The Stories, The Poems, and The Prose of Nadine Sellers

In the land of Jacquou le Croquant it's easy to be swayed by fear, the kind of visceral phobia that drenches your neck in cold sweat on the grayest of days. Old songs and vilanelles written about the infamous cannibalistic killer intrude on the mind at every turn of this dark and savage land. So when uncle Édouard asked me if I wanted to go to the inner province of Périgord for my very first ride in a private car. I felt an instantaneous shiver run up the center of my being; no one ever drove into the deep interior without some special purpose. No one ever told a child any specific details about anything, much less a girlchild, so I held my hand on my chest with controlled delight and didn't ask.

I spent nights at my grandmother's and fulfilled my days at work doing various chores on the farm. On the eve of the great trip, I had sent some tentative conversational bait in order to feed my insatiable curiosity. "What's out in Dordogne, grandmére?" I had ventured.

"Nothing any different than what goes on right here!" she had curtly replied rolling her r's against her palate.

My grandmother's insistent dialect was a sign of distance; she had been retracting in the ancestors' language, to protect some ill-fitting sentiment or reasoning which I could not comprehend, I had stood there, rag in hand forgetting what chores I was supposed to be doing. Was she apprehensive about me being in the car? I had heard that she had vowed never to ride in that contraption, distrusting any and all modern conveniences.

The previous day I had gone to my great cousin's farm and had casually introduced the subject of the dark woods far to the south east of our canton, the old widow had turned her head so rapidly that I was startled.

"What are you asking?" the puckering lips had spat at me. Aware of the secrecy surrounding the trip I had fidgeted with my apron and blushed the question away.

"I hear they have the best truffles out there!"I'd casually added.

"Keep to your own onions," the sour words had rang behind me as I'd retreated softly. Then I had gone to find my cousins.

"Don't you want to go in the car?" I had inquired.

"We go in it all the time, besides you couldn't get me to go there," Arnaud had retorted slyly. I always knew when there was no need to press the point.

During the interminable night before the big trip, a fox must have been trying to find a way into the rabbit cages, the dog was yapping uncontrollably. I had not yet slept and it was past the hour when quiet is only as loud as the creatures that inhabit the bushes; when every feather and every hair rustles and rings in the predator's ear. The corn leaf mattress crinkled under me as I stirred to let my right hip rest for awhile. Thoughts flooded my consciousness no matter what I tried to conjure in order to divert the swelling anxiety. imagination crowded moments of total silence, could there be any rare animals left in central France? Perhaps some kind of weasel that came into barn yards to kill every fowl, for shear satisfaction of a dark instinct? Were there remnants of prehistoric beings no one knew still existed? I needed to get up and go to the outhouse, but the cloud cover was printing anonymous shadows on the wallpaper and chickens were stirring nervously close to the backdoor, right below my window. Legs twisted in painful retention, I waited until dawn for relief.

Grandmother was already at the hearth when I swung by the staircase. I wondered if she had waited all night long for me to run outdoors, the village women were all watching for me. In some vicarious sense they lived every move I made. None paid so much attention to my cousins - they seemed to be sure no one would dare hurt either of them, and I suspected no one cared. I knew no one would hurt me; at age eleven I was the youngest of the family name, I had the faith of the nuns who educated me in town during the school year, and Id already earned the respect of a judo teacher, so why would the entire village scrutinize me so? Every descendant of the family lines stood ready to criticize, excuse or attribute my every behavior to my heritage; each one resentful of my parent's preference for what they perceived as the easy life in the big city.

"She's just like her father I tell you - she's got her head in the clouds that one, and i've seen her catch snakes too!"

"Well, as long as she doesn't grow up to be like her mother, that's all right," they'd whisper.

I rushed to bring a bucket of well water for morning wash and shook my fresh overdress. Night had not waited for rest, breakfast was already in progress, three minute eggs perched atop porcelain holders like scalped bald heads, ready to be slurped with grilled bread sticks. My cousins made their entrance with great yawning and pursing of lips, alternately as if on chorus. Uncle Édouard turned toward me and hinted an apologetic smile, I felt redeemed.

"I wouldn't go anywhere on such a hot day," said fourteen year old Élyse.

"It's too far and there is absolutely nothing there," added fifteen year old Maryse on cue.

My cousins were pouting, lifting shoulders and bulging eyes to signal overwhelming boredom. I remembered the adage "toad spit cannot reach the lofty dove" and I lifted my chin.

I dipped my bread in the open egg shell to catch every drop of soft yolk, shrugging the daily redundant rejections. Arnaud, who was the oldest and very grown up, finally appeared at the stairwell, nonchalantly putting on his hunting vest. He did not like his eggs like the girl's - he invariably ate two, fried and crisp, in a thick bowl at the head of the long table; now that he was sixteen, he reigned as second in command of the local fiefdom. That morning I heard no complaint, saw no sneer, felt no pinching; I was impervious to all.

"Allons-y" my aunt Régine was calling by the car door - I had never seen her so elegant before, I had never seen her wear heels. I stood admiring the four door black Citroën front traction: it was always covered by a cotton tarp when parked in the ancient stables, so I had not yet seen it's sleek black body. My aunt and uncle were watching me intently; I realized that I was speechless and immobile in front of the only car in town. I can't remember seeing them so close, so together . I felt as if I were their chosen child, for this trip, for now, and I was indeed duly impressed by their newest possession. The course was mapped out, the motor was purring and I felt the powerful thrust pull me into the soft backseat. Suddenly I realized that my grandmother had not been near the entry hall when we had left, I could not remember saying good bye to her, but the fields were singing in full summer bloom. I was leaving for parts unknown, so, I stuffed the thought of grandmére in my chest, somewhere between my pulse and my breath, where she lived safe from daily strife for most of my conscious life. I made a promise to myself that I would give her a detailed account of the whole marvelous adventure.

The sight of trees, so familiar on foot or by bicycle, took on shapes of evasion as if they were moving along westward: they flicked by in dark shapes bent by the wind that poured into the rear window; they bowed and disappeared like actors vanishing into the background of staged lands. Oblivious to my presence In the front seat, uncle and aunt were talking. I played hide and seek with the incoming ribbon of white road filing in between their round heads, alternately closing eyes and ears to reality, drawn by the pull of inertia, then opening them wide again in a clashing and cleaving of senses, rushing by the black car hood that swallowed the road a few feet ahead of my body. Soon neither voices nor wild grasses could keep me alert, and steady vibrations lulled me into deep hypnosis.

When I awoke the tires were rolling smoothly on a narrow paved strip, the overhead canopy of veteran oaks and chestnuts formed an impenetrable prison wall, the verdant tunnel seemed endless and legends bounced off the cool darkness, unfinished stories, unfinished sentences, eyes turned away. My uncle and his wife looked so serious and silent now. Were they going to take me to an orphanage or to a farm out of the main path? I drew no attention to myself. After an entrancing hour or so, we emerged onto a hilly wooded landscape.

"There, there, see that dirt road, slow down will you!" my aunt Régine was waving the map.

"Calm down, I'm not blind!" Uncle Édouard replied in a surly tone. He blew the road dust from his nose with a walrus sound. Gravel scattered under us as we entered a rutted path. I gasped as the vehicle barely cleared a bridge made of thick tree trunks, my aunt loosening the grip she had on her lips just long enough to yelp. I'd never heard any distress from her before. Deep ruts swung us from side to side between bramble hedges, and my uncle swore at every scratching sound on the car's shiny carcass. Suddenly we lurched into an open courtyard and came to a stop on a grassy meadow.Surrounded by dark oak sentinels our gaze moved collectively to the front of a fielstone farm topped by a low thatch roof. My aunt muttered some message to my sober uncle.

"And don't get out of the car. You always offer too much," she warned. Fat grey geese were so busy sounding the alarm that my aunt didn't see the white gander opening his wings like a great umbrella, bending his neck into a forward sword aimed straight at her. Outstretched toward the hem of her skirt, the angry Toulouse fowl struck my aunt's leg repeatedly with sharp honks blaring across the backwoods in unison with its victim's cries.

A woman rushed out of the dilapidated cottage and shooed the mad avian menace, she grabbed a tortuous cane and wacked the big bird so hard that he choked. The flock settled at a safe distance, she brushed her greasy hands on a soggy apron. My aunt had taken her purse out of its hiding place under the seat and was keeping it as a shield between her and danger. Neither woman was smiling - the farm wife was looking around and I could sense there were men somewhere, in the brush, in the shed; everywhere, staring at us, waiting.

"Don't move, your aunt will take care of things, like she always does," my uncle commanded. The farmer's hair was whacked close to her little round head, her piercing eyes seemed too closely spaced for the wide pale cheeks.

"What's that you want?" She spoke in a rough low voice, her lips barely parted and stiff. My aunt walked away from the car and spoke to her in a secretive tone. I held my breath but could not hear the discourse.

Children came pouring in from the edges of the clearing, barefooted dirty kids; one girl in muddy grey panties wiped thick snot on her mother's dress, another peeked around with big eyes encircled with a pink conjunctivitis ring that made her look like a sad two legged calf. Two boys sprinted across the slippery mud, I believe they were boys. They were shoving each other lamely behind the woman's dress where she was trying to hide them. An older one appeared between bushes at the border of the woods behind the house. My aunt made a sign of acquiescence directed to the right of the stone hut ahead of us. Another stouter adolescent sidled by the first then both moved forward as if a great wind was holding them back. My aunt motioned for them to come near the car. They wove a hesitant drunken path toward my uncle; he nodded his head in encouragement. As if by covert signal, a slender old man showed himself at the shed door. He was carrying a shotgun conspicuously laid across a wooden box full of what seemed to be dirt clods.

Aunt Régine was holding her purse under her bosom, elbows like vise grips on either side. She motioned for us to get the adolescent boys into the car, quickly. They were huddled nervously against the fender, one looking at his ma with head cocked, pleading silently. The woman kept her gaze on the ground, shuffling her feet in tight muddy patterns.

"What's your names?" uncle Édouard asked. The boys scuffled like two roosters on a branch.

"He Jacquou, me Georgeou," the stronger teen muttered. I slipped out of the car and held out my hand. The youths stared at my outstretched palm and hid their hands far under their armpits. My uncle gently steered the stouter one into the back seat; the other was about to dart out when I was abruptly ordered to sit down, which froze the skinny one huddling next to his sibling. All three of us huddled in utter discomfort in the humid afternoon of a dreary wasteland. We remained mute and immobile .

I stretched to see what my aunt was doing; she was wagging a wad of bills at the woody arms of the man I'd seen toting his gun on the crate full of black stuff. The wife was now herding her youngsters toward the little house, like a goose scolding her unruly goslings. She came back out with a bucket full of jars of what appeared to be fattened goose livers. When the man saw her, he hurled a scream that threw the three of us against the back of the seat. The boys froze with blank eyes and slack jaws. My aunt angrily flung bills into the air around the gesticulating man. He was still yelling insults at her when she climbed in the front seat in such a hurry the great elephant eared doors of the Citroën flew shut from the hasty retreat. We had reached top speed in mere seconds.

I suddenly became aware of a massive rythmic quaking. It was not the vehicle that caused it. I dared to turn my head to see the boys curved into a fetal position they shook the springs with uncontrollable trembling, my uncle pushed his side window outward to dissipate the stench emanating from these rustic guests. My distinguished uncle was not apparently conscious of the trauma being played out by my side. As we reached the asphalt, the shaking seemed to grow even more pronounced, neither youth looking up. I pretended to be absorbed elsewhere for fear of embarrassing them with my intense observation. This being my first trip in a private car, I imagined it also was theirs; I had ridden on buses to the seaside - to grandmother's house and to beautiful mountainous Andorra, so I considered myself a seasoned traveler, I attempted to entertain them, to distract them.

"This car is a good car - it sure is smoother than my father's big truck on the Paris road," I mused, and their shivering ceased momentarily. I stirred on my side of the seat to provide more room for the larger one called Georgeou, then I tapped one light finger on his elbow and, with hand outstretched, showed him all the space I had made just for him. He stiffly nodded "no," so I nodded "yes" with a timid smile. The boys seemed painfully aware of my presence, of the car's movement, of my stern uncle and staid aunt. The road unrolled by kilometers on either side of us, putting more and more distance between them and whatever life they had known.

Uncle Édouard turned to the odd group we made and, passing a bag to me, he suggested "why don't you share these sandwiches, princess. These boys must be starved."

For once I had forgotten that it was past lunch time, I was so confused - and no one was telling me why I was in a car on a hot afternoon playing nursemaid to two medieval hunchbacks, or why we were driving so fast. I took the newspaper wraps off the sandwiches, the boys eyes furtively moved in synchronized motion with the large bread generously slathered with fig preserves on one side, goat cheese on the other. Georgeou took the offering in a swift motion, so as to avoid touching my hand; the other waited. I held his out away from his curled up knees, close to the back of my aunt's seat. I shook the sandwich.

"This one is for you, please take it. I am very hungry - I have one for myself." I held the sandwich in my open hand. He snatched the bread as a wolf pup takes bait. I then began eating while they kept their eyes fixed on my food; they finally lunged into theirs. Looking at my uncle's ruddy neck above his impeccable shirt, they lowered their legs to the floor of the car, as if it were going to jump up at them or sink from under us. Arms loosened away from ribs, they chewed with open mouth, belching between bites. I realized that my aunt was sporting a smirk, turning her head away from the boys; my uncle was a little more reserved, spine perfectly straight and elbow out in the breeze - he seemed content enough to have driven away without incident.

"Well, you struck a bargain this time," he told aunt Régine with a nod of approval.

"The bastard'd rather sell his brood than his truffles - I couldn't get him to part with one single box of 'em, and you'd think his wife could have let me have a jar or two of foie gras. But no, she kept them to herself. Can you imagine they don't have money to live on but they eat two hundred francs a pound worth of mushrooms instead of selling them to me. I would have paid good money for them," she said.

"Chhhht!" my uncle interrupted her, pointing his head toward the back seat.

"Well, they're better off where they're going. That miserable wretch must have had twenty, thirty pounds of good black truffles - they eat like kings and reproduce like dogs," my aunt fumed.

"No need to talk like that," my uncle told the wind. Then, turning his head toward the eldest boy, "you used to hard work son?" he asked kindly. "Ouai" the boys grunted in taciturn acquiescence.

For an instant they sank into the seat. I handed the bottle of water from my bag, throwing my thumb up to my mouth in a guzzling gesture. They drank, I didn't. "How old are they?"uncle Édouard asked.

My aunt shrugged her shoulders. "The mother said about fourteen. She's not sure, but they'll work out fine. If they don't, you take them back - I'm not feeding no lazy retards," she stated flatly. My uncle's head spun around to see if we were listening. The smelly boys had quit trembling and were chancing a few glances at the scenery outside. My uncle knew I had heard.

I awoke startled, Georgeou jumped in his seat: my head must have slid upon his arm in the swaying motion of the meandering road, and he had allowed me to rest undisturbed; there hung a soft haze across his relaxed face and I forgot how primitive these lads had seemed to me. The car was now parked by a country inn. A steep stone-faced cliff brooded behind it and flower pots beamed red flashes of color in the overwhelming canyon of green and grey. My aunt directed us to an outdoor table which was protected by a grape trellis. There we sipped fresh lemonade until my relatives came back from dinner inside

"Your mother, she's a good boss? She give money for me, Jacquou she give nothing for - he not much good." Georgeou was more inclined to talk now.

"She's my aunt, my mother gave me to her to work." I hung my head.

"We get one sack of potatoes a month and one pair of work clothes every year, my Ma tell me," Jacquou perked up.

"She take my brother before, she say she get me and Jacquou later if we grow some, and we get a place too, for the two of us - and a garden!"

" a couple rabbits and chickens to start"

" a bottle of wine every day !" They alternated rising slightly from the bench each time they spoke.

"What's that? never taste!"

"A lemon"

"What's a lemon?"

I could see my aunt approaching us now. Fully bonded in our worker's union, the young men and I fell silent. We sat appropriately, careful not to touch. As we neared my ancestral village Georgeou dared ask my name. "My name is Natalie!" I shouted in his ear over the dry road noise. " Princess." he declared with decisive new courage.

We never again spoke so much, nor did we ever sit so close; they kept their place and I, mine. The road vibrations still whirred in our legs for awhile. My aunt let my uncle out at the family farm for evening chores and drove us to the ancient farm, which would become their home for the rest of their natural lives. On the kitchen table there lay a sack of potatoes and two pairs of blue work pants, as promised; two corn husk mattresses and two blankets rested at the bottom of the stairs. The boy's wide open pupils attested to their pride in these new spacious accommodations. The kitchen alone was larger than their family's shack. Dusk had settled over the cemetery across the street, and my aunt seemed anxious to return to our place. For the first time she addressed her new helpers.

"I'll be here at dawn, so be ready with your good pants on, but burn these - they stink!" she spoke gruffly. Then, as an afterthought, "here, that's our best piquette." She set a bottle of thin vinegary homewine on the table.

That night I remembered pieces of conversations overheard at work in the fields, one day laborer talking to another bent over beets.

"It was him that did it! I know 'cause she wanted to leave. He was drunk - traded some tools to get himself some cognac, couldn't read or talk right, sure could swing an ax!."

Tales traveled the evening winds like pollen; some landing upon my imagination in mysterious patterns

all I knew was that a young woman had disappeared, a young man from the inner province had fallen through the smoldering oak floor at the servant's house, and now we had two new boys, who would grow to replace them.

Would someone replace me someday? How many truffles was I worth?