(196) The abracadabrante story of Child Moon

“It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare; it is because we do not dare that they are difficult.”

Seneca

Where we observe that, at the very same time, while Lucian is travelling towards the Archipelago…

… some very strange adventures are taking place there, disturbing Lucian’s understanding… surely… but also that of those who, by the roundabout way of their writings and drawings, happen accidentally to be confronted with them.

Sang Chaud moves a little closer to the trunk, raising his eyes towards the interwoven heights of the titanic tree. His voice rises, clear and gentle, addressing Don Carotte, who had climbed into the tree and perched himself there, as though he were carefully reciting a lesson learned in his youth, or one of those tales the elders used to murmur to children just before sleep.

— Arboreal donkeys, my lord, are a species unlike any other. They live entirely upon this tree, from birth until they disappear. Never do they set hoof upon the earth. It is a law among them, an ancient prohibition engraved into their flesh. They say that any one of them who touched the ground would instantly lose his shadow.

Don Carotte raises an eyebrow and opens a silent mouth… which shows him… lost somewhere in the upper reaches of his brain… Then suddenly he gathers himself.

— Lose his shadow? That hardly seems very useful for a donkey…

Sang Chaud continues, imperturbable, his eye raised, one finger pointing towards a lofty branch.

— They are born in the deep folds of the bark, where the tree keeps its warmth. Tiny, almost translucent. They are scarcely perceptible and remain like that for a long while, living on nothing but smells. For arboreal donkeys, you see, like us, breathe before they eat. But they absorb the scents of the tree, its resins, secretions, drifting spores… and also every fragrance coming from outside… All of this shapes them and feeds them… as much as the young leaves whose unfolding they patiently await.

— So they are perfume-beasts, then? Don Carotte asks with lofty irony, though somewhat grumpily all the same, his arms folded across his chest.

— More than that, Sang Chaud replies. They feed upon what they hear… And then they are tightrope walkers. As soon as they are old enough to walk, they leave the bark and venture cautiously out along the branches, testing the suppleness of the wood beneath their hooves, measuring the inclination of the wind, the weight of the light. They learn the tree as others learn a language. They become its interpreters.

— But surely, besides… or rather less… if I am to believe what my eyes are telling me… they are… green!

— Perfectly green, yes, my lord. The colour of fresh moss, sometimes shading towards jade, sometimes towards lichen. More or less than ourselves or a chameleon, they depend upon the light… but like chameleons they regulate their body temperature and communicate with one another. It allows them to melt into the ecosystem. The fur along their backs, almost invisibly, is veined like a leaf, while their bellies, of a softer colour, are almost velvety. If one is not careful, as with certain insects, one may mistake them for growths upon the trunk.

Don Carotte, thus instructed… but sceptical, raises his eyes towards the crown of the tree and discovers dozens of tiny green shapes moving silently about, barely visible, in a slow… yet lively choreography. He sees one haul itself towards a minute leaf… which must have seemed enormous in relation to its own size, sniff at it with devotion, then settle upon it with an enthusiasm bordering on worship.

— It is then, Sang Chaud continues with slow firmness, as though afraid of being interrupted, that they reach maturity. When at last, after days of waiting, they are able to bite into a leaf barely emerged from the bud. Their sense of smell has prepared them for that taste since birth. And when at last they discover it… they go mad… fall in love.

— Mad?

— I do not know whether the word is quite right… but they eat with frenzy. Every mouthful fills them with such ecstasy that they forget to stop. And, this will surprise you… as they eat, they shrink. It is a strange but constant phenomenon. The more they feed, the smaller they become.

— How can that be?

— It is said that pleasure consumes them, and that shrinking appears to be the price of happiness.

— And what becomes of them? Don Carotte asks, fascinated in spite of himself.

— They become so small that eventually, to our ordinary senses, they disappear between the veins of the very leaf they are consuming. It is believed — pure conjecture, so little is known of the matter — that some reach the heart of the tree and merge with it. Others say they become seeds, or spirits of the branches. No one truly knows. But never, never do they come down. It is forbidden to them.

— And who forbids them?

— The tree itself, they say.

At that moment, a little green donkey, scarcely larger than a beetle, comes lazily down a twisted stem. It stops, relatively close to Don Carotte, upon a leaf, and sniffs the air with an absorbed expression. Don Carotte, astonished to say the least, stares at it for a long moment, then shakes his head indignantly.

— So this, O my guide, O Sang Chaud, is the creature to which thou hast led me! This microbial vegetable animal! Is this the proud steed destined for me? A donkey that cannot even bear the weight of my gaze without being crushed beneath it!

Sang Chaud shrugs, with unfathomable calm… reflects without haste and then, calmly resolved… proclaims:

— It is not the size of the steed, my master, that makes the greatness of the knight.

— Then what is it… O Great Knower?

— It is the path he agrees to take… my lord… Sang Chaud replies, deliberately forgetting the capital letter… even if it is only a branch… and whatever the size of that branch may be…