An Erymanthian Labour

The following is taken from the book I have been writing, from the third instalment, which I also submitted to a competition earlier this year.

A flayed club of thews slammed ferociously onto the table by the burly arm of the swarthy chasseur. In his other hand he brandished a horrendous knife and gave me a leonine smile, broad in almond cheeks. ‘I shot the beast myself,’ he said as he began to carve blood-hued slices onto my plate, ‘couple years ago. I cure all the beasts for Ubraye, I am the best charcutier. Today we celebrate Ubraye; she is our home, our chateau.’

At noon I had descended Mont Bernarde and when I thought I could smell again the thyme amongst the pine I had spotted Ubraye. Her coddled pink pantiles were salient in the green verdure, sat on a shoulder far in the valley low, belittled by mountainous escarpments beyond it. As I had arrived and moved between its stone walls, the sultry air uncloaked from around me and in that respite of cool I heard the clatter of laughter and the trickle of a lavoir.

I was late, they had giggled, as I unsubmerged my head from slaking my thirst in the lavoir. For what, I replied, squinting from the sun and the wet hairs of my fringe. Late to lunch!

The lively bunch, probably half of Ubraye, had been arrayed in the shady half of the place; around the tables littered with debris of plates, glasses and bottles of wine. I was enthroned on a old wooden chair, offered a cigarette and poured some glowing Limoncello with ice.. and when I had seen to that, they poured me another. The cooking was retrieved and spooned and dished. That was when the chasseur had struck his thews of boar.

‘You walking these forests?’ He eyebrowed, pointing his knife whilst between a slice, ‘Beware the sangliers, they are méchants, breed like rabbits, murderous if you get between their little ones.’

I nodded, everyone laughed and lunch reposed through the afternoon. Some dozed off in stupors of wine and sun; and underneath their chairs the chasseur lit a little firework, which gave even those awake a fright.

With gifts of cured boar stowed away in my rucksack, salty in smell and taste, darkly crimson, soft and smokey, it was time to adieu Ubraye. Now Nice beckoned from over the mountains…

That early evening I plunged back into the Haute Provence, taking tracks shelved into the steep of the cool pine forests. A stone cracked beneath my foot and all I heard was that, for a moment, suddenly hooves scampered in the shadows, little phantoms fleeting in away from sight as clumps of pine needles were thrown into the air. Then ensued silence as the drooping larches swayed. The chasseur’s warnings recalled and I felt the fear of Calydonian tusks hurtling towards me.

The twilight after next I was on the suburban ‘terraces’ above Nice; its turbid air gloomed and lights blinked in the distant below. I struggled to find a good spot to camp as the wilderness had disappeared, so I settled on the terrace of a building site of a minimalist mansion.

Removing my glasses, I slept. All night surpassed thirty degrees and the mosquitoes thought it fun to force me into my sleeping bag, torturing me with heat and sweat.

In the middle of the night I awoke to a noise and immediately sat up. A mere two metres in front of me, blurred in my shortsightedness, was a big black orb in the darkness. The orb moved as if startled at my sudden rise, and then the most blood curdling squeal clutched my heart through my ears. Shit! Boar! Shit! My mind raced as my hand simultaneously blindly groped for my glasses. This boar, my own Erymanthian Labour, hesitated for, what I could only imagine, my blood. Without weapon or wise I instinctively went for my lungs and, I will lie and say, let out a Herculean roar which stunned the beast, who squealing retreated and into the darkness routed.

My heart thundered. I found those glasses, cursed them, then thought whether to move. Decided against it, the standoff was won, put my glasses down and curled into my boiling sleeping bag.