I should have reached landmark number 9. I thank heaven for not having been tracked down. I cross over a small hillock of earth, credibly sculpted by man. A circular glance over the site shows me the presence of disturbing shadows, unrefined forms that align themselves at the level of my eyes as gnomes ready to fight, other shadows ripped in the shapes of scarecrows, spread here and there; the hysteric flight of mysterious birds freezes me with dismay.
I look at the landmark with concern: to decipher the message and to leave this sinister place as quickly as possible. There close by, at the tip of my arm, a stone is rising from the ground. It is slightly tilted on the left-hand side. Behind it, I should find the metal box and the message, as it was written on the message on landmark number 8. The container is not there. Is it the right stone, and did I follow the described route?
I wonder and worry. I look at the other stones covered with mysterious petroglyphs, there, close by, aligned in a muddled way, and that bows in every direction. I prepare myself to visit them, one after the other.
Then, I perceive the metal container, hidden in a dark fold of the ground. I extirpate from it, not the message but a heteroclitical assembly of small bones, feathers of eagles, fragments of bark's birch subcordata drawned with blood in some strange calligraphy, all this connected boorishly with strips of caribou's skin.
I have a movement of retreat. A shrill noise invades my eardrums, like the whistling of a bullet that grazed me too closely. I notice, planted into the ground and almost under my nose, a long and fine rod-stick surmounted by a feather duster and by ribbons tinted with blood and still shaken by the shivering of the fine lance under the influence of its violent impact on the ground.
Voices, groans, invectives, cackling of birds, sounds of drums, rumors of guttural shouts like if they where coming from the throat of imaginary monsters, the stampings of invisible beings, there, close by; other arrows that felted down unexpectedly around me, to the least of my movements. The space becomes lively, suddenly livens up, as disrupted by the invasion of a foreign body. I am frozen by
fear.
Stones stir under my nose in a muddled ballet, they seem to defy me; disturbing shadows shaped far away; I try to move, arrows sticked onto the ground as to forbid me any movement in whatever direction there is. They surround me without ever reaching me, as if the space where I was, was protected by an invisible guardian-angel, and that the real danger could only burst beyond this narrow border. It is impossible for me to advance, to reach one of the stones or to retraces one's steps without provoking the agressive awakening of the surroundings, the flight of the murderous arrows. I am frozen by dismay. I could stand up, the snippers would fire at me, I would then be accompanied, a militia perhaps will arrest me and will eliminate my anguishes, for the price of a confinement, of a painful duty perhaps. Or would I be sacrificed to the invisible monsters that are in hiding there, close by?
Then the ground begins to move under me, in slow and rhythmic undulatory movements; it lifts up itself and pulls me in a slow upward movement. I did not move from my position, my body is widely lying on the ground, arms and legs spreaded as to prevent me from falling over, I feel the ground disintegrating under my harsh military clothes, then gradually, it transformed into an almost human shape, a specter taken out of the entrails of the earth. I am congealed by dismay, immovable as to avoid showing my presence, while the shape of the specter outlined itself, bit by bit: the body of an immovable and sleepy woman, a young savage girl unexpectedly rising from the entrails of the earth and carrying me with her bare, icy and slim body.
I am impotent to raise myself or to flee. It is if I was paralyzed by an inexplicable force that holds me, stretching out over the lifeless body of this strange creature taken out of the entrails of the earth. I lift myself up slightly; my forces prevent me from going farther; she is there, sluggish, icy, naked.
(attention: large animated image)
Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Contes et légendes érotiques, translated from french, août 1998) © 1998 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
