snapping of the clapboards being torn away fills our ears. The rain is flooding into the attic now and I think of our old journals, our books, everything that we love that is going to be destroyed. The wind has shattered the garret windows and is rushing through the attic, howling, smashing the furniture. With a thunderous blast, it rips up a tree that comes crashing into the southern façade of the house, eviscerating it. We hear the sound of the veranda caving in. Mam pulls us out of the dining room just as a huge branch thrusts through one of the windows.
The wind enters the breach like a furious and invisible animal and for a moment I have the feeling that the sky has descended upon the house to crush it. I hear the clatter of furniture being overturned, windows breaking. Mam somehow drags us over to the other side of the house. We take refuge in our fatherâs office and remain there, the three of us crouching against the wall where the large map of the night sky hangs alongside that of Rodrigues. The shutters are closed, but even so, the wind has broken the windows and the hurricane waters are running over the parquet, over the desk, over our fatherâs books and papers. Laure clumsily attempts to put a few papers away, then sits back down, discouraged. Outside, through the cracks in the shutters, the sky is so dark youâd think it was night. And the incessant tumult of trees toppling all around us.
âLetâs pray,â says Mam. She hides her face in her hands. Laureâs face is pale. Sheâs staring unblinkingly at the window, and Iâm trying to think of the angel Gabriel. I always think of him when Iâm afraid. Heâs tall, surrounded by light, armed with a sword. Could he have condemned us, abandoned us to the raging sea and sky? The light is growing ever dimmer. The sound of the wind is shrill, high-pitched, and I can feel the walls of the house trembling. Pieces of wood fly away from the veranda, the shingles are torn off the roof. Branches are whirled up against the windows like blades of grass. Mam holds us tightly to her breast. Sheâs not praying either. Sheâs staring out with a steady, terrifying gaze, while the roaring of the wind makes our hearts quail. Iâm not thinking about anything, I canât utter a word. Even if I wanted to talk, thereâs such a furore that Mam and Laure couldnât hear me. An endless sound of destruction that reaches down into the very depths of the earth, a wave that is slowly, inexorably unfurling upon us.
It lasts for a long time, and weâre falling through the ragged skies, through the gaping earth. I hear the sea as I have never heard it before. It has gone over the coral reef and is coming up the estuary of the rivers, pushing the overflowing torrents out in front of it. I can hear the sea in the wind, I canât move any more: everything has come to an end for us. Laure, with her hands over her ears, is leaning against Mam in silence. Mam, wide-eyed, is staring fixedly at the dark shape of the window, as if to stave off the furious elements. Our poor house is shaking from top to bottom. On the southern end part of the roof has been torn off. The wind and gushing water are devastating the gutted rooms. The wooden partitioning wall of the office also splits apart. A little while ago, through the hole made by the tree, I saw Captân Cookâs cabin being swept away in the wind like a toy. I also saw the tall bamboo hedge bending to the ground as if an invisible hand were holding it down. In the distance, I can hear the wind pounding against the rampart of the mountains with a thunderous rumble that joins in with the rushing sound of the unleashed sea surging up the rivers.
At what point do I realize that the wind is easing off? I donât know. Before the roar of the sea and the cracking of trees come to an end, deep within, I am convinced that something has been released. I breathe in, the tight vice
The wind enters the breach like a furious and invisible animal and for a moment I have the feeling that the sky has descended upon the house to crush it. I hear the clatter of furniture being overturned, windows breaking. Mam somehow drags us over to the other side of the house. We take refuge in our fatherâs office and remain there, the three of us crouching against the wall where the large map of the night sky hangs alongside that of Rodrigues. The shutters are closed, but even so, the wind has broken the windows and the hurricane waters are running over the parquet, over the desk, over our fatherâs books and papers. Laure clumsily attempts to put a few papers away, then sits back down, discouraged. Outside, through the cracks in the shutters, the sky is so dark youâd think it was night. And the incessant tumult of trees toppling all around us.
âLetâs pray,â says Mam. She hides her face in her hands. Laureâs face is pale. Sheâs staring unblinkingly at the window, and Iâm trying to think of the angel Gabriel. I always think of him when Iâm afraid. Heâs tall, surrounded by light, armed with a sword. Could he have condemned us, abandoned us to the raging sea and sky? The light is growing ever dimmer. The sound of the wind is shrill, high-pitched, and I can feel the walls of the house trembling. Pieces of wood fly away from the veranda, the shingles are torn off the roof. Branches are whirled up against the windows like blades of grass. Mam holds us tightly to her breast. Sheâs not praying either. Sheâs staring out with a steady, terrifying gaze, while the roaring of the wind makes our hearts quail. Iâm not thinking about anything, I canât utter a word. Even if I wanted to talk, thereâs such a furore that Mam and Laure couldnât hear me. An endless sound of destruction that reaches down into the very depths of the earth, a wave that is slowly, inexorably unfurling upon us.
It lasts for a long time, and weâre falling through the ragged skies, through the gaping earth. I hear the sea as I have never heard it before. It has gone over the coral reef and is coming up the estuary of the rivers, pushing the overflowing torrents out in front of it. I can hear the sea in the wind, I canât move any more: everything has come to an end for us. Laure, with her hands over her ears, is leaning against Mam in silence. Mam, wide-eyed, is staring fixedly at the dark shape of the window, as if to stave off the furious elements. Our poor house is shaking from top to bottom. On the southern end part of the roof has been torn off. The wind and gushing water are devastating the gutted rooms. The wooden partitioning wall of the office also splits apart. A little while ago, through the hole made by the tree, I saw Captân Cookâs cabin being swept away in the wind like a toy. I also saw the tall bamboo hedge bending to the ground as if an invisible hand were holding it down. In the distance, I can hear the wind pounding against the rampart of the mountains with a thunderous rumble that joins in with the rushing sound of the unleashed sea surging up the rivers.
At what point do I realize that the wind is easing off? I donât know. Before the roar of the sea and the cracking of trees come to an end, deep within, I am convinced that something has been released. I breathe in, the tight vice
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