«Blood», extract no. 8

Le Regard Libre No. 32 – Sébastien Oreiller

Chapter II: The son's arrival (continued)

Like the earth that had sweated too much under the sun, he caught a chill as he left. Nothing seemed more poisonous to him than that creeping breeze—the damp scent of the river rolling below, but also the breath of the mountain’s damned, shattering their stones in the alpine pastures and terrifying the shepherds. He who loved the sun and the vineyards, even the unrelenting heatwave, the bountiful days of June, and the humidity of July. What an evening! It felt like early autumn, and his lungs ached in the cold because he had smoked too much. Even twilight seemed in a hurry to end it all, to bring him down by arriving too soon. Things were changing, and he didn’t know why. He didn’t know what spirit stirred the trees, like lifeless, bloodless fingers, because the sap had receded and was hiding in the roots. How could the earth fall asleep and find rest when it was still the season for smiles and harvests? A brief downpour had soaked the paths, and his footsteps plowed through the mud—the mud of the soul, the filth of a tempestuous heart. He had lost.

And yet, that evening, he caught a glimpse. He understood how it would all end, and how happy he would be when it was all over. Smiling, he saw the moon through the already dark branches, and his daughters—those who usually prowl among the weathered graves and the cradles of dead children, still warm at their mothers’ breasts—and who that evening were dancing around him, watching him. He set out to seize them, to press against them all the disgust and longing he carried within him, to embrace their skin, so pale and washed-out. Their hair smelled of damp earth and compost. “Oh,” he said, “since it must be so, do not leave.” He shivered. This happiness, reserved for him alone, streamed down from the leaves of the trees, onto his feet, his hands, his face, and his back, dripping from his eyes to his mouth, and he tasted solitude. And what happiness! Naked, alone amid regrets and tall grass, he wept as he knelt.

When everything grew quiet again, he thought for a moment and came to his senses. He thought about what he would do, what his life would be like from then on, and where he would go. As he got to his feet, he left the path that wound its way ahead of him and cut across the embankments. The muddy earth had dried on his legs and arms, like a shell of water and stone. The young girls followed him, whistling among the trees, sometimes hooting from a branch, or slipping through the grass like spiders and vipers. All that was over now. The forest, the mountain, and the little stream that led to the L**** house were now behind him. For a moment longer. At last, the world saw him as he was, and he faded into the shadows of their gaze.

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