Mâ, the Ancient One of evolution, leads Gringo on adventures through the past & future of the Earth, from the pre-human forest to the forest of tomorrow.
Un 'Livre de la Jungle' à l'envers. Non plus un petit d'homme qui revient à la vie animale, mais un autre petit d'homme dans une tribu sauvage de la forêt amazonienne, qui cherche comment on sort de la Tribu humaine et le passage de 'l'Homme après l'Homme'. C'est la légende de l'évolution et de l'Ancienne de l'évolution, figurée par la 'reine' de la tribu, qui entraîne Gringo à la découverte des aventures passées de la terre - en Egypte, dans l'Atlandide, en pays arctique -, et dans l'aventure de l'avenir de la terre, chaque fois forçant le barrage des défenseurs de la Loi établie, que ce soit celle des anciens initiés, celle de la Tribu amazonienne, celle des spiritualistes ou celle des biologistes du XXième siècle. Car chaque sommet atteint devient l'obstacle du prochain cycle. Successivement, Gringo passe par la 'porte de braise', la 'porte de jade', la 'porte bleu', la 'porte de neige', avant d'arriver à la 'porte noire' du XXIième siècle et à la 'minute nulle' où les hommes disent NON à leur loi suffocante et consentent à ouvrir 'les nouveaux yeux de la terre'. l'auteur évoque ici l'aventure qu'il a vécue dans la forêt vierge de Guyanne à l'âge de vingt-cinq ans, et l'aventure qu'il a vécue auprès de Sri Aurobindo et de Mère dans l'avenir de la terre : toute une courbe, de la forêt pré-humaine à la forêt mystérieuse de demain.
A 'Jungle Book' in reverse. No longer a young boy returning to animal life, but another young boy in a wild tribe of the Amazon rainforest, who seeks to discover how one escapes from the human Tribe and the passage of 'Man after Man.' This is the legend of evolution and of the Ancient One of evolution, represented by the 'queen' of the tribe, who leads Gringo on a journey of discovery through the past adventures of the earth — in Egypt, in Atlantis, in the Arctic lands — and into the adventure of the earth's future, each time forcing through the barrier of the defenders of the established Law, whether that of the ancient initiates, that of the Amazonian Tribe, that of the spiritualists, or that of the biologists of the 20th century. For every summit reached becomes the obstacle of the next cycle. Successively, Gringo passes through the 'gate of embers,' the 'gate of jade,' the 'gate of blue,' the 'gate of snow,' before arriving at the 'black gate' of the 21st century and at 'zero minute,' where men say NO to their suffocating law and consent to open 'the new eyes of the earth.' The author evokes here the adventure he lived in the virgin forest of Guyana at the age of twenty-five, and the adventure he experienced alongside Sri Aurobindo and 'Mother' in the future of the earth: an entire arc, from the pre-human forest to the mysterious forest of tomorrow.
III
IT was like a cave, deep and dark. Gringo pressed and pressed against the wall — all his pain was gathered there. And it was like so many, many sorrows gathered together, one didn't know where they came from. It had no name, no meaning, but it ached deeply; it was perhaps old — oh! yes, it was very old, certainly as old as the growth of a whole tree, perhaps even of many trees. It reached far-far back there, at the bottom of this dark cave. And Gringo pressed and pressed against the wall. The little green serpent was cold and limp against his thigh. He was dead. This was death: a cave of pain. Gringo climbed and climbed the length of the cave — it was endless. There was not a sound, there was nothing — only pain, pure. For nothing. The walls were made of pain. And it was so old, this was what Gringo did not understand, as if all at once he bore the whole weight of... one does not know — there had been many times a little dead serpent on his thigh, birds, entire tribes dead, murdered, like his own. Death was very old. It was a very old cave. And a man's loud laugh — oh! that laugh... all the pain was in it. It was loneliness in the forest, suddenly — nothing communicated anymore. This was Gringo, alone: Gringo "the stranger." But I don't want this!
And Gringo clutched his little dead serpent, pressing and pressing against the wall of this cave, as if one had to go all the way to the end — never again could he open his eyes and whistle in the forest with this cave at the bottom of his heart. One cannot live with death inside! He had to kill death.
Suddenly, it was the bottom of the cave. A smooth, completely black wall, like beneath the waterfall up there on the slope of the serra. There was nothing to be done — it was black forever.
A parrot's cry rang out far away, outside. Life, the forest. But it would never be the same again. It would never be life again: it was rotten at the bottom.
Then Gringo opened his hands, released his little serpent. Gringo sank into naked pain. Everything became very still, beyond all cries, beyond even sorrow — for what? It was no longer sorrow, it was nothing — a mass of silence, almost suffocating, as if his life would stop right there, as if all his being was gathered in a small, poignant corner, so poignant, and so fragile, so fragile — like a tiny breath at the bottom, oh! very ancient too, rejoining all the dead tribes and all the dead serpents and all the dead of the dead: the place where it begins. A first light breath beneath layers and layers of black. There was no more meaning there. There was only a small pure breathing, like a forgetting of everything save this tiny pulsing point.
A forgetting of everything.
It was warm, it was soft, this little spot, like the hollow of a nest. Like the beginning of the world.
It was like "I love," purely. It was the only thing that was.
Then there was a tear at the bottom of the cave. A tiny white gleam like a cloud. It was completely round, completely soft; it seemed he was drawn in there. He sank into the white well. The walls fell, dissolved; there was no more cave, there was no more death — what a strange thing! And it grew and grew, Gringo was as if filled with a white fluffiness, a foam of light soft as pollen: it contracted, dilated, contracted, dilated... a warm beating like a bird's heart, but filling everything — everything. There was no more Gringo: the world was a white pulsation that made a little serpent, a basilisk, a leaf in the wind and a little child of man, and all one might wish.
It was even a little golden. One might have said another life.
Or the same, but so different.
— Haï!
He nearly toppled. A warm hand held his shoulder. His eyes fluttered. The little green serpent slipped between his fingers and swam away into the igapó.
Before his nose was a round face with a red headband. It was Quiño, his friend.
— Well, you have a strange look about you!
He was perhaps thirteen, his skin was like dark gold. He had a flute in his hand. They burst out laughing together and it was so good to laugh.
Night was falling; the whole igapó had covered itself in rosy shimmer. The mosquitoes came to murmur in their ears and bite.¹ Gringo gathered his bark covering and wrapped himself in a single gesture. He was beautiful, standing straight against the rose-bathed trunks.
— You look like you've come from the snow mountains, like Ma.
¹ Mosquitoes.
The frogs began to tune their instruments first a little silver hammer, quite clear, quite alone, then dozens, then deep raspings. The song of the night was beginning.
— Quiño... what if we knew how to fly?
Quiño raised his nose, sniffed the air, and scratched his ear.
— Well... I'd better ask my flute about that.
He scratched his ear again, pulled his headband to the center of his forehead:
— We've got nothing to eat tonight.
Silently, they took the path back to the carbet.¹
But something remained written like fire on Gringo's forehead: "One must kill death."
And all at once he thought: "But damn it! — my serpent was dead!"
¹ Carbet: a hut, a camp.
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