“Annese? What’s the Annese?
“Oh, them. We called them the abos or the wild people. They weren’t really people, you know, just animals shaped like people.
“Of course I’ve seen them. Why when I was a child I used to play with the children, the little ones, you know. Ma didn’t want me to, but when I was out playing alone I’d go out to the back of our pasture and they’d come and play with me. Ma said they’d eat me,” (Laughs) “but I can’t say how they ever tried. Wouldn’t they steal, though! Anything to eat, they were always hungry. They got to taking out of our smokehouse, and one night Pa killed three, right between the smokehouse and the barn, with his gun. One was one I had played with sometimes, and I cried; that’s the way a child is.
“No, I don’t know where he buried them or if he did; just dragged them out back for the wild animals, I’d suppose.”
A brother officer came in. The officer laid the notebook aside, and as he did so a puff of wind swayed the pages.
“Feel that,” the brother officer said. “Why can’t we have that during the day when we need it?”
The officer shrugged. “You’re up late.”
“Not as late as you are—I’m going to bed now.”
“You see what I’ve got.” The officer’s lips bent in a small, sour smile. He gestured at the jumble of papers and tapes on the table.
The brother officer stirred them with one finger. “Political?”
“Criminal.”
“Tell them to knock the dust off their garrotte and get yourself some sleep.”
“I have to find out what it’s all about first. You know the commandant.”
“You’ll be ready for the spade tomorrow.”
“I’ll sleep late. I’m off anyway.”
“You always were an owl, weren’t you?”
The brother officer left, yawning. The officer poured a glass of wine, no cooler now than the room, and began to read again where the wind had left the book.
“I don’t know. Might be fifteen years ago, or it might not. Our years are longer here—did you know that?”
Self: “Yes, you don’t have to explain that.”
Mr D: “Well, those Frenchmen used to have all kinds of stories about them; most of them I never believed.
“What kinds of stories? Oh, just nonsense. They’re an ignorant people, the French are.”
(End of Interview)
I had been told that one of the last survivors of the first French settlers had been one Robert Culot, now dead about forty years. I inquired about him and learned that his grandson (also named Robert Culot) sometimes referred to stories he had heard Ms grandfather tell of the early days on Sainte Anne. He (Robert Culot the younger) appears to be about fifty-five (Earth) years of age. He operates a clothing store, the best in Frenchman’s Landing.
M. Culot: “Yes, the old one frequently told tales concerning those you call the Annese, Dr Marsch. He had many stories of them, of all the different sorts.
“That is correct, he felt them to be of many races. Others, he said, might think them to be all one, but the other knew less than he. He would have said that to the blind, all cats are black. Do you speak French, Doctor? A pity.”
Self: “Can you tell me the approximate date on which your grandfather last saw a living Annese, Monsieur Culot?”
M. C: “A few years before he died. Let me think… Yes, three years I think before his death. He was confined to his bed the year following, and his death took him two years after.”
Self: “About forty-three years ago, then?”
M. C: “Ah, you do not believe an old man, do you? That is cruel! These French, you say to yourself, cannot be trusted.”
Self: “On the contrary, I am intrigued.”
M. C: “My grandfather had attended the funeral of a friend, and it had depressed his spirit; so he went for a walk. When he had been but a little younger he had walked a great deal, you comprehend. Then only a few years before the last illness he ceased to do so. But now because his heart troubled him he walked again. I was playing draughts with my father, his son, and was present when he returned.
“What did he say his indigène looked like? Ah!” (Laughs) “I had hoped you would not ask that. You see, my father laughed at him as well, and that made him angry. For that to my father he spoke his bad English much, to make my father angry in return; and he said my father sat all day and consequently saw nothing. My father had both his legs gone in the war; it is fortunate for me, is it not, that he did not lose certain other things as well?
“I asked then that question you have asked me—how did it appear? I will tell you what it was he responded, but it will cause you to distrust him.”
Self: “Do you think he may have been simply teasing you, or your father?”
M. C: “He was a most honest old man. He would not tell lies to anyone, you understand. But he might—speak the truth in such a way as to make it sound impertinent. I asked him how the creature appeared, and he said sometimes likes a man, but sometimes like the post of a fence.”
Self: “A fence post?”
M. C: “Or a dead tree—something of the sort. Let me recollect myself. It may have been that he said: ‘Sometimes like a man, sometimes like old wood.’ No, I cannot really tell what he meant by that.”
M. Culot directed me to several other members of the French community around Frenchman’s Landing who he said might be willing to cooperate with me. He also mentioned a Dr Hagsmith, a medical doctor, who he understood has made some effort to collect traditions regarding the Annese. I was able to arrange an interview with Dr Hagsmith the same evening. He is English-speaking, and told me that he considered himself an amateur folklorist.
Dr Hagsmith: “You and I, sir, we take opposite tacks. I don’t mean to disparage what you’re doing—but it isn’t what I’m doing. You wish to find what is true, and I’m afraid you’re going to find damned little; I want what is false, and I’ve found plenty. You see?”
Self: “You mean that your collection includes a great many accounts of the Annese?”
Dr H: “Thousands, sir. I came here as a young physician, twenty years ago. In those days we thought that by now this would be a great city; don’t ask me why we thought it, but we did. We planned everything: museums, parks, a stadium. We felt we had everything we needed, and so we did—except for people and money. We still have everything.” (Laughs)
“I started writing down the stories in the course of my practice. I realized, you see, that these legends about the abos had an effect on people’s minds, and their minds affect their diseases.”
Self: “But you have never seen an aborigine yourself?”
Dr H: (Laughs) “No, sir. But I am probably the greatest living expert on them you’ll find. Ask me anything and I can quote chapter and verse.”