The Boy Who Belonged to the Sea Read online

  * * *

  The sea has begun to rise, driving us back against the rocks. Now the day is giving way, the night creeping in. The fog won’t let up. To distill its humours, I’ve lit a fire, which draws a dome of light from the impenetrable vapours, and while Luc paces back and forth I’m thinking about Mama who must be worried sick at the other end of the fog, and about my grand-folks who surely aren’t attending to tomorrow’s mail. I’d give anything to be with them right now in Grandmother’s living room instead of here on this sinister, ocean-battered planet, but I keep my spirits up by reminding myself that the loony odyssey is nearing its end. This very night we’ll find out what value one should set on dreams and, at the first glimmerings of dawn, we will return to pedestrian reality. They’ll be waiting for us. No doubt the police will have to be faced, and goodness knows what else. Will they be able to listen and understand? Are they going to be prepared to believe it’s all the Pig’s fault? Can those people who haven’t been children for such a long time gauge the power of the golfer’s enchantment? But tomorrow is a long way off for Luc, and he couldn’t care less. He has more pressing concerns, such as controlling his impatience and searching the darkness on this whole crucial night of the seventh tide. Tomorrow is another world for Luc, another life.

  Tired of roaming the beach like a restless werewolf, he has come and crouched down by the fire. He is all keyed up. He jumps at the faintest lap of the waves and continually trains his flashlight on the ocean. He lights one cigarette after another, the smoke coiling around his incandescent features, giving him an ephemeral mane. On this July night in my twelfth year, I am watching you, Luc Bezeau, and still can’t figure you out — you exile, you proud Mongolian, you obstinate dreamer. You, my brother.

  * * *

  He was singing like an Inuit, filling our bubble of light with vibrations, and I contributed as best I could to the old, hypnotic refrain. It was a way of blotting out time and consciousness, of numbing the senses. The tension eased and I began to yawn nonstop, but just as I was about to zonk out, Luc left off singing, drew himself up, was on the qui vive. Stepping outside the fire’s dazzling circle, he scanned the sea with his lamp. He mainly lit up the fog banks, but suddenly the light caught something. Forms were moving about at the surface. And a holy terror gripped me, because they were coming! Contrary to all expectations, the Ftan people were emerging, and their sleek bodies glistened at the gateway to our plodder world. But then, as I took a closer look, I realized I’d been taken in by the night’s eerie mood — where I thought I’d seen a procession of mermen swimming into view, there were only branches sticking out of the water. A whole tree carried along by the tide, torn from a shore where no one claimed to have command over gales. Luc turned off his flashlight. He wandered back to the fire. He didn’t feel like singing anymore.

  A little while later, a south wind rose. It whipped up the sea and swept away the mist. Now, the night was clear, immaculate, and beneath the lucid glitter of the gemstones strewn about, it became difficult to believe in magic. The tide would never be higher. The hours’ slope would soon reverse, and Luc was smoking away like an automaton. He was so anxious for something to happen he was about to explode.

  * * *

  It must have been about midnight when Luc heard the call. Like a murmur drifting on the waves. A trumpeting of conchs as well. I didn’t pick up anything of the kind, but he insisted he clearly heard these sounds. Transfigured, he told me the water beings were there, just offshore, gathered on the seabed among wrecks of old warships, but weren’t going to show themselves. Since they needed to be careful, they definitely wouldn’t surface, but they were there waiting for him. They wanted him to come and meet them. And Luc was certainly not going to disappoint them. Actually, he had worked it all out beforehand: he jumped into the boat and lifted the cover of the locker. He took out a diving suit, Luigi’s, with all the hardware. Flabbergasted, I stood watching him as he wriggled into the neoprene outfit and folded back the sleeves, which were too long. Then I pulled myself together, for he had to be stopped, and I tried to explain to him how dangerous it was to dive at night, especially for a beginner. I harped on it, I laid it on with a trowel, because I wanted him to understand and see reason. I assured him there weren’t any conchs down there, let alone mermen, it was his imagination and nothing else. But I was wasting my breath; I would have had better luck arguing with the sea itself. Luc put on his fins and fastened a serrated dagger to his leg, then he strapped his air tank to his back and I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep him from leaving: his mother’s messengers were waiting for him, and even his own fear wouldn’t deter him. He said he had no choice, he had to go and see — if only to get to the bottom of it all. He had enough oxygen for one hour, he added, and promised to be back before it ran out. His cuttlefish eyes sparkled with excitement behind the glass pane of his mask. I stopped talking. His unbending will had defeated me.

  He refused to be roped; he didn’t want to be hindered in his movements in any way, and I made no attempt to rebel against this ultimate show of recklessness. Staggering along in his scuba gear, he stepped over the first waves and waded into the water until it reached his chest. Then he switched on his light and bit the mouthpiece. After a little wave in my direction, he melted into the ink, vanishing instantly. Now, there was only the blackness upon blackness of sky and water, that thick sandwich of gloom, that immense solitude. I felt utterly forlorn. I built up the fire with armfuls of dead wood — I wanted it to be big and boiling hot when my friend returned, because he would need all that warmth. But then I had a late reaction: it dawned on me that Luc would probably not come back. And I was overcome by fear, the kind of fear that starts at your extremities and sweeps through you, chilling your blood. I decided to act, to go in search of Luc right away, and I pushed the boat into the waves. I didn’t dare use the motor for fear of hitting my friend or tearing him to shreds, so I rowed away from the shore instead. As I leaned over the gunwale, my eyes sounded the black, heaving mass of the waves, while the oxygen drained away minute by precious minute.

  The wind grew stronger, deepened the swell, shifted mountains of darkness, and my skiff shrank beneath me, seeming frailer and frailer. I didn’t have a watch, but didn’t need one to know that the hour had passed. Yet I continued to X-ray the visceral expanse of the waters, still hoping Luc would suddenly appear. And just as I was going to give up and return to the island, my perseverance paid off: a glint of moonlight revealed a bright object about a hundred fathoms away. I started up the engine and made straight for that yellow thing floating on the swell; it was the inflated vest of Luc’s diving suit.

  He was like a drowned wasp. Lifeless. Unconscious. I hauled him aboard, not without difficulty since he weighed as much as a halibut. I took off his mask. He was breathing, but there was blood flowing from his nostrils. I settled him at the bow, then headed for the shore at full throttle. Ferland lay to the north. I found the Big Dipper, followed the Pole Star. At last, I spotted the lights of our village, that dotted line of low stars along the water’s edge, and I aimed at the centre of that flat galaxy, where Dr. Lacroix’s house stood. We were still quite a distance from the shore when Luc regained consciousness. He was confused, shivering, but still strong enough to rebel when he found out where we were going. As if he’d been electrocuted. He ordered me to do a U-turn. He wanted me to take him back to the Île aux Oeufs and drop him off in the water again. When I refused, he became excited, squirmed like a garter snake. Suddenly, with unexpected vigour, the impossible son-of-a-screwball jumped overboard, this time without a safety vest. I cursed, turned around, and managed to catch him by the hair just as he was about to go under. Fishing him out yet again put me out of breath, but he, on the other hand, seemed in better shape than before. He was wide-awake now. Alert. His dive had settled him down. He no longer demanded we return to the island. He only wanted us to go to the Cove and, since he really did seem to be better, I accepted this compromise. Gripping the tiller, I propelle
d our expedition like a fat bumblebee towards the sombre heights of the Gigots.

  As soon as the boat ran aground on the sand at the Cove, I realized I had underestimated the seriousness of Luc’s condition. He was paralysed on the spot, unable to move. I had to help him out of the Zodiac. His legs buckled under him and he collapsed, knifed by violent cramps. I regretted I hadn’t stuck to my initial plan. I suggested I take him over to the doctor’s place but he wouldn’t hear of it and started crawling on his elbows towards the cave. I carried him inside and laid him down beside the iguana. The cramps seemed to be easing off. They came on less frequently, anyway, so he was able to enjoy a few moments’ respite. But ten minutes later he was feverish, haunted by hallucinations, and began to rave out loud. He said that down below, on the ocean floor, he had seen the water beings from Ftan with their gleaming lances of mother-of-pearl, that he’d swum in search of them among the barnacle-covered wrecks and finally found those graceful manatees, sheathed in shimmering light. They had formed a luminous circle around him and greeted him with reverence, then they’d bent over him and performed their surgical magic. That’s why he was having those cramps, all that pain. They were the first signs of his metamorphosis. His body was going to be transformed, his true nature revealed, and it was the kind of change that couldn’t happen without suffering. He was so tired his eyes had sunk deep into their sockets. He escaped into a seismic sleep, murmuring in the language of mermaids. As far as I could judge, he was talking to his mother.

  * * *

  The dawn’s pointed fingers were probing the cave’s bowels and tickling my lashes. Outside, there were at least a million screeching gulls, but what really woke me up were Luc’s groans. He was in a bad way. He writhed, moaned, trembled all over. His nose was bleeding. His left eye was a scarlet ball. He could no longer move. He couldn’t even talk anymore. But he was still able to click his teeth, and it was in Morse code that he told me not to be afraid: Metamorphosis — Not really dying — Changing — Take Zodiac back — Hug your mother for me — Take care iguana — I love you — Drop me off in the water — In the open sea — Is necessary for completion of metamorphosis — Don’t forget — Important — Thank you my friend — Goodbye.

  His arched limbs jerked uncontrollably. His body really did seem to be trying to change shape, to contort itself in order to adopt a new configuration, yet a smile lit up his face, made him look almost handsome. His breathing became irregular and I understood that life was draining from him, expelled with each convulsive movement as from a cut artery. I bolted from the cave to get the boat ready, fill up the gas tank, and spread out life jackets to form a makeshift bed. This is when the silence struck me. The gulls had stopped squawking. Perched all along the nearby ledges, they were eyeing me. I jumped when the first one flapped its wings and flew away. It was followed by another one, then a third, a fourth, and within seconds the whole flock had scattered all over the sky. I stood watching them for a while as they faded into the distance, then I went back into the cave. I already knew Luc’s suffering was over.

  He had broken free. He had found peace. Eyes wide open, he gazed up at the rocky ceiling that portrayed the splendours of Ftan. He looked utterly amazed. He seemed to have been transported right into the heart of an extraordinary vision, a dream so sublime that dying from it was justified.

  * * *

  I let the day go by so as to be really sure. I waited till dusk, then began to carry out his last wish. I dressed him in his wacky best, tied his favourite strings of seashells and bracelets to his arms and legs, then I wrapped him together with the iguana in a shroud of living seaweed. It was the kind of night he would have enjoyed — balmy, perfect, illuminated by a gigantic moon and skimmed by a breeze that barely puckered the smooth skin of the waters. It was an offering from the tropics, a tribute they paid him; if a reflection of mangroves had appeared in the bay, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised. I laid Luc down in the Zodiac, negotiated the reefs, and headed south.

  When I’d reached the open sea, I cut the motor. And once the boat had coasted to a stop, I relieved Luc of his plodder weight. He slipped overboard, rippling the night sky that glittered in the jet-black mirror, but he didn’t go under right away. He suddenly wasn’t in such a hurry to dive anymore. He floated for a while, dawdling at the edge of both worlds, then slowly sank, head first, as though in memory of the Titanic. I plunged a waterproof flashlight below the surface to track his languid falling-leaf descent. As he spiralled down, it was as if he swayed in iridescent oil teeming with shadowy forms. The tropical sun wasn’t going to bleach his bones after all. They would adorn the briny depths instead. They would decorate some moray’s lair, and it was right that it should be this way. It seemed fitting that when all was over for Luc he could fulfill his wish to disappear into the ocean and join the mother he had tried so desperately to find. The darkness finally swallowed him up. I switched off my lamp but remained bent over the waves. Perhaps I hoped to catch another kind of light, a glow that would have penetrated the waters’ intimate secret, a phosphorescence rising from the depths to welcome my friend. But there was nothing emanating from the deep. The wondrous event wasn’t going to take place.

  And yet… A little later, as I lay sleeping in the cave for the last time, I dreamt about Luc. I saw him drifting down towards the bottom of the ocean while throngs of sand eels undulated by his side and fed on him. Like gentle piranhas, they nibbled him, gnawed into his flesh, sculpting it with their tiny teeth. They were remodelling Luc’s body, giving it a new, pure, streamlined form. I heard a harmonic murmur, a low, powerful chorus, and now I really saw that abyssal luminescence rising from the depths. An underwater comet flared out of the gloom, escorted by whales, octopuses, and harnessed sharks ridden by singing water beings from the Great Medusa.

  Rejoice, mermaids and mermen. Yes, sing below the waves, you denizens of the deep, for Fngl Mgl’Nf is here. Greet him with cheers, all you gliders. Sound his praises. Blow the conchs. The Prince of the Shimmering City has finally returned.

  Translator’s Note to Page 187

  * Makusham: a ceremonial feast including drum dances, which used to be held after the hunt by the Innu (also called Montagnais-Naskapi), the Aboriginal inhabitants of the eastern and northern portions of the Quebec-Labrador Peninsula.

  About the Author

  Denis Thériault is an award-winning author and screenwriter living in Montreal, Canada. His much-loved novels The Peculiar Life of a Lonely Postman and The Postman’s Fiancée (Oneworld, 2017) have enjoyed international success. First published in Canada in 2003, The Boy Who Belonged to the Sea is his debut novel.

  About the Translator

  Liedewy Hawke’s translation Hopes and Dreams: The Diary of Henriette Dessaulles, 1874–1881 won the 1986 Canada Council Prize for Translation (now the Governor General’s Literary Award for Translation) as well as the John Glassco Translation Prize. Her other translations include Memoria (Dundurn Press, 1999), House of Sighs (The Mercury Press, 2001), and The Milky Way (Dundurn Press, 2002), which was shortlisted for the 2002 Governor General’s Literary Award for Translation.

  A Oneworld Book

  First published in North America, Great Britain and Australia as The Boy Who Belonged to the Sea by Oneworld Publications, 2018

  This ebook published 2018

  Originally published in French as L’Iguane by Éditions XYZ, Montréal, in 2001, and in English in Canada as The Iguana, 2003

  Copyright © Éditions XYZ and Denis Thériault, 2001

  Translation Copyright © Liedewy Hawke, 2003, 2018

  This edition published by agreement with Allied Authors Agency, Belgium

  The moral right of Denis Thériault to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to a
ctual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright under Berne Convention

  A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library

  Trade paperback ISBN 978-1-78607-335-8

  eBook ISBN 978-1-78607-336-5

  Typeset by Divaddict Publishing Solutions Ltd.

  Oneworld Publications

  10 Bloomsbury Street

  London WC1B 3SR

  England