1515-1519 : The Conquest of Power

By The Chronicler of the Tower

January 1st, 1515. Francis I becomes the King of France. He suspects that he will experience extraordinary events, but he largely underestimates what awaits him. With the help of Leonardo da Vinci, he will discover that History is only a theatre stage where dark forces manipulate Kings, Emperors and Popes. Everything he thought was solid, everything he thought was true will be turned upside down. Because the world is changing. For a damnation or for a rebirth?
From Paris to Rome, from Havana to Venice, a novel that combines historical fiction and epic fantasy on a global scale. Adventures, plots, epic battles and magic will delight fans of successful fantasy series as well as History lovers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books on Demand
• Release date: May 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9782322414437

Book preview

Prologue

The smell of burnt flesh spread throughout the bay.

Havana was still very young with barely a few houses and a first wooden chapel. The construction of a large stone church was planed in the near future. To celebrate the consecration of the chapel, thirty Taino Indians had been tied to poles. A torch had been thrown on bundles of straw at their feet. Most of those sacrificed were very sick, already on the verge of death, even before the first flames appeared. Some burned without a scream: hardly had they the sensation that their fever was blazing. Others awoke from their torpor, bewildered, and began to scream just like those who had been in good health. There was still a lot of life in them. The screams frightened the birds that flew away from the trees around.

In front of the pyres, a priest had his hands outstretched forward, his palms warmed by the fire fed with human flesh. After that, I'll be loaded with potestas, he thought. I can finally return to Rome. The discovery of this New World was a blessing. Souls are not of excellent spiritual quality, but many sacrifices can be made to compensate. You can not sacrifice a heretic like Jan Hus all the time. Ah, that one! He had such spiritual power that he had inflated our potestas for a decade, all by himself. When was it already? Oh yes, a century ago. Precisely a century.

Behind the priest, the Governor of Cuba and founder of the city, Diego Velázquez de Cuéllar was on his knees and the mouth of his massive face was agitated by the murmur of a prayer. At his side, a man with a finer face was doing the same, with even more fervor: the Magistrate Hernan Cortés. But his mind was far off and he was praying for his wife, a native from the island, who was currently giving birth in their encomienda. In a strange confusion, he likened the screams of the sacrificed to those of his wife. Suffering accompanies the gift of life as the reception of death.

In the distance, hidden on the heights of the hills, a Taino girl named Taoca was burning two idols in cotton covered with stones and shells, in the likeness of her parents. The stones were going back to the land and the shells to the sea. The zemis must always be the reflection of the world and her parents at the stake were gradually transformed to blackened bones and ashes. But soon there will be no more idols because soon there will be nothing to reflect. If nothing is done, my people will disappear.

Chapter 1

Unless one is born again

he cannot see the kingdom of God

John 3, 3

I can see the blue sky through the pillars of the towers, on both sides of the rose window remarked the Count of Angoulême of the younger branch of the Valois family. Under a bright and cold January sun, he entered Notre-Dame de Reims Cathedral. Who will I be when I will come out?

The clamor of the crowd was pushed back into a distant universe by the walls and the old vaults. The Count of Angoulême advanced in the thick silence of the solemn expectation shared by all the important dignitaries of the Kingdom: Grand Chamberlain, Chancellor, people of high nobility and vassals, Governors, Ambassadors, Ministers, Bishops and Archbishops. He was wearing a white damask cloth, stuffed with marten. His steps echoed, multiplied by the walls and pillars decorated by the coat of arms of all the great families and cities of France. He then slowed down and took a more solemn and silent step, controlling each muscle of his legs and feet to tread the ground with the greatest lightness. I must be a humble servant who does not want to disturb the peace in the house of God. Facing him, Robert de Lenoncourt, the Archbishop of Reims, approved and encouraged him. The Count continued to advance on the pavement representing a labyrinth, the long and winding path from Earth to Heaven, from darkness to light.

The Count arrived in front of the choir. He was surrounded by the light that have passed through the stained glass windows. The red, purple and blue rays extended in the transepts, coloring the floor slabs by his side. These rays began to dance and mix, more and more intense, more and more vivid. Then, emerging from the dazzling whiteness, as if rays could take full forms, the Smiling Angel appeared. Its wings unfolded and sent streaks of light in all directions, bouncing off the nave and arcades. No more sunlight went through the windows. It was rather the light of the Angel that was crossing them outward, which provoked a clamor of enthusiasm from the crowd outside. His wings folded behind his back and the Angel floated in the air. He held in his hands a crown set with jewels of the same color as the stained glass of the cathedral. It was light caught in stones, a little divine and immaterial trapped in the crystal.

The Count knelt. Unfolding his wings, the Angel lifted the crown high and slowly placed it on his perfectly combed brown hair. At the moment when he felt the full weight of the crown, the Count of Angoulême became the King of France. The crown was heavy and the King had to stretch all the muscles of his neck to make nothing visible.

He raised his head and looked at the Angel whose smile was more disturbing than reassuring at that moment. His blue eyes seemed to illuminate the depths of his soul, even in the most obscure recesses. The King then heard a voice in his head, a fluttering and singing child's voice: From now on, you are no longer yours. I'll know everything you do. Everything! The King saw the smile of the Angel widen. It was then that he noticed that the Angel had folded his wings and surrounded him in a gentle embrace. The space between the bright and shimmering feathers was pleasantly warm. A dull sound of heartbeat punctuated the sound of the circulation as if the new sovereign had returned to his mother's womb. Breaking this moment of absolute bliss, the Angel prompted him with a little whim to turn to the audience. The King complied and the Angel suddenly unfolded his wings. A powerful shockwave crossed the King and spread among the crowd of the cathedral, slamming like a whiplash. The crown sparkled in the light of the Angel. Never will the King appear more beautiful to his subjects than at this moment. All the hearts of the audience had an extra beat. The pupils dilated and the breaths were suspended. All the most ostentatious feasts and the most pompous ceremonies of the reign that was beginning would be only a corrupt form of this primordial moment.

A sudden darkening marked the disappearance of the Smiling Angel. Nobody really saw him disappearing and it was as if all the audience had awakened after a bright dream. The Archbishop of Reims then advanced towards the King. He held with both hands a reliquary in richly decorated gold where a small vial was held in the claws of an eagle: the Sainte Ampoule. It contained a sacred oil brought by a dove descended from the sky on the day of the baptism of King Clovis. The Archbishop took it off the claws of the eagle and opened it. With a fine gold needle, he carefully took out a drop. He mixed it in a small golden cup with the Saint Chrême, an oily substance with a strong smell of tree resin. The King was anointed in seven places: on the top of the forehead, at the base of the chin, at the location of the heart in the chest, on the right shoulder, on the left shoulder, on the palm of the right hand, and on the palm of the left hand. By this anointing, you are King by the Grace of God! Vivat Rex in aeternum! exclaimed Robert de Lenoncourt. Hundreds of voices echoed in the cathedral and filled it with enthusiasm and hope.

The golden scepter surmounted by a fleur-de-lis was then given by the Archbishop. The King began the slow procession through the nave to the large gate, with the bells ringing at full speed. The first person on the audience to whom he put his eyes on was his mother, Louise, who was devouring her son with unbounded admiration. The first smile of the sovereign was for her, then the King saluted his sister, Marguerite, before continuing his advance. He realized a little late that he had forgotten to greet his wife, Claude. She was already two rows behind; he was not going to turn back for her.

His attention was focused on an increasingly invasive anxiety that assailed him. It had grown since the Angel had brought him to birth again and plunged him into the cold and vast world: Who am I? The King still did not have the answer. His gaze rested on the back of the portal below on his right. He noticed the Communion of the Knight, a sculpture where Abraham, covered with a chainmail, received the bread and wine from the High Priest and King of Salem, dressed in a draped chasuble. The knight, with a solid stature and a sword clearly visible in his sheath, was however humble. The head slightly bent down, he begged for comfort and forgiveness. His life of violence, fear and suffering was dissolved in fervor and blessing. I want to be this knight.

The man that came out of Reims Cathedral was François I.

***

François left Reims under the applause of a crowd of peasants and bourgeois. He rode at the head of the royal cortege to the monastery of Corbeny, northwest of the city. There he sat for a long time in the tranquility of the chapel, trying to calm his mind, which overflowed after the events of the morning. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the face of the Smiling Angel in the afterglow, and no longer would he fall asleep without noticing it.

At the end of the afternoon, as night was already falling, François joined the royal pavilion where a rich dinner was planned. He approached Louise, his mother, who laid a kiss on his forehead. She felt on her lips some traces of the anointing. François had to bend down so that his mother would reach his forehead: My more than ever very big son. I never doubted that you would end up on the throne.

When you carried me in your belly, I was not really in the first places for the succession.

You were in the first place in my heart and the heart of a mother never lies. I give you this gift. May it bring you happiness and courage.

She held the hidden object in her joined and closed hands and transmitted it into her son's hand by slightly opening them. It was a silver medal with interlaced gold letters:

I defend the justice and let the injustice perish.

It has been made by the Bohemian Elves, whispered the King's mother. François inspired faster than expected: it was an object of great value and probably provided with magical powers. And what a more obvious sign of the foolishness that a mother was ready to commit for her prodigal son than to offer him an object made by heretics near a monastery!

But the King was not embarrassed for a long time because he too had a present for his mother: I decided that the County of Angoulême would become a Duchy. You will also receive the Duchy of Anjou, the Counties of Maine and Beaufort. All this made Louise one of the richest ladies of the kingdom. He felt the medal warm in his hand. It was rather pleasant at first but became slightly painful after a while. François had heard that elven medals could hurt those who committed acts contrary to what was written on them. Yet he did not see what he had just done wrong. His mother deserved all these gifts. Louise was stunned at the announcement: it was a royal gift. How could it have been otherwise?

The meal was magnificent, but François did not have his usual appetite, which meant that he had eaten as much as an ordinary man. He knew the time to go to the second ceremony of the coronation was coming. Archbishop Robert de Lenoncourt had warned him: The coronation in the cathedral of Reims is the bright one for the people and the History books. The second coronation, in the crypt of the chapel of the monastery, is dark and secret. It was very mysterious, and François felt a mixture of impatience and anguish which contracted his big stomach.

The King rose from the table on a discreet sign from the Archbishop. The time had come. But as he was going out in the bitter cold to join the chapel, the Queen Claude rose. Petite, with a striking contrast with her athletic husband, she stood in front of him, her hands clasped at her waist, and said to him in a low, suspicious tone:

Can I know where you are going?

François took her away from the guests. The Archbishop, very embarrassed, looked at the end of his stole: But... We are in a monastery ... I do not see how you can imagine that ..., whispered the King.

Oh, you already made worse to run after the damsels, retorted the Queen.

Tonight, and especially now, it is not really the moment.

Now that you are King, it will multiply the possibilities... The only thing that reassures me is that I will not have to make all these efforts to get you away from the old Queen Marie. If you had seeded a bastard in her belly, your own son would have passed you in the order of succession because all would have believed that his father was Louis XII.

Can I go now? asked the King, bending his head and hiding his annoyance more and more badly.

François, I'm probably pregnant ... No blood comes. And it should have been for a long time.

The King's gaze for his wife changed and became warm with tenderness and happiness. Decidedly, it was a good day! François hugged Claude briefly, then said, My dear. Rest. Do not worry. We must settle certain things with the Archbishop. As I am the King, I have duties and I intend to fulfill them. And I intend to fulfill all my duties towards my Queen, he added, kissing her hands. He wanted to shout to the whole world: I am just on the throne, and my heir is already on the way! But he changed his mind and followed the Archbishop into the chapel. Not for a moment did the idea that his first child could be a girl touched him. Today was a great day, the problems would come soon enough.

The King and the Archbishop entered the chapel and it seemed to François completely different from the place where he had prayed that very afternoon. The candles casted a faint light, as if they were struggling to illuminate the darkness. The statues and the crucifixes were almost no longer visible, as if absorbed by nothingness. Robert Lenoncourt moved to the side of the marble stoup placed in a niche and unsealed a slab that nothing distinguished from others. The air rushed into the opening with a sound of breath. A staircase with irregular steps sank into the depths. Broad cobwebs were blocking the passage. The Archbishop said solemnly: No one has entered this crypt for 17 years. François looked at the opening apprehensively. But was he not the most powerful man on Earth behind the Pope? He was certainly not going to give up.

He was about to take the Archbishop's torch, but Robert de Lenoncourt stepped back. Very well, said François, swallowing his saliva, I am the King. I could force you to give me this torch.

You will not be the King until you come out of the crypt where you must enter without light. In any case, it would not help you. There was tenderness in Robert's eyes: powerful or miserable, we were all equal when fear takes us into its grip.

François slowly descended the stairs, accustoming gradually his eyes to the darkness with each step. He had to destroy the cobwebs with both hands and each broken thread gave him the impression of crossing the boundaries of time, of penetrating into the depths of the ages. Once downstairs, there were no more cobwebs. A short corridor made an elbow. After this turning point, François knew he could no longer take advantage of the dim light that spread from the surface of the opening. He inhaled deeply as if he were going to dive and stepped into the turn. He was moving slowly by placing his hands on the irregular walls like a blind man. The uneven ground made him stumble twice. Then, after a few steps, François felt nothing at the end of his arms: the corridor had led to a large room. The King felt like a tightrope walker and he was afraid to make a misstep.

François chose to go around the wall on the right. It was then that the wall of the room appeared to him gradually in a greenish color. A bright wall? No, it's just banal limestone. It is our glow that it reflects, a hoarse voice said. François jumped and all his hair bristled under a shiver that disappeared leaving him with the impression of suffocating. He slowly turned his head. In the midst of fractured tombstones, greenish gleams slowly waved and then took on more and more distinct forms: those of generally older and bearded men, most slender, others larger. Some wore traces of fatal injuries to the forehead or stomach. One held his head in his hands, separated from the body. François understood their identity when he discovered the face of Louis XII, his predecessor. They were the ghosts of the Kings of France. Of all the Kings of France since Clovis the First.

Some seemed almost asleep (the last Merovingians nicknamed the Idle Kings), others had a fierce look and stared haughtily at whoever was going to lead what they thought was still their Kingdom. Under these looks, François felt like a usurper. The atmosphere was not really to the joy of what was ultimately a big family reunion.

The ghost of a tall man with a long beard floated towards him: Charlemagne: Mmm ... This one is vigorous... The Capetians are beginning to look like something that is close to the strength of my time. Hugues Capet sighed as Clovis smirked. Unperturbed, Charlemagne continued: We welcome you to the assembly that you will definitely join on your last breath. Will you then have been a great ruler? It will depend entirely on you. Do you have something to ask us? I see that you open and close your mouth like a stranded carp. Laughs bursted out, closer to a crow's song than anything human. Then all were silent, attentive, except Charles VI, who continued to laugh like a madman for a moment. I ... uh ... you're not in heaven? huffed François. The answer was a huge general laugh. Only Saint-Louis looked sad. He was really disappointed not to be in Heaven after all his efforts.

You now understand why all this must remain secret. If our subjects learned that there is no Heaven, our beautiful country would become even more ungovernable than usual, said Philippe Le Bel. Charlemagne was a little annoyed by this remark and preferred to ignore it: We simply warn you: we feel that the Kingdom of France will, again, enter a great storm. Perhaps a more serious peril than this so-called Hundred Years War...

If he had not burned the Templars, that one, said Charles V, pointing disdainfully to Philippe Le Bel who replied: Templars were sodomite conspirators! It is rather the fault to Louis VII who could not satisfy Aliénor in bed! Louis VII seemed to swell with anger and was about to throw himself on Philippe Le Bel when strident wailings of a sick baby were heard. François discerned on the ground the ghost of a five-day-old infant whom he had not noticed before. It was Jean I whom his father Louis X took in his arms and rocked to calm him down.

Charlemagne continued: We see a Kingdom encircled. We see a Kingdom divided. Great are the dangers, narrow the paths of victory. I have been appointed to be your advisor. I will appear at different times to guide you. In the meantime, I think it is time that I bequeath to you something that I have kept and which is dear to me. I feel that you are the one who deserves it at last. Try not to disappoint me. On one of the gravestones appeared a long and magnificent sword with a golden knob and quillons on the guard in the shape of dragons: Joyeuse, the legendary sword of Charlemagne! As he approached, stunned, a few verses burst in François' head:

« Nous avons fort à dire sur la lance

Dont Notre Seigneur fut blessé sur la Croix

Charles, grâce à Dieu, en a la pointe.

Il l'a fait enchâsser dans un pommeau d'or. ;

En raison de cet honneur et de cette grâce,

Le nom de Joyeuse fut donné à l'épée.

Les barons français ne doivent pas l'oublier :

C'est de là que vient « Montjoie », leur cri de guerre ;

C'est pourquoi aucun peuple ne peut leur résister. »¹

François stretched out his hand and expected to see the sword disappear into the air. But his hand closed on the solid pommel and he lifted it. He could not resist making sweeping and thrusting movements to appreciate its balance. He split the air but also Childeric II and Charles III. Oh! Sorry! he stammered, but the two kings did not hold it against him and gave him a tender smile. They remembered the good old days when they too had proudly wielded a sword.

The raucous voice of Charlemagne echoed again: Go and make good use of it. Now, all you have to do is welcome your emblem-animal. Only you will be able to see it, but it will have effects in the world of objects if you learn to tame it. Your predecessor had a porcupine, I think. Louis XII nodded. Here is yours. The ghosts parted and gave way to what looked like a giant lizard with a very flattened head and a long, tapering tail that waved as if it had a life of its own. Its skin did not have scales. It looked soft and shone with iridescent colors. A salamander.

François stared at the animal with a mixture of fascination and repugnance. He expected anything but that. Gradually, the sight of the animal did not provoke any more disgust. He felt in his heart a growing affection for the salamander who laid down at his feet. When François looked up, the ghosts began to disintegrate in the air. Only Louis XII remained clearly visible. He indicated with a spectral finger a small vial placed on a tombstone: It is to cure the scrofula tomorrow. Put the potion on your hands. Then he began to disintegrate but with a grimace he recovered and became as visible as before. He had just died too early and he was not yet ready to leave the company of the living so quickly: How is my daughter Claude? François was the cousin of Louis XII and Queen Claude was the daughter of Louis XII. She's fine ... Well, I mean, she's been saddened by your death, but she's looking to the future. We are waiting for a child. The ghost smiled and then its disintegration intensified. Before disappearing completely his face was transformed and Louis XII took a begging and severe figure: Avenge me, François! Venge the Honor of the Kingdom of France! His voice was lost in the distance as he disappeared completely.

When François came up from the crypt, his eyelids fluttering under the light of the candles, the Archbishop was praying. On hearing the King's footsteps, he got up, turned, and bowed: Your Majesty! His gaze fixed Joyeuse that the King held in his hand and his eyes widened briefly. François had preferred to hide the small vial in a pocket. His salamander strolled down the aisles of the chapel and then passed the altar without the Archbishop noticing. What a memorable day!

The next morning, a crowd of scrofulous people with purulent and smelly fistulas at the base of the neck waited in the courtyard of the Monastery. François I touched the wounds of the sick and marked them with the sign of the cross. The King touches you; God heals you.

---

¹ "We have a lot to say about the spear Which wounded the Lord on the Cross Charles, thanks to God, has the spike. He had it enshrined in a golden pommel. Because of this honor and grace,

Joyeuse was the name given to the sword.

The French barons must not forget it:

This is where Montjoie comes from, their war cry;

That is why no people can resist them.

Chapter 2

Humanity has not woven the web of life.

We are only one thread.

Indian proverb

Taoca threw the shells of her parents' zemis into the waves of the sea and returned to her Taino village. It was built in a clearing of the rainforest. Few children were playing with a cotton ball. With shoulder, chest and elbow shots, they avoided dropping it to the ground. Taoca knew that most of them were orphans, like her. Soon they too would have to work in the plantations, under the threat of arquebuses and the same whips that the invaders used for horses.

When the Spaniards arrived a few years ago, the Taino had received them peacefully. After many palavers, the white men had been considered as gods returned from the Land of the Dead, Coaïbaï. Then the abuse started. The little gold and silver nuggets with which the women adorned their ears were torn from them. The Taino rebelled. The repression had been terrible, as the Taino could do nothing against metal armor, crossbows and arquebuses. Taoca remembered the first arquebuse shot she had heard. It had been a deadly thunderbolt that had instantly killed her brother who had stood next to her. Taoca had never seen anything so terrible. A detonation and the skull of her brother had been shattered, blood and brain thrown all around him. There was no spear or arrow. It was death itself that these instruments had projected. Taoca had observed, alas, many other uses of this weapon. She had discovered, next to the corpses, bloody bullets with small soft or bone fragments stuck on them. She had finally understood. There was no magic. Only cold and implacable mechanics.

The cacique who had led the revolt had been hanged and then just on the verge of death, he had been burned in front of a priest who had spread his hands. The whole tribe had to watch his agony. Since then, the entire Taino population, with the exception of the small children, worked as slaves for the Spaniards to find gold nuggets in the rivers, to build the new settlements, to exploit the land that was skinned alive and to fell down the trees, including those that were considered sacred. And a second wave of misfortune had appeared: contagious diseases. They had spread like fire on dry straw. Half of the remaining population had been decimated. Some of the most beautiful girls had been caught by the Spaniards and no one knew what they had become. Taoca had escaped the raid because she had been the most fast at climbing and hiding in the trees.

So Taoca was walking in an almost empty village. Some old men were resting in the shade on hammocks woven with cotton threads. Many circular wooden houses were abandoned, the roof collapsed. Some houses had been burned during the repression and no one felt the need to rebuild them or complete their demolition. Gradually, the vegetation began to cover and digest them. Taoca went to the only rectangular house, that of the new cacique Guare. He had been appointed by the Taino, but under the strong surveillance of the Spaniards who made sure they chose a man willing to collaborate with them in the most docile way.

Taoca entered the rectangular house and found Guare drinking uicù, a fermented manioc alcohol, caressing negligently the thighs of the last surviving of his many women: Guare. It can not continue like this. We will all disappear. There will be no one to worship Yocahu in a few moons. Guare difficultly rose with hesitant gestures: It's the... the Gods who wanted it. Juracan eventually triumphed over Yukiyu. What... what can we do? Can you tell me?

I refuse to believe that the Gods who blessed us suddenly want our disappearance. There must be a way.

Do you want to start... a new revolt? That's it? Do you want to finish like... like your brother?

No.

So, come... Marry me, we'll have a good time until the end... the end of the world, said Guare then he went back to bed and plunged his fingers into the crotch of his wife who was dozing, drunk even more than her husband by the uicù. The loincloth of the cacique had more and more difficulty to hide anything.

Taoca repressed a rising of nausea and continued: "We must fight them by what they can not understand: by our magic. Our zemis must be in the image of the world. But what if we reversed? What if our zemis controlled what happens? We would build zemis in the likeness of these rots and we would make them suffer. Guare straightened up, his eyes glazed and his breath heavy, but he managed to focus on Taoca as if he had just sobered up at once: Never speak again of this kind of magic! Much too dangerous. It was through these impure thoughts that Juracan triumphed over Yukiyu."

I have nothing more to do with Juracan and Yukiyu! Taoca's answer came out like water from a pierced jar and she bit her lip just as she spoke the last words. It was too late. The water was spread on the ground. She realized that she had made a serious mistake.

Guare straightened up, pushing aside his wife, who made a small complaint. He went to look for an object in a dark corner of his house. Taoca touched with her hand the side of her loincloth where a piece of shell was hung, which served her as a little knife. Guare returned with the zemi to the effigy of Taoca: it was he who kept it since the parents of Taoca had been made prisoner by the Spaniards. He tore off the stones and shells, leaving only the bare form of cotton. It meant that she was banished from the village and impure. Zemis must reflect the image of the world. Her banishment was already effective and irrevocable.

Taoca run away. She crossed the central square, failing to hit a sleepy old man in his hammock. She went to drown her sorrow and fear in the green ocean of the forest that covered the hills. She disturbed a brood of tocororos that burst into a multicolored fluttering cloud. The songs that gave them their names sounded like reproaches. She ran by paths visible only by her. A few monkeys amused themselves by following her, leaping from branches to branches. Maybe they thought she was going to join them in the trees and play with them as she did when she was younger. But the time of games was over. She crushed a few snails with a bright yellow shell, which she usually avoided with skill. Everything she had thought was solid was now empty. Nothing would be like before.

Taoca ran, ran, beyond the territory she had explored, as far as possible from all human traces, which was only corruption. Disgust rolled in her like an endless spiral. She wanted to be kissed and swallowed whole by the forest. She passed a large plant with lanceolate leaves and red berries. She stopped short, panting. She knew that these berries contained poison and the plant had enough to kill her. She saw herself gently remove these berries from their peduncle and swallow them one by one. She saw herself die at her feet. It would be so much simpler. She reached for the nearest fruit, a bittersweet temptation.

Such a young girl to savor these fruits. It was a hoarse voice that had spoken. Taoca turned on all sides and saw no one. She turned towards the plant and behind it, she saw an old woman, all wrinkled and with almost no teeth. Her long white hair fell behind her bare shoulders. She recognized Nocaona, who had been banished from the village after having proclaimed at the arrival of the Spaniards that they had nothing divine and that they had to be pushed back in the sea by all means. Nobody could have imagined at the time that she was right, a thousand times right. When the war finally had broken out with the invaders, she had been sought in the forest to allow her to return to the village. The quest had been in vain and it had been believed that she had been carried away and eaten by some ferocious beast.

Nocaona grabbed a fruit with her thin fingers with knotty joints and ate it with a pout, Beah! Bitter! I wish you another taste in your mouth when you die, girl. If these fruits are delicious, it is not for your tongue, but for your mind that seeks eternal rest.

I do not want to, Taoca said, displaying a disgusted little pout.

Ah, said Nocaona, looking falsely intrigued, lifting one of her white eyebrows. So there is something that keeps you here again. Who makes you ajourn your entry in the country of Coaïbaï. Come... I invite you to my place. We have a lot to discuss, girl.

The old woman guided Taoca very deep into the forest. Flowers and shrubs, animal cries and furtive noises she had never seen or heard began to overwhelm the girl. She was trying to get some landmarks but it was quickly clear that she would not find her way home. What's the point? she said to herself. I can not go back to the village anyway. This worried her nevertheless. The solitude she had sought was a protection. Now she followed Nocaona and became dependent again.

Under the sudden gloom of a huge storm cloud, they reached a stream that was fed by a small waterfall spouting between two tall trees. Their roots encircled stones covered with moss like serpents would do with their prey. A little away from the stream, pieces of branches under which some geckos rested formed a small hut. There was not really a roof, but under the protection of the canopy, the rain of the thunderstorm that was bursting did not much wet the ground. It was almost dark as in the night and the vegetation seemed to swell to better drink raindrops. Nocaona invited Taoca to sit with her in the middle of hulls and fruit seeds, cuticles of insects and snail shells, which gave an idea of what the old woman ate. I'm going to be like that too? She was banished like me from the village, thought Taoca.

What are you looking for, girl? Death or life?

I'm looking for ... a life. But not the one I've had lately. I seek to find the life before ... before their arrival.

"So what you are looking for is impossible.