The Serpent of Stars by Jean Giono Page A

“First, it’s to tell him, ‘be ready,’ and then it’s to tell him, ‘relax, he’s here.’ What worries we’ve had!”
    And, in the clearing, the wagon was all ready and on the point of setting out to sea. Césaire was up on the seat and holding onto a little black-and-white mare with both fists, her back end dancing around and splashing the prow of the cart with her long tail shivering like rippling water. She clattered her four hooves impatiently.
    We quickly settled in. Barberousse went to the back, on the blankets. I had the grandfather’s coat again. I was next to the pilot, and this time we took with us the young sorceress with the yellow eyes.
    The departure was so sudden that all four of us let out an “Oh!” This
cry sounded shrilly in the mare’s ear and she shot off at full speed like a fish, and already the foam from the grass spurted out along beside us.
    This first swim into the hill’s surf I will remember all my life. All along that wild slope descending toward Saint-Michel and over which Césaire led us by shortcuts, our wagon, its sides too high, swayed right and left through the waves of thyme. We hung on to the stays.
    Sometimes, a “Watch your heads!” from Césaire made us crouch down into the hold, and we passed full speed through the foam of a chestnut tree, through the lower branches.
    Sometimes in the middle of flat country, a bit reassured by our wake stretched out like a thread, a high wave lifted us up to make us touch the sky. We fell back down, all askew, every joint creaking, and I said to myself, “In case of shipwreck, you jump onto the tiller and you stay there!”
    Finally, the two wheels landed level on the hard road. Césaire stopped the mare, wiped his forehead, took up the reins again, and asked, “What time is it?”
    Oh! This time we were rich in navigational instruments.
    Barberousse rummaged around in his jacket and drew out his big watch.
    â€œEight o’clock,” he said.
    â€œWe’re okay,” said Césaire. And then, “Avanti!”
    And with a loop of the reins, he stung the mare’s rear.
    Â 
    NIGHT came.
    We sliced through the village of Ongles at a trot-gallop, extended and solid. The milestone at the turn sparked under our iron wheels. People came out of the café to look at our cloud of dust. From there, we
skirted around a horn of Lure, into a little valley which raised its high wave of bare rocks in warning. At Saint-Etienne, we stopped under the plane trees to light our lantern. It was just a bottle with a hole in the bottom and a candle stuck inside it. Barberousse held it out above us.
    We followed along Lure, but by a snaking route that wove round all the contours of the high hill like twines of ivy. The breath of the high ground cut across us with sudden gusts of wind as cold and solid as blocks of ice. Barberousse used his whole body to protect the candle, and then he extended a wing of his greatcoat, and we heard the sail clap and the mare galloped. My belly was all tickly from the rises. The swell of the open sea carried us along as its waves of earth unrolled.
    A detour faced us into the wind at the mouth of a valley. The candle went out. The mare, who’d gotten a blast of wind right in her nostrils, stopped dead against the darkness. Césaire tacked gently into the night. I hung onto the sides.
    â€œPrepare the matches.”
    The wind whipped us on the sides, two turns of the wheels, and then it hit us right on the back.
    â€œLight them.”
    And we had to face the stampede once again.
    We had gone past Cruis.
    â€œWhat time is it?” asked Césaire.
    â€œHold the candle, my girl.”
    Barberousse fished around and found his watch. We had not stopped galloping.
    â€œA little after nine.”
    â€œGood. Avanti! ”
    â€œGive me the candle, my girl.”
    One last hill threw us right into the open