The wolves' corner

Last Thoughts

I have read the most tormented authors. I have read their most beautiful stories about the damnation of souls. I have lived in the skin of their heroes. I wanted to share their pain, to know the price of their sufferings. I used to read in the garden, lying in the grass amongst the ants. I would turn the page only one of them bit me. I could wait for hours before deserving to turn a page. But I only recall the irritation in my arms and my legs. I do not remember a single one of those stories. But I wait. I know that at the first bite of the first wolf they will all come flooding back to my mind, even those I have never read.

Last Wishes

Let them remember their terror at the sight of my body after the wolves had been at it. Let them remember it when the birds soar over their harvest fields. Let them bind sticks together thinking of my bones; opening a hay bale let them remember my flesh. Let them not forget a single detail. Let them plant me in the middle of their fields. Not one seed, not one fruit will be attacked.
But let them not complain when each night they hear the hungry birds flying round and round their houses cries so appalling that they cannot help thinking of a man being devoured by wolves.

Last Hopes

You would come to the forest the next day. You would go in search of what remained of me. You would take the first path you find. At the first fork you would hesitate between the muddy path and the one leading uphill. You would take the uphill path. At the second fork, you would hesitate between the gravel path and the winding one. You would take the winding path. At the third fork, you would hesitate between the mossy path and the one which is bordered with honeysuckle and the one which leads down to the river. You will pick a spray of honeysuckle, but you would take the path down to the river. After about a hundred paces, you would see the remains of a muddy corpse stretched out on a carpet of moss and gravel. You would place the honeysuckle at the feet of the corpse, but you would choose not to recognise it as mine, and you would go looking for me, continuing down towards the river.

Last Words

All of you will go to bed early. Each in his own house. But you will wake in the middle of the night. You will open your window and hear the howling of the wolves as they close in on me. You will shut the window and lie down again, you will wrap yourself round with the bedclothes. You will feel most wonderfully protected, but the sensation will be very brief, so that you will get up to open the window again and let the sweet shiver of danger come to your ears. Then you will shut the window and sink back voluptuously into your bed. Once, twice, three times, ten times that night you will get up to sharpen your sense of well-being with the sounds from the forest. The wooden window-frame will be damaged by being opened and shut repeatedly. The tenth time it will not shut properly and continuous moaning of a draft of air will invade your room. The whole night long, you will hear this dirge which will remind you neither of the wolves’ howling nor of my screams. It will be yours alone.

Last Dreams

He always comes alone. He is the eldest, the wisest. He looks me straight in the eyes. I cannot say what he looks like. He pounces on me and tears my clothing. He doesn’t touch me : he only attacks my clothes. Then he goes away. I am left alone; without thinking, I try to put my hand in my pocket. But I no longer have a pocket. I want to find the object I had in my pocket, which I was clutching between my fingers. All my thoughts are of this object. It was the only thing that I had brought with me, and now I don’t even remember what it was. I absolutely have to find it. My fingers ache for it, my body aches for it. Instinctively, my fingers search along my thigh, then they cut into the skin and dig down to the bone. But they find nothing. My bonds prevent me from searching any deeper. He comes back. He is older still, wiser still. He looks me in the eyes. He knows what I am about to ask him. He pounces on me and tears me apart. He is searching and searching. He rummages through every fragment. When he has found it, I shall be able to wake up. But I do not wake up; and as he is tearing me to shreds, I suddenly remember that my fingers were toying with a hole that was in the bottom of my pocket.

Last Memories

We must have been twelve years old. We had decided to harden ourselves. One night we crossed the river and set out towards the forest. We wanted to find the wolves’ clearing and spend the night under the threat of them. All day we told each other wolf-stories. We still had our heads full of them. We walked along under the moon, and our shadows seemed to leave the path and slink away between the trees. At the point where we should have taken the path that goes to the clearing, with one unspoken accord, we avoided it and followed a more pleasant route. None of us mentionned our cowardice. We went on walking in silence, thinking of our stories. The path led us to the river at the place where it forms a silvery lake. We had never seen anything so beautiful. A soft mist was rising from the surface, so that we could not make out what was real and what was reflected in the water. We decided to spend the night there, but none of us could sleep. We were thinking of the wolves’ clearing; our thoughts kept returning to it although we had never seen it; it took on a magical quality which cruelly tarnished the slightest reflection of the silvery lake. The next morning, when we got up, we only glanced scornfully at the lake and its incandescent mists.
We went home feeling as if we had done what we had set out to do. We knew we were capable of killing the most beautiful thing in the world.