The end of the world. Cont’d

Previously on The end of the world: The narrator 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 ago, and his Captain’s hatred for him.

*

I get to Brest right on time. The magic of high-speed trains. Three hours and change from Paris. I rent a car to drive south to Audierne. Depending on the tide, it’s probably too late to take a boat to Ar Dibenn. I’ll check in a hotel for the night. The Whisperers will have to wait.

*

The sea was indeed rough. A slightly rough Breton sea. Beers were promptly thrown up overboard. Some of the soldiers were almost as green as their fatigues. I must admit a certain pleasure at seeing the Captain’s pallor. He was Infantry. A man of the land. Me? I was Breton.

We passed the Baie des trépassés, the Bay of the Dead, where wreckers would lure over-confident ships in centuries long gone. The name still gives the chills.

We sailed into Ar Dibenn after an hour and a half. The last piece of French land to the West. The end of the world. The island is small. A mile and half long, half a mile wide. Only five-six feet high above sea level, except for a small cliff behind the church. A flat pebble thrown on the sea. In big storms, the waves may pass over the island, or so the locals claim. Bretons can spin a yarn. The houses are narrow, made of hard Breton grey stone. The streets are even narrower. To cut the wind that blows constantly over the island, the street width was calculated to allow a barrel to roll up or down the street. Barrels of wheat, cider, wine, whatever was needed. Wider streets would have caused major drafts. They knew their stuff then.

The mayor and almost the entire population with a couple of bagpipes and bombards, a Breton short flute, were on the quay of the small harbour to welcome us. Captain had us disembark, form ranks, present arms… (I thought for a minute that we would present arms with brooms and buckets in lieu of rifles, but no.) Then off we marched to our lodgings. A half abandoned Refuge of the sailor set in a couple of old wider houses at one end of the village. Reasonably good beds though.

The tanker had crashed on the other side of the island, near the lighthouse they hadn’t seen. The village and the harbour were reasonably safe from the oil-spill. The mayor took us to the site. Oil was still seeping from the tanker into the sea and on the rocks… It would be a bitch to clean that.

*

I wake up early in the hotel in Audierne. Nice and comfortable little place. Close to the sea. I have a full “Breton” breakfast. Couple of crêpes. Large slices of bread with Breton butter, dipped into a bowl. The French normally use bowls for their coffee, not mugs. Breton bowls are a bit different, with small “ears” on each side to hold the bowl.

I pay the hotel, go to the harbour to look for a ship. The tide is high. As expected. I checked last night on a “Tide app, Audierne.” No regular ship is sailing to Ar Dibenn today. I ask an idle patron-pêcheur how much he’d charge to take me to the island. Reasonable fare. We slap hands to seal the deal and off we sail.

*

A bitch to clean? The mother of all bitches it was… The oil and sea combined into a sticky black paste. Worse on the sand. Not to mention the rocks. Scratching the rocks with shovels left tar-like splotches. We had boots. Even so, after only two or three days, our fatigues were black. We’d taken only two sets in our backpacks. Kept the clean ones for after work. The Lieutenant ordered two other sets of fatigues for the entire company. The answer from Division was:

“Sure. You’ll get them in a month.”

Meanwhile the Captain had gone berserk. He’d inspect our work every day at 4PM, when there was still enough light left to see. He’d distribute sanctions to just about anyone, for a stain on the fatigues, a black spot on a rock. As corporal, I was the ultimate culprit of course. But he couldn’t really give me days of detention. There wasn’t no jail on the island, no Siree.

Oil and Captain notwithstanding, we had a good time. We ate like we never did either at the regiment or on maneuvers. We had coupons to eat at the two local cafés. Delicious seafood. Crabs, oysters, fresh fish… The two café owners were good guys. Treated us well. Not all did on the island.

When I entered a café with half a dozen of my men, we’d say Bonjour Messieurs-Dames, Hi everybody. the Patron and clients would nod back. Some of the islanders sitting at the counter would immediately switch from French to Breton. Little did they know I speak Breton fluently. I’m a Kerlatoux, right? Most times, comments bore no relation to us. Speaking Breton was just a way to mark a difference. A couple times, I heard disparaging comments along the line of:  “look at those idiots, we’re paying for their food.” Most times I let it go. Only once after lunch, did I say – in Breton – to one of the guys at the counter:

“You want to grab a shovel and help us clean your f… island?”

Conversation stopped in the Café. The guy mumbled:

“Ma digarezioù”, my apologies.

The Patron offered a general round. After that, the locals still switched to Breton, but watched their mouth.

*

The sea ride to the island is great. Long smooth waves. The owner of the boat has a sure hand. His boat sails well. I enjoy the Beauty of the sea. Nothing but water all the way to the horizon. Can’t see the island yet. We pass the Bay of the Dead in a whiff. Le Bihan, the captain, asks me:

“Should I wait for you at the island?”

“No, thank you. I might stay a couple days.”

“All right. Where you gonna stay? You know the only hotel is closed off-season.”

“I know. I’ll stay with a friend of mine.” Don’t give details. We Bretons can be close-lipped. Le Bihan was not. Close-lipped.

“Is that right?” he says. A silence. “And who is that? I know everybody on the island. One of my great-uncles is from there.”

“Solen. Solen Nédelec.” I say. “Actually, could you do me a favour? She’s expecting me, but I don’t have her mobile number. Could you send word to her on the radio?”

“Sure. I know Solen. A good woman. She has no mobile phone. Refuses to. Probably one of the last islanders not to have one. I’ll radio the harbour, they’ll send word to her.”

*

We generally stopped work around 4PM. Before the early winter sunset. Unless we stood guard. One section was always on guard at night. Which meant one poor guy patrolling the island for four hours. Then another, then another. In case the Russians attacked, you know.

Otherwise, we were free to roam. Most men hit the cafés. Cider, beer, what have you. Me? I walked around. The island is not just at the end of the world. It is out of the world. A tiny piece of land, lost at sea. A few rows of old grey Breton stone houses. Separated by the narrow streets.

Some of the old women still wore the island coif. While the traditional Breton coif is made of white lace, with varying shape depending on the locality, the Island coif was black, in memory of all the sailors lost at sea.

Behind the rows of houses, was a small square, grass mostly, where the church stood. A 13^th-14^th century church maybe? The Bretons were evangelised by our Welsh cousins across the Channel around 600 AD. The stone church was probably built on the site of an older wooden church. The church was undergoing some restoration then. Piles of cement and sand, shovels, wheelbarrows sat by a wall. The ground lifted behind the church ending in a small cliff 25-30 ft high.

In front of the church stood the Whisperers. Two six,seven feet high vertical stones called menhirs. A men-hir is a vertical stone, dol-mens are horizontal flat stones supported by pillars. Those stones can be found all across Europe, all the way west to Ireland and east to Scandinavia, I believe. The stones go back to 3,000BC. Some even say 6,000BC. Way before my Celtic ancestors. They were sacred places, so, of course, when the Church took over the worship business, they built their churches nearby. Leaving the Whisperers and others in many places of the Celtic world.

The Whisperers stand close, less than two feet apart. They look like they’re whispering to one another. Hence the local name.

There is a small stone bench to the side. I can easily imagine the little old ladies sitting there after Mass, with their black coif, whispering the latest island gossip.

If one keeps on walking to the west, one reaches the true end of the world. Dibenn an douar. The island ends in a rocky point, facing the sea. It was there that I met Solen. A small figure sitting alone on the rocks. Looking at the end of the world.

I said “Hi”.

“Shhh,” she said. She lifted a finger to her mouth in the universal silent saying: “Shut up”. Made a gesture with the other hand as if telling me to sit down on the rock near her.

I sat down on the rock. Looked at the end of the world. I understood. The winter sun was barely setting, far, far away… Even a whisper would have been a crime…

We watched the Beauty at the end of the world.

I thought of a poem by a friend of mine:

Wie ein Geflüster verschwindet sie

In diesem Reich überlässt sie sich

Der Schönheit am Ende der Welt.

(Hunter/Hutschi)

This is the German version of the poem you read at the very beginning of this story. I only speak a little German, but I like the music of the poem in German, the sound of the word “Geflüster”, whisper. I guess one should only whisper at the end of the world.

When Beauty was over, gone to the other side of the world, we talked. And talked. And talked. Her name was Solen. A Breton name for both men and women. Saint-Solen was a buddy of Saint-Patrick’s. Evangelizing the heathen of Ireland, in the mid 400’s AD. Who passed the bucket to Wales and then to us.

Solen was small and slim, blonde curly hair to the shoulders, no black coif, thank God, cornflower blue eyes. She asked me where I was from. She’d been on the continent often. Didn’t like it too much. She liked the sea better.

We saw each other every day afterwards. In daylight, the Captain was all over our backs to clean the oil spill. He seemed to be getting crazier by the minute. Even the Lieutenant looked concerned. Late afternoons and evenings were dedicated to Solen. She’d tell me the legends of Ar Dibenn. Of the Seven Druids of the island. Of the witches that came out at night. The islanders seldom went out after sunset. The excuse was that one had to get up early to sail away with the tide. There were no cats on the island. They turned into witches at night said the old folks.

I’d tell her a few legends of the main land. About the Ankou. The first child of Adam and Eve, the Ankou is the servant of Death. They call him Ankow in Cornish, yr Angau in Welsh. Very similar words. We’re all cousins in those parts around the end of the world, I tell ya.

The Whisperers were the silent witnesses to our clandestine love and quest for Beauty. No way I could go to her house, “her parents wouldn’t approve.” Our makeshift lodgings? No way either. But, though small, the island, especially late in the day, had plenty of secret places.

*

I can see the island now. The small harbour. The breakwater. The same rows of old grey houses. The slate roofs. The small figure on the quay…

*

Solen wanted to be a teacher, not easy on an island that lived exclusively on fishing. She’d had her Baccalauréat with honours. Already applied to the École Normale in Brest. Plenty of dreams in her blue eyes. She once asked me about mine, the blue and the green eye. ‘Did it bother me?’

“No”, I said. “I’m used to it. Does it bother you?”

“No”, she said. “It’s just funny, when I look at one eye, you’re one person, when I look at the other, you’re another guy. Two in one.”

The Captain had warned us about not chasing the local girls. That the islanders would not appreciate. I didn’t think it was the Captain’s business, was it?

It made the game with Solen more fun. Secret rendez-vous in the dark of night. A secret affair. Fun was the best word to describe it. Fun and passion. Maybe a bit of love. Who knows at that age?

*

To be continued…

(Tomorrow Thursday… Cross my heart.)

Work of fiction, etc. etc…

(c) Martin-Onraët and Equinoxio, except for:

“Softworld”, (c) Holly Rene Hunter, translation to German by Hutschi.