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English translation copyright © Rhonda Mullins, 2018
Original text copyright © Héliotrope, 2015
First English edition. Originally published in French by Héliotrope as Barbe by Julie Demers.
Coach House Books acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the National Translation Program for Book Publishing, an initiative of the Roadmap for Canada’s Official Languages 2013–2018: Education, Immigration, Communities, for our translation activities. We are also grateful for generous assistance for our publishing program from the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. Coach House Books also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
Please note that the publisher is aware that the characters in this novel use vocabulary and stereotypes appropriate to the setting of the book, 1944 in rural Quebec – namely the word ‘Indian’ and a clichéd depiction of Indigenous people. We apologize for any discomfort this may cause.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Demers, Julie, 1987-
[Barbe. English]
Little beast / Julie Demers ; translated by Rhonda Mullins. Translation of: Barbe.
ISBN 978-1-55245-366-7 (softcover)
I. Mullins, Rhonda, 1966-, translator II. Title. III. Title: Barbe. English.
| PS8607.E487595B3713 2018 | C843'.6 | C2018-900935-7C2018-900936-6 |
Little Beast is available as an ebook: ISBN 978 1 77056 553 1 (EPUB), ISBN 1 77056 554 8 (PDF).
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To Pierre-Alexandre Fradet,
for his love and inspiration
I
Rivière-à-Pierre, the Gaspé Peninsula, winter 1933. I remember it well because I was already the flicker of an idea in Mother’s belly.
That was the year Mother couldn’t stand up without help: pregnancy had her by the jugular. The family had turned their backs on her because she and Father had gotten caught up in the ultimate sin. Which is to say, they had touched each other’s difference.
So, winter 1933. I had spent the previous few months ruminating in Mother’s abdomen. I was bursting with life, which my arms and legs expressed without mercy. To help me settle, Mother would rain down fists on the refuge in her belly.
Being a fetus is serious business. It’s not like being an internal parasite; it’s a constant effort. There is no respite. Particularly since fetuses are responsible for the person carrying them but can do nothing to help them. As a fetus, I tried to help Mother. I pampered her. I made her laugh. I distracted her from her dark, unwholesome, smutty thoughts. But I soon figured out that I wasn’t quite up to the task. It doesn’t pay to get carried away with extreme thoughts. For instance, you can’t keep thinking about what it would look like if a fetus murdered an adult, although it is a serious topic that merits consideration.
I would often ponder these questions, and Mother had probably had enough of my philosophical musings. That is no doubt why, a few months before the due date, she lay down on her back and evicted me like a common tapeworm.
If I ever decide to return to the village, maybe she will still want me. Mother needs to be pampered, and I would do my best, just as I did when I was inside her belly.
II
Outside, there is a long trail that I never take that leads to where the people are. In a different way, it also leads to where I am and where the people never go. It is a narrow, hilly trail, filled with dirty depressions and wolf traps. It’s impossible to get here wearing leather sandals – it’s useless to even try. Getting to me requires boots. Men’s boots.
One fine morning, I found my shelter waiting for me here. It had been disfigured by the burrs and the thorns and sat trembling on a pile of rocks. I smoothed out the rough edges and knit it curtains. I showed it some kindness, and now it stands tall. Now, my cabin and I lay our heads down between two mountains, safe, from dusk to dawn.
Soon weeks will have passed that it has sheltered me. Soon weeks will have passed that I have been willing. I have fallen for it, I love it, because I love all that is big and that has as few doors as possible. You can lose yourself inside and never come out.
The forest that surrounds me opens wide onto the rest of the world, treetops pointing to the sky. It is a deep, devout forest. It is meditating; its thoughts are carried on the wind through the leaves, like thousands of prayer flags. It made itself from wood, petals, and needles. When I headed toward it for the first time, the woods grabbed hold of me. The trees formed a phalanx, surrounding me. Frozen, hunched over, I noticed the earth swirling over my tracks, erasing them, and with them the possibility of heading back the way I came.
I closed the doors to my shelter and I don’t open them anymore. I let the insects, nuts, and branches drop on the roof. The wind has stopped whistling through the walls, but everything is in danger of collapsing. No matter, I tell myself. Better to be buried than to surrender. This I know from experience: if the outside gets in, the outside will win.
When I was little, everything conspired to beat a path to my door, with the light leading the charge. Now I understand that there is just one way to cope: cut off access to everything. Lock the deadbolt. Stop the light and the sound from getting in. People think music is innocent. They think that melodies, particularly lullabies, are a source of comfort. But don’t be fooled: you need to stop everything from finding a crack and making its way in.
These things are learned. Right here, right now, there is nothing. There is no one. Not even a hint of colour. Not even the sliver of an atom of anyone. I have but one head, and I am alone in it. There is nothing left except for blackness. Not the colour black, just blackness.
No doubt at this very moment someone somewhere has their eyes closed. And they aren’t thinking about me. When your eyes are closed, there are better things to do than to think about others. I didn’t go into quarantine with anyone. No one wants to be quarantined with me. And I don’t want to be quarantined with them. Frankly, when you are wise, like me, it’s probably best.
III
The animals’ howls slip under the door. An entire bestiary is pawing at the cabin walls. But I know the animals won’t come in. I’m not scared, no way.
Everything in my safe haven is calm and suspended in mid-air. The steam from the pots coats the walls of the cabin and clings to the windows. The wood is so damp that mould blooms on it. I let the water boil to watch the liquid go where it will – a massive wave receding. All around me the walls close in and calm me. The floor creaks. The dust accumulates. Particles of it fall and fall, and fall some more.
The provisions, left here by someone else and stored in the crawl space under the floor, are dwindling. So far, I’ve crunched on sixty-seven apples, peeled thirty carrots, sliced twenty-two cabbages, and boiled I don’t know how many potatoes. All that is left is a bag of turnips. Thirty-six rancid turnips, to be precise.
My worldly possessions fit in a tanned hide bag: three pencils, a penknife, a sewing needle, two ration stamps, a book of matches, marbles, and a notebook. There is also an old hare lying on the table, no life, no breath.
It takes military discipline to keep track of time. When I wake up, I look through