Vamireh by J.-H. Rosny Aîné

Author:J.-H. Rosny Aîné [Aîné, J.-H. Rosny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2012-02-24T00:00:00+00:00

A rumor woke her, while the humid Moon, very high, was wandering amid the clouds, pouring light from one blue lake to another, amid the slow movement of the sky. She listened.

A deep sound, a trumpeting sound that she recognized as a voice from her distant childhood, was drifting through the high valleys. The quivering rock amplified the sound in the hollows of its abysses, duplicating it from the walls of its gorges. Soon, the night was full of the somber music. The alarm spread through the empty spaces from summit to summit. It was joined there by the glimmers of highly-placed fires. Then Eyrimah thought of war, the emotion of women, the conceit of young men, the tranquil firmness of old men, the departure into the darkness, the quickening of hearts, the broad hymn of combat, the gripping and heroic precariousness of life.

A torrent ran nearby as soon as the Sun melted the snow, and a fine torrent it was, which had crumbled the stones beneath its violence, carrying enormous blocks away. Dry now, it testified to its passage in crenellations, peaks and rounded pebbles, the tooth-filled mouths of nocturnal monsters. Periodically, the Moon illuminated its bed, but vast sheets of shadow cut through the brightness rhythmically.

The blonde girl shivered slightly, for the darkness drank up the warmth. She stretched herself, and moved about in order to counter the numbness—and suddenly, in immense terror, collapsed on her stone.

Three men clad in animal furs and armed with lances had just appeared, and one of them, climbing an eminence, sounded a trumpet. They did not notice Eyrimah, and drew away, chatting—but two of them went off together, while the third continued on his way alone, pausing from time to time to blow the trumpet.

That encounter excited fear in her at first, and then a sweeter sentiment: a childhood memory, vague but not erased—and she had understood the meaning of the few words that the blond men had spoken.

As a slave among the dark-haired folk down below, she had been ashamed of her blonde hair and blue eyes, of which her companions made fun. Every time she had been able to perceive the high mountains from the low plateau, her heartbeat had quickened. She was filled with pride by their noble appearance, their robust and wild aspect, glad to have the blood of a heroic race in her veins. Had it not been for In-Kelg she would have run away a long time ago, even though the mountain men, in order to avoid war, did not welcome fugitives.

Here, however, her instinct had prevented her from crying out to the three men. She wanted to present herself to women first—and in her vibrant little head, the words of the forgotten language emerged. She repeated them, imploringly, with tenderness and terror. She had woken up completely.

A few large clouds were running across the face of the Moon; in the conflicting winds, the clouds melted like snow in spring and the star moved through hidden

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