Quelques extraits de Vestiges traduits par Sheryl Curtis…
The crack of a branch. The long cry of a silsil with transparent wings chased from its shelter for the night.
Then silence falls again. Oppressive.
Tékélam’s agile silhouette slips between the creepers and the roots. He wants to be as invisible as the spirits that haunt the forest. Above, in the starless sky, Doïyna, the moon of late hours, casts its tawny light over the peaks of the trees. In the confusion of vegetation, its glow struggles to thread its way to the ground, covered with a carpet of leaves. The scent of moss rises from it. Tékélam would like to roll in it, to taste the damp earth. To forget the outburst of violence in which he has just taken part.
He’s killed.
The odor of blood clinging to his body is intoxicating, as he trembles with both rage and excitement. He moans, licks his soiled limbs. He wriggles his fingers into his crusted clothing, looking for injuries, skimming over his ceremonial jewelry. Blood. Blood everywhere.
His blood. That of his kind. Blood he spilled.
The Watchers’ celebration had transformed into a savage frenzy, a war game that no ritual could appease. By the time the sun rose, it was already too late. Madness had invaded the village, overwhelmed its people. It would possess them until the following morning.
Tékélam recalls every rake of his claws, every bite. Victim first, then predator, he left his quota of death and suffering behind him.
