The end of the world (3)

Final chapter

Previously on The end of the world: The narrator, Erwan de Kerlatoux, is riding a high speed train in France to a mysterious destination he calls the end of the world. He’s received a message telling him to come quickly, that the whisperers would be moved. As he looks out the train window he recalls his days in the Army, many years before, and his Captain’s hatred for him. An oil tanker has crashed on an island off the coast of Brittany, called “The end of the world”. The most distant island away from the land. The narrator’s regiment is called to clean up the oil spill. While the Captain grows everyday more hostile, Kerlatoux has a love affair with a young girl from the island, Solen.

*

Our boat moors on the quay at the harbour. I thank Le Bihan and pay him. He tells me I can place a message to him through the harbour whenever I want to get back. And to say Kenavo, Hello, to Solen. I thank him again and walk down the gangway to the quay. Solen is waiting for me at a small distance.

“Kenavo, Solen”, I say.

“Kenavo, Erwan.”

We exchange the customary three kisses on the cheek. One. Two. Three. Cheek kisses in France are complicated, in some regions, it’s only two, others, like the island, it’s three. Other places? Even four. When you travel in France you don’t really know how many kisses it should be and often get stuck with your face in the air.

“Come on,” Solen says, “let’s go to my house. Lunch is ready. You must be famished.”

She is right, I am hungry. Breakfast is but an old souvenir. The sea always makes me hungry.

We walk in silence to her house. Her parents’ house. She’d shown it to me once at a distance. They must be gone by now.

Her house in on the west side of the island, one of the very last houses. We pass by the Whisperers. There’s a couple of bulldozers on the square. How on earth did they bring that to the island? Portable power plants. Tools everywhere. Workers busy or pretending. A ditch half dug out between the Church and the Whisperers.

“See?” Solen says. “They’re gonna move the Whisperers. An initiative of the Mayor. They’re gonna move them to face the sea about fifty yards to the right. She says the Whisperers originally faced the sea, before the church was built. Since they can’t move the church, they’ll move the Whisperers.”

She shakes her head. I nod in silence.

We get to her house. She shows me my bedroom on the first floor. I drop my small bag, wash up a bit, join her in the kitchen. Smells delicious.

We sit down at the kitchen table. Have a bowl of cider as an apéritif. Start chatting like we’d only parted yesterday, not many years ago. Time has been kind to her. She’s kept fit. She tells me she runs 5 times around the island every day. The sea and sun have left a fine network of lines around her eyes. I remember she smiled and laughed a lot. The blue eyes are the same.

Lunch is fan-tas-tic. Pâté and bread for starters, crayfish, a delicious turbot. And for dessert a sublime Breton far. (Sorry, no idea what it is in English. It’s a cake. A sort of flan with flour and raisins.)

We update each other on our lives. She was married. Lost her husband at sea. A sad but common occurrence on the island. Never remarried. She has a son, called Yffic, who took over his father’s fishing boat and business.

“He’s out at sea right now. Mackerel season.” She says.

“Suits our purpose, doesn’t it?” I say.

She nods. Pours me another generous amount of cider. I put my hand over the bowl. Cider feels like you can drink it like a soda. But after the third bowl…

She didn’t go to study in Brest as planned. “The baby you know”. She’d sent me a baptism card. We’d kept loosely in touch. After a few years, she’d taken correspondence classes to become a teacher. She still teaches at the island’s small school. Her eyes shine when she talks about ‘her kids’. Barely a dozen. Or less.

And we talk and talk. Pleasant. Good food, good cider, good company. We don’t touch on the reason for my visit. We both know what it is. And what we have to do. The details are up to Solen.

Around six, I get up from the table, collect the dishes and wash them.

“I’m dead,” I say, “I might take a small nap. What time have you thought?”

“After midnight,” she says, “now that everybody has a TV, the islanders have a better excuse than the witches not to go out at night. There’s nobody out after nine. Midnight is just to stay on the safe side. Go on, I’ll wake you up.”

*

“Hands up Kerlatoux! You’re dead!”

I was standing guard that night. My section was on duty. I took the worst turn, midnight to four. I was the Corporal, right? Why is it the worst turn? Because you don’t sleep much before midnight. And you don’t sleep much after four. I was supposed to walk all around the island for four hours. Don’t stop. Walk all the time. Again in case “the Russians attacked the island”. Doesn’t sound so funny now, does it, but it did then.

I had an automatic rifle. With a charger of ammo. The charger was sewn in heavy duty cloth. For security. You don’t want the patrolman shooting someone with readily available ammo do you? I’d once asked the Lieutenant what I was supposed to do if the Russians attacked? Deliver the three regulation summons while frantically cutting the heavy duty cloth with my – personal – knife, (an Opinel #9, remember) ? The Lieutenant looked at me, shook his head and said:

“One day, Kerlatoux, your mouth will be your doom. Just carry the charger in your pocket, I have it on good authority that the Russians won’t attack on your watch.” The Lieutenant was all right.

It was not a very good night for me. We were supposed to leave the next day. Another company was coming to relieve us. About time. My socks were black with tar and stood upright when I took them off. It was about half past twelve. I’d done one round of the island and was in a bad mood. Solen had come up out of nowhere at the Whisperers to tell me that “our thing” was over. She couldn’t go on. We lived miles apart. Besides she was more or less engaged (Is that right? You don’t say.) and she’d made up her mind. She’d marry the guy. But thanks for the Beauty. She’d planted a kiss on my lips and run off.

So, there I was. Sitting on the bench near the Whisperers. I’d put my rifle up against one of the big stones. Totally inappropriate. Never let go of your weapon. What if the Russians attacked? Or someone else.

“Hands up, Kerlatoux!” the Captain said. “You’re dead!”

There was the Captain. With demented eyes. He’d picked up my rifle silently in my back and was now pointing his regulation pistol at me. I figured his charger was not sewn in cloth.

“You’re dead, Kerlatoux.” He said. “I’ve run out of patience with you. You’ve abandoned your rifle on your watch. You’re going to have an accident. Get up!”

“Easy, Captain.” I said. “You can court-martial me if you like, but you can’t kill me. This would ruin your career.” Me and my big mouth. The Captain started whispering, which was actually worse.

“Easy, me? Ha! Ha! You’re going to have an accident, Kerlatoux. You’re going to walk to that cliff behind the church and jump. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you, then claim I was checking on the night watch and you took a shot at me. Your charger will be out of the cloth, and your rifle will have fired one shot. Get up. Slowly.”

*

Solen wakes me up at midnight. I’m not too sure where I am. A pot of strong coffee is brewing in the kitchen. Blessing of the Seven Druids. Solen opens the door, takes a look outside, at the neighbours’ windows, comes back in and says:

“All the lights are out. We’re fine. Ready whenever you are.”

I finish my coffee. Solen hands me a pair of boots.

“Here,” she says, “put these on. They belonged to my husband. They should fit you.”

I put the boots on, grab a heavy-duty bag by the door, that Solen had shown me after lunch. Out we go, to pay a visit to the Whisperers.

*

What do you do with a madman? If the madman only has a knife on your throat and just wants to go to the shooting range, it’s relatively easy. Give in. Get the knife-holder out of your space and call for help.

In that case, the madman had a gun. Pointed at me. He also had my rifle. Which I couldn’t use to bang his wrist and drop the gun as they do in the movies… I guess that’s why the regulations say “Never let go of your weapon.” (In case the Captain attacks.)

“Get up, Kerlatoux,” the Captain said. We’re gonna take that little walk.”

I was fishing for an argument, but the Lieutenant was right, my mouth would be my doom. Nothing came out.

There was a big, dull noise.

The Captain fell on the ground.

*

We walk in silence on the sleepy island. Reminds me of our old days. Solen and I could spend long stretches of time together in silence, comfortable silence. I look at all the windows. Solen is right, all the lights are out. Early risers, early to bed. A half-moon gives us enough light to find our way to the Whisperers.

When we get to the high stones, I drop the bag on the ground. I grab two shovels left by the workers.

We start digging. A yard away from the Whisperers. About four, five feet down. The earth is compact. Hard. After a little while, my shovel hits something. I put on the gloves Solen has put in the bag. Very thoughtful, Solen is.

I start digging with my hands.

I remove all the earth. Uncover old bones still wrapped in shreds of Army fatigues.

*

The Captain was on the ground, Solen standing behind him with a shovel. She was shaking.

“He… He was going to kill you…” she said.

I made her drop the shovel. Took her in my arms. She stopped shaking.

“I felt bad,” she said. “Leaving you like that. It wasn’t right. I had to explain… I had to…”

“It’s all right, it’s all right” I said. “I’m glad you came back. Just at the right time.”

“It was the right time wasn’t it?” She laughed a bit. “I was coming back to the Whisperers. There was almost a full moon, so I could see fairly well. I heard your Captain shouting. So I walked slowly in silence. Behind him. When I heard him say he was gonna kill you, I looked around, grabbed a shovel, and Bam!”

And Bam! it had been. Captain was dead. A single blow of a shovel on the head.

We didn’t waste much time in thinking what we had to do. I grabbed another shovel, we dug a hole near the Whisperers. Packed the earth as well as we could. I poured and packed a bit of gravel from a heap by the Church.

Solen went home. I finished my watch.

There was an inquest of course. Next morning at early call, the Lieutenant saw Captain MacDonald was missing. The Loot asked me if I’d seen the Captain during my watch. I said no. The others hadn’t either. Search parties were sent all over the island. Captain’s pistol was found on the rocks at the other end of the island. He was assumed to have slipped on the rocks while doing a night patrol. Currents were very strong there. Don’t ask me how his gun ended up there.

*

We make sure to gather all the remains, bones, fatigues, boots, belt, buckles. Put them in our heavy-duty bag. Some kind of synthetic fabric that would last centuries. Weigh the bag with gravel courtesy of the current works. A few stones for good measure. Fill back the hole between the Whisperers and the stone bench. Pack the earth.

As we collect our gear, I say a mute thank you to the Whisperers for keeping our dark secret for so long. Obviously, when they’d moved the old guys, they would have found the body… And ask questions…

Off we go, around the church. Walk a few stairs down the cliff that was supposed to be my fate. There’s a tiny creek, where Solen has a small motor boat moored. Outboard. An old Evinrude engine. She does think of everything.

It’s still dark, Solen drives the boat with a sure hand. She has a chain in the boat. A concrete weight, with a ring, the type some use as anchors. I hook the chain to the bag’s handle, hook the weight to the chain. All set.

It’s still dark, but Solen drives the little boat straight to the open sea. A true sailor. There are hidden rocks everywhere, but she swerves with ease, as if she knew all of them by heart. Probably does.

After a while she stops the boat. Nods to me. I drop all into the sea. She turns the boat around.

“It’s fifty feet deep here,” she says. “Plenty of rocks at the bottom. That bag stays there. Let’s go back. It’ll soon be daybreak. Close your eyes.”

I close my eyes obediently. Taking in the sea wind, the short waves, the salty perfume of the sea, the noise of the engine. Solen stops the boat again.

“Now open your eyes. Slowly.”

We’d sailed out North of the island. Turning around, we’re heading South towards the island.

As I open my eyes, the sun lifts to the East. Shining on the island at the end of the world.

Beauty at the end the world…

The words of a great poet friend of mine come back to my mind, in German first, I don’t know why, the original is in English. Both versions are the right words and music.

Wie ein Geflüster verschwindet sie…

In diesem Reich überlässt sie sich

Der Schönheit am Ende der Welt.*

Like a whisper she disappears…

In this realm she surrenders

To the beauty at the end of the world*

I say the French version aloud to Solen. She nods and smiles.

“Comme un murmure elle disparaît…

Dans ce royaume elle s’abandonne

À la beauté dans la fin du monde.”*

*

EPILOGUE

It’s still early when we moor the boat in the little creek behind the church. As we enter Solen’s house, we find a man sitting at the kitchen table. Sailor’s boots and a blue cap. Smelling of fish a bit. He rises and turns around with a smile.

“Hi. Mom.”

“Yffic!” Solen says. “What are you doing here? You were not due until a week. Something happen to the ship?”

The young man hugs his mother, gives her the three cheek kisses.

“No, no,” he says, “ship’s all right, just tore the main trawl net. No way we could repair it on board so we sailed back in.”

“Morning, Sir.” He says. Looking at me with a pleasant smile.

Anybody but Solen would have been a bit flustered. (I wonder whether “fluster” and “geflüster” – whisper – have the same origin. Probably do.) Flustered? Not Solen.

“Yffic,” she says, “this is my old friend, Erwan. I’ve told you about him.” (Has she really?) “Erwan, this is my son, Yffic.”

“Kenavo,” we both say. He has a nice firm handshake. Me? I do my best to hide it but I am a bit flustered. Yffic has one blue eye, and one green.

THE END

This is a work of fiction, all invented (almost), places, (almost), people, etc… (For Legalese go to “The Senator and the Machine.”)

(c) Martin-Onraet & Equinoxio.

Softworld (The beauty at the end of the world) (c) Holly René Hunter, & by Hutschi for the German translation.

I’ve had this story in my head, for… 20, 30 years? Always postponing the writing because I felt I should write it in French, but now that I’ve decided to write all my “old” stories, and stick to English, it was nice to finally write this one. Despite the outcome. The story always rules.

This story is dedicated to my dear friend, Holly Rene Hunter, the author of the poem of Softworld, (French translation by yours truly). I’d kept that poem in a drawer for a while, feeling that it could inspire a story. When I started writing this story about the island, Holly’s words seemed to fit in the story well. Thank you Holly. And thank you all for reading…