The Secret

Dear stranger, I'm writing for you, you who have just discovered this box buried on this day which hold for me, an uncertain future....

  My name is Lucille, I'm eleven and a half years old and I'm in Middle School, in Year 10, and today, I'm about to launch this bottle into the sea which will relive me of from this terrible secret that was too getting far too hard to bear those last hours. Well, when I say that I am going to throw a bottle in the sea, it's a way of speaking: I live in Burgundy, in the Brionnais at exactly 585m above the sea level which is a bit far. I preferred then to entrust this missive, and the objects which accompany it, to the waterproof and metallic guard of a small box which will be buried soon under the vinegar plant next to the tomb of Igor, my erstwhile favorite companion...

It all started three days ago with a searing trail of pain, screams and tears: the brutal news broke: Edward had killed himself with his scooter. Despite the horror of this and my grief, I still wasn’t surprised…

 Edward is my English cousin, my uncle's son who is my father's brother. I have known him since always, from a very young age. He lived with his parents, Uncle Henry and Aunt Dollie, in England, in Plymouth and he was for me, in a way, "a holiday cousin" much more available than some other French cousins, closer yet geographically. Generally, every other year, during the holidays, we meet, alternately on the territory of the other. I preferred, of course, to go to his place rather than to receive him in Burgundy; it was much more fun. I like Plymouth, it is a pleasant port city, still a bit military from its past. Uncle Henry, bored of London, had bought a big house there in a small street, just behind the beach. As we could only see the sea from the second floor, my uncle had decided, without discussion, that this is where his living room would be, thus exiling on the ground floor two of the four bed rooms of the house. This strange arrangement which isolated the guest rooms from the rest of the household did not worry me too much: I mainly came for the beach. We went there almost every day with our family and Edward, four years older than me, protective, took me by the hand. After setting up our parents' camp, we quickly escaped. He always wanted to direct operations; excited, he led me away from the waves, to build citadels of sand. At first I followed him, happy with the idea of ​​building castles "in Spain" and we then modelled real works of art to the admiration of passers-by. But very quickly, I realized that after all these efforts, before going home, with destructive and furious anger he wiped out, mercilessly, our magnificent creations. How dare he? I was shocked, and when I asked him why he was doing this, he replied, theatrical and with emphasis: "Life, ephemeral, exists only as of death". At the time I did not understand this sentence, and I thought he was talking about butterflies ("éphémére" in french is a day fly) who did not have the chance to live very long. It was much later that I understood the heavy meaning of these words ...

The next day, back at the beach, I firmly refused to build other forts with him, arguing that if what he said was right, I didn’t see why you had to tire yourself out to make something knowing that it was destined to be destroyed so brutally. He sneered, and then promised me that he would no longer destruct our fortresses of sand, and on this subject, things had remained there ...

 Like other painful milestones of his madness, the episode of the swing holds a poignant place. Edward, at that time, was only ten years old, and me six ... Aunt Dollie, romantic always wanted a swing in her "Garden", and Uncle Henry had managed to set up one at the bottom of their handkerchief pocket (what it really looked like for us who lived on a large property in Burgundy). I liked it when Edward pushed me higher and higher, so high that I felt dizzy. One day, he got on the swing, pushed it with all the strength he could muster, at the limit of his possibilities, then, when he felt that he could not go any further, he stupidly let go of the ropes and flew like an angel in the air while screaming loudly: "I believe I can fly!". It may be necessary to clarify that this cursed swing was near a ditch. Okay, not a very deep one, but still a ditch. We had to take him to the hospital: he had broken a leg. I remember I cried that day, but, comfortingly, he took me in his arms saying that it was only a game, and he made me swear nevertheless not to say that he had knowingly let go of the swing ...

 Edward was far from stupid, very far from it even, but unquestionably, he liked danger. After this event, his parents removed the swing from the "Garden", advantageously replaced by a magnificent bench from the Victorian era, with pretty cast iron Lions feet.

 Unfortunately, over time, things had not improved. He still loved the absurd risk. This morbid fascination for danger was his second skin which, too often for my taste, had to be painfully sewn up and down ...

 Three years later, nothing too serious had happened, apart from the usual blows, bumps and bruises: routine.

 That year, it was the turn of “the English” to come and spend their holidays in Burgundy. One day of good weather, during one of our usual walks in the surrounding forest, when Edward and I were in the lead, I heard my parents talking with Uncle Henry and Aunt Dollie about mushrooms. Indeed, the season had started, and you could see many little heads emerging from the ground. Edward must have listened to the conversation too, for he began to observe the surroundings, with a disturbing gleam in his eyes, when suddenly he uttered a cry when he saw a small bench of very pretty brown mushrooms strewn with white flakes, against down the trail. He immediately took me by the sleeve, training me excited at the foot of his discovery. There he snatched one; the most beautiful and the biggest and said to me: "We are going to play the "Russian Mushroom Game". Seeing my puzzled expression, he added: "You'll see, it's very simple: we eat the mushroom, and if we stay alive, it means we won!" which he did directly with the one he had in hand. "Your turn now!"

 I looked at him, stunned. Was he stupid or what?! Why should I earn what I already have and risk my life losing it?! Anyway I was not so enthusiastic about the idea of ​​swallowing this mushroom which had a nasty texture and whose name and effects I had no idea, not even knowing if it was edible! So I flatly refused his proposal, and furthermore, told him of my concerns.

 As usual, he giggled stupidly, but already his attitude had changed: his eyes were oddly fixed and he began to make incomprehensible words in pathetic franglish. A few seconds later he started to stagger. Panicking, I abandoned him and rushed to meet our parents: "Papa, Papa! Edward ate a weird mushroom!"

"What? Where?" cried Aunt Dollie who had turned pale. "Over there! In this area!" Everyone rushed to the cursed place. Edward, this time extremely agitated, was completely delirious. "You have to take him to the emergency room!" said Dad but Mom did not agree: "No, Roanne is too far, we are taking him to the Firefighters of Cluny, they will know what to do!" she said, coating in one of her handkerchiefs, perfectly ironed, a little brother of the famous mushroom. Papa and Uncle Henry took turns running Edward to the house where he was engulfed in the back of Uncle Henry's big Audi but since he was too stunned it was Papa who took the wheel, losing that day, fortunately virtually, the equivalent in points of a dozen driving licenses that he would, anyway, never pass again.

 Half an hour later, the results came: Edward had eaten an Amanita Pantherina, a toxic but rarely fatal fungus which causes intoxication where neuropsychic signs dominate, for a few long hours, behavioural disorders style: euphoria or anger, agitation, disorientation, delirium, hallucinations...

 On the following holidays, I did not see Edward. His parents, frustrated by his behavior, had decided to send him to a summer camp at the scouts. We only had the echo of his Achievements by a written appreciation of his leader: "Very good and cheerful comrade, total daredevil, courageous, but too fearless. Would make an excellent soldier." and there, the manager added with typical British humor: "but only for a few months!" ...

 All of this remained in the Past and we all believed that he had finally subsided... Until this fatal accident: Edward, at 80 km / h, having lost control of his machine had struck a stone arch, Jacqueline Wilson Street, near the beach. According to experts, death had been instant, so he, fortunately, did not suffer. For the rest, the specialists were formal: he had not braked! Shortly after hearing the dreadful news, a childhood memory suddenly resurfaced from one of the pain drawers in my memory and made me seriously doubt the credibility of this scenario: I was standing on the step stools of Edward's blue bike, holding him by the shoulders in a small park in Plymouth, Victoria Park precisely. He was riding his bike and I was directing him with an arm movement, as if he were my steed, and we were galloping off towards an imaginary world of which only we had the secret.

 There was a very beautiful arcade in this park, with cast iron columns and melded flowers wrapped around it. Often we had fun rushing down a sloping path before crossing the arch, our eyes closed but the body full of adrenaline with great cries. At that time, he used to roar "Now, close your eyes, we're going to cross it!", and this exactly at five meters from the "goal", always delimited by our passage in front of the same small stone statue, representing Hades and Persephone on their throne. I had always been convinced that Edward didn't really close his eyes, that it was just to make me cry out in fear, although once, however, he had seriously injured his shoulder on one of the sharp flowers of one of the columns. With a bloody arm, he hadn't cried but was worried about the bike, looking for some scratch ... This game had lasted until the day when a park warden surprised us at full speed, our four eyes closed, in the middle of the arch. Horrified, he threatened to warn our parents, and the matter was therefore settled...

 It is true for me today as well: I have the firm conviction that Edward once again closed his eyes, once too many ...

 I feel depressed and guilty. Should I have spoken, confessed to Aunt Dollie or to my parents? I don't know if it would have changed anything. I was little, I couldn't possibly picture what was going to happen...

   For this long trip, I decided to not let my poor cousin go alone and ill-equipped: that's why I entrusted to Gaïa, our Mother Earth, this little box and the four objects it contains, so that it arrives at its destination, whatever it is.

 I first "borrowed" two sesterces from dad's Roman money collection so that Edward, he who loved mythology so much, could pay his fare to Charon, the Ferryman. Charon, among the Greeks of the Old Times, is the ferryman of the Underworld, responsible for carrying on his boat the souls of the deceased until they reach the kingdom of Hades. He is an immortal being and I thought that if Edward paid him in Euros, a far too recent currency, he might not accept it.

 I then gave him my compass, so that he could find his bearings in the immensity of the Netherworld .

 Then, I also slipped into the little bag, a karda, the little auxiliary knife of the khukuri, the Nepalese dagger that has been in the family for decades. It will be for him the symbol of his "terrestrial warrior" state so that he can prove his rank, like the Vikings who thought that only combatants accompanied by their weapons won the right to access Valhalla.

 Finally, "the last but not least", the most important: I offer him my gold medal, representing St-Christophe carrying baby Jesus on his back. St-Christophe is considered the saint benefactor of travelers, whatever the trip may be. I am sure He will bring him luck ...

 Here. I told you everything and I feel much better now. It is as if after all this time, I am released from invisible heavy chains. I hide part of my memories as I bury this heavy, heavy secret for eternity in this corner of the garden that we often spend time at.

 Edward, you were just a little butterfly, far too fleeting for such a long human life. May God take you under His Mercy, rest in peace.

Lucille, Bourgogne, Monday October 28 of the Annus Horribilis 2008