The Serpent of Stars by Jean Giono

daughter, too. Now, it’s too late. A hug for everyone there.”
    And I added to my letter a word to Barberousse. It was in a visiting card envelope and on the bottom I wrote, “For the shepherd.” I said to him, “Barberousse, so here’s how it stands. We must not miss the shepherds’ thing again. You talked to me about sheep, and the revolt, and your master who is buried in Saint-Martin-de- Crau. That filled me with longing. I have written to Césaire for him to watch for the man with the red scarf. Césaire, as you know, is a good man, but he has his work. He can’t spend all his time watching the road. I need to be sure; that’s why I’m writing to you, too. You, you get wind of things in the air. You said to me (you’ll remember), ‘The eagle’s shadow wakes you’ and then, ‘there, it’s the same thing.’ I want to ask you for a favor. Watch for me. I need to be there when the shepherds do their play. I’ll tell you why. It’s because I want to copy down what they say on paper, and then afterwards show it to people to make them see that shepherds aren’t just shepherds, but, as you say, the masters of the beasts. My warmest greetings.”
    Those letters calmed my anxiousness for three days. Then, Lardeyret who drives a stage cart between Manosque and Simiane came to
bring me the response. It was, “Good, count on it” on Césaire’s part and, on the part of Barberousse, “That’s fine.”
    I would have liked something more definite.
    I would wake in the middle of the night. It seemed to me that the days had run from everywhere like water through a basket. The calendar was downstairs in the kitchen. To go down, to check it, was to make noise on the steps, knock over chairs, upset the whole house. I remained sitting up in bed. Let’s see, yesterday, Thursday. It’s February; the wind is in the chimney, the bare branch of the rosebush scratching the window. Until June 24th, there was time. February! The sheep were in their shelters, in Crau, and the shepherds were playing lotto in the cafés in Arles and Salon. Sleep, you have time.
    Other times, in the thick of night, nothing indicated the season. Memories of past Junes were there alive all around me, the noise of watering in the fields, the smell of sap rising in the fig trees, the big leaves and the wind. All that so faint; I stopped breathing. The silence deceived my ears with its eternal drone.
    I wrote another letter to Césaire, another note to Barberousse.
    â€œWatch out,” I said, “It’ll soon be time. It’s May, I’ve already seen some of them.”
    And Lardeyret came back with the answers:
    â€œDon’t worry.”
    One morning, I tore off the page for May 31st from the calendar. There underneath was the month of June, as well hidden as a green lizard.
    The first day didn’t budge. The second day, a little uneasiness drifted in a long wind under a brand new sky, but the third day the tide of sheep overflowed from the hills to the south and the western passes at the
same time, and the great froth-browed herds made their way into our country.
    At last, a telegram was delivered to me, opened, all torn and crumpled, read by at least the hundred or so Jeans of Manosque. It was simply addressed to Monsieur Jean. It said, “Forward!” and it was signed Césaire.
    â€œYes,” I said to the carrier, “yes, it’s for me, don’t worry, I know what it is.”
    â€œSure?”
    â€œSure!”
    And I took my good curved walking stick. The sky played ball with that great noise of herds and all the echoes from the hills trembled with bleating.
    They had taken care of everything. Barberousse waited for me above Saint-Magloire in the open oaks. He had brought his long willow wood horn, and he sounded a good long and well-blown note in the direction of the pottery.
    He explained to me,