and a pleasant companion. Were he to recover the ability to read and write, his work would be exemplary.