The Children of the Crab by André Lichtenberger

Author:André Lichtenberger
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2013-12-20T00:00:00+00:00

This is the sign, the colored taboo

The gods have come from beyond the blue

May their will prevail and we be true!

This is the sign, the colored taboo.

The surprise cannot cause the principal objective of the reconnaissance to be forgotten.

“Nevertheless,” grumbles Monsieur Le Guédec, “I see no Boches!”

“Excuse me, Captain; it wouldn’t astonish me if I had one.”

Advancing on command, Fusilier Garcin displays a skull that he has just picked up, in the upper jaws of which there is a glint of gold.

“Unless the people hereabouts practice dentistry...”

Other bones are found, buttons and fragments of uniforms. The Oyas easily understand what is required of them. In a few minutes, they collect all the funereal debris in a heap. Monsieur Boujade has no difficulty identifying five European skeletons. Just now there were five sets of prints in the sand. It really is here that the Boches ended their career.

How did the drama unfold?

It is futile to lie to the gods. They know everything, and only feign ignorance in order to set traps.

Meekly, Manga-Yaponi tells the story of the adventure. The elders of the tribe accompany his voice with an expressive mime. The fetid gods attempted to put their hands on the taboo sign whose colors are fixed to the abdomen of the god with the voice of thunder. Rightly or wrongly, they were massacred.

With an appropriately grave emotion, the député signals that he has understood. Perhaps a few details remain obscure, but there is no doubt of the striking proof of the fidelity devoted to tutelary France by this population of supposed savages.

Monsieur Bedeau-Conflans collects himself, adjusts his cravat and puffs himself up. “Commandant,” he says, “I ask permission to address a few words to these worthy people, which Monsieur Pittagol will translate for them.” As a nuance of skepticism might perhaps be passing over the officer’s thin lips, the politician adds, emphatically: “In default of the detail of my allocution, they will grasp the general meaning, and I would like to believe that it would not displease your brave mariners to hear the representative of the Republic pronounce French words on French soil.”

Monsieur de Kerfaouët, who is in line for a promotion, is too polite, and attaches too high a value to the benevolence of the depute, to raise the slightest objection. In the midst of the respectful natives and the vaguely mocking “mariners” the pale god with the voice of thunder intones his chant:

“People of Oyas, Mariners of France…!”

In terrible modulations, with a pantomime that designates, by turns, the sacred mast, the skulls of the dead men, the sailors, the Oyas and his own breast, the Delegate General celebrates the loyalty of the tribe. Even in these distant regions, the luminous genius of France has made its imprint. It seemed to be almost effaced here, but it only required a sacrilegious threat to abolish it for the ineradicable fervor to reawaken in these primitive souls.

The pirate boat has come to grief on this faithful land. The survivors have paid with their lives for the impudent impulse that led them to attack the sign of liberty.

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