I shrugged my shoulders. After all, it was not my fault that we were
there.
Morhange understood my gesture and thought it necessary to make
excuses.
"I should be curious," he went on with rather forced gaiety, "to meet
these spirits and substantiate the facts of Pomponius Mela who knew
them and locates them, in fact, in the mountain of the Tuareg. He
calls them Egipans, Blemyens, Gamphasantes, Satyrs.... 'The
Gamphasantes, he says, 'are naked. The Blemyens have no head: their
faces are placed on their chests; the Satyrs have nothing like men
except faces. The Egipans are made as is commonly described.' ...
Satyrs, Egipans ... isn't it very strange to find Greek names given
to the barbarian spirits of this region? Believe me, we are on a
curious trail; I am sure that Antinea will be our key to remarkable
discoveries."
"Listen," I said, laying a finger on my lips.
Strange sounds rose from about us as the evening advanced with great
strides. A kind of crackling, followed by long rending shrieks, echoed
and reechoed to infinity in the neighboring ravines. It seemed to me
that the whole black mountain suddenly had begun to moan.
We looked at Eg-Anteouen. He was smoking on, without twitching a
muscle.
"The ilhinen are waking up," he said simply.
Morhange listened without saying a word. Doubtless he understood as I
did: the overheated rocks, the crackling of the stone, a whole series
of physical phenomena, the example of the singing statue of Memnon....
But, for all that, this unexpected concert reacted no less painfully
on our overstrained nerves.
The last words of poor Bou-Djema came to my mind.
"The country of fear," I murmured in a low voice.
And Morhange repeated: "The country of fear."
The strange concert ceased as the first stars appeared in the sky.
With deep emotion we watched the tiny bluish flames appear, one after
another. At that portentous moment they seemed to span the distance
between us, isolated, condemned, lost, and our brothers of higher
latitudes, who at that hour were rushing about their poor pleasures
with delirious frenzy in cities where the whiteness of electric lamps
came on in a burst.
Chêt-Ahadh essa hetîsenet
Mâteredjrê d'Erredjaot,
Mâtesekek d-Essekâot,
Mâtelahrlahr d'Ellerhâot,
Ettâs djenen, barâd tît-ennit abâtet.
Eg-Anteouen's voice raised itself in slow guttural tones. It resounded
with sad, grave majesty in the silence now complete.
I touched the Targa's arm. With a movement of his head, he pointed to
a constellation glittering in the firmament.
"The Pleiades," I murmured to Morhange, showing him the seven pale
stars, while Eg-Anteouen took up his mournful song in the same
monotone: "The Daughters of the Night are seven:
Mâteredjrê and Erredjeâot,
Mâtesekek and Essekâot,
Mâtelahrlahr and Ellerhâot,
The seventh is a boy, one of whose eyes has flown away."