The sky had the hoarse voice and the threatening tone of those who frighten children. “Ice thunder! thought Clopin, the three-legged deer. “I have to cross the bridge before it gets wet, my suede suit will shrink. The deer hobbled towards the lights of the Jacques-Cartier bridge, in the direction of Faubourg à m’lasse. “I believe in the night,” repeated the graceful animal to arm itself with courage. He knew Rilke by heart.
The purple shards of the bridge showed him the route to follow along the river bank. He was also very fond of the poetess Hélène Dorion, whom his doe mother recited to him in the evening during their ravages:
” it’s getting late
for human night
we can’t always
don’t start again we can’t
not always run away
at the end of the winters »
And now he was fleeing, called by a dream. The antennas on his head, picking up invisible waves, showed him the route to take (because nothing is given here below) to join an improvised crèche on Logan Street. It was planned for tonight. Castor oil was doing its job. Having for only calendar that of the dawns and the seasons, the roe deer had followed its instinct, this intimate GPS which was lacking in humans. His antlers guided him more surely than a star in a sky sponsored by Birks.
animal footsteps
matches the light
by the slowness of the world
I let myself be hugged
I don’t expect anything
of what does not tremble
Clopin was admiring the city and its lights from up there, when he noticed a black hole at the bottom of the bridge: the Faubourg was plunged into darkness, as if everyone had gone to bed.
“It’s as dark as a bear’s ass!”
Clopin turned round and did not see a living soul. Only a superb wooden horse with a golden mane stood near the exit to Île Sainte-Hélène. He was the one who had spoken despite his (hangover) hangover.
– There’s no electricity, Hydro is saving on December 24, it seems! Or it’s because of the ice…
The horse, still dashing, but broken up with cuts, had also borne the brunt of progress, replaced by gleaming plastic racing cars. “I know their ride! »
– What’s your name ?
“I’m Clopin.” And you?
“Murphy, like the law.
– The law ?
“The law of disasters,” replied the horse somewhat taciturnly. If it can go wrong, it will go wrong.
The two beasts crossed the deck of the bridge, guided by the instinct of Clopin, all shivering in the damp and icy wind of the night.
– There sale to dent the beautiful torrieu!
Murphy was neither hot nor cold, only afraid of fire.
“If you want to come with me, I’m going to warm up a manger,” Clopin informed him. I have heard that the emergency room is overflowing, the obstetrics departments too and Hydro, which will be or lack tightrope walkers after the ice storm. There is a woman who will give birth tonight. In addition, with the renovations in the Faubourg à m’asse, the young couple was cursed in the street.
“Damn humans. And it is said to be evolved. Did you follow COP15? I’m not one of the protected species… wooden horses, they don’t give a damn about their first visit to La Ronde. Where are you from ?
“I’m a white-tailed deer… from Longueuil, but they call us roe deer.” It is complicated. They gave us until spring to consecrate our camp. We are protected, but suspended.
Outside, is it infinity or just night?
Our two friends arrived on rue Logan, at the exit of the bridge, narrowly avoid a driver, just after the curve of death.
“Watch out Clopin! You will end up roadkill or on the Christmas dinner table, warns Murphy, foreseeing the announced catastrophy.
– And you, little wood to stuff the stove. You’re right, are crazy with their engine horsepower. They run after their tail and they have a short fuse. They are afraid of not arriving at Christmas at the same time as everyone else.
Turning the corner of the street, Clopin blinked his long eyelashes several times, not believing his slightly myopic eyes. He would have preferred to be a lynx to see better at night. A cow was ruminating in front of a patch of frozen grass. The cow smiled at them: “Finally! Of the world ! I mean, biodiversity. »
The mad cow, an escape from the herd of Saint-Barnabé, had taken the key to the fields and preferred the snow (mad too).
— My name is Fleurette. I was afraid of missing the show ! It’s here ?
– Are you coming for the delivery too? asked Clopin
– Yes ! I brought a little fort flask for the road. You want some ? It’s Gaspé gin.
– Oh yes ! It’ll ease the pain in my phantom limb, confided the tripod deer.
“No way,” Murphy refused. There are plenty of roadblocks, I don’t feel like having the beautiful ones on my back.
“I’m used to having them on my back,” Fleurette replied, without giving any more ribald details.
– It’s here, I think! Clopin cut in, spotting a shed behind the triplex. Would you like some Listerine? I found this in a pharmacy dumpster. Brand new.
The horse appreciated the attention, known for its breath to scare newborns. Fleurette took out her headphones: “I always put ‘Calm labor and delivery’ on Spotify when I calve. I really like Home Again. The list only lasts 4:53… But it helps. »
The other two accomplices felt that the Mauritian cow was bored of her calves.
‘My antennae tell me that the Magi won’t arrive on January 6,’ Clopin threw in to create a diversion. They are held in Egypt.
– No big deal, we’ll give him presents to the divine child. I have the udders that are about to burst; I stocked up on blue gold along the way. Water is precious. Without it, there is no life.
– Well thought ! Me, it will be a poem. I composed it yesterday, Clopin ventured.
“Stay there,” Murphy muttered, a bit Cartesian.
The deer blew a loud blow:
“Neither king nor mage I don’t know
tonight what words to offer you
I give you a moment of snow
a moment of summer
an eternity of desires
I don’t know what to do with it
I blow on your fingers
rather than mine
I add up four whispered words
to write you this poem in smoke
of voice:
Sleep, I’m here. »
The other two welcomed the poetic offering in silence, a bit moved. Murphy forgot his resentment for a few lines. Hare skins began to fall from the sky at this precise moment, when all the tales make their accounts and are about to bow out to dissipate into the incalculable.
‘Well, me,’ said Murphy, ‘not made of wood, as they say. I’m going to give her some essential oil some time. I have some left over, given my forced retirement. That’s what I used to oil my knuckles with.
‘Essential oil of thyme, you mean,’ corrected Fleurette, an epicurean who had seen her grandmother end her days in Provençal stew.
— No, no, TIME. Everyone misses it, humans have escaped it along the way. One cannot be more generous than by giving what does not come back.
Time has passed, the thyme has grown, but they say of this night of cotton wool in the Faubourg to get tired that when we heard O sleigh in the sky sung by Maryse Letarte, a child let out a little cry of surprise, greeted by a trio of heaters smelling of Listerine. It is also said that a child is born by taking its time, reminding us that we are not masters of our own.
Our hearts emptied in rage
Make us run crazy
Like mice in a cage
Who turn the wheel
I am the fire that shines
In the hollow of the fireplace
love is free
But not its substitutes
We say a lot of things, but you had to be there to believe it.