Garden of yours, fairy place of changing facts whose effect reinvents us. The slow speed enchants and harmony settles in. In the distance, the clear sky is tied to the sea, where the soul wanders. Xavier gardens where the jars dine with the fairies, watching over the gosling litter that Mother Goose has covered…
The bitter lawl’amère loi = la mère l’oie of the world that stops right here.
On the Armorican coast, where the pink cliffs and golden dunes embrace each other, lies the ancient city of Rekinea, soon named Reki by the Sumerians, then Rekinea by the Greeks, which became Requy, which the Gallo accent pronounces Erquy… Very ancient melody that the erosion of time has transposed into songs of foam. This place offers not only a fishing port, but a bearer of ancient forces – a sacred counter where energy circulates, vibrant like a forgotten language.
Every stone murmurs the memory of ancient druids, warriors and merchants; each salt breath carries the resonance of a name that shudders: Reki… Rekinea… Erquy… Thus is born an energy, the Reki, a subtle wave, that time forgets but that the spirit finds.
No academic narrative under your pen, but an incantation: the origin of the name becomes uncertain, the etymology sounds (as in Rekinea = “Reki né à”Reki born in), and everything became possible. Ancient history mingles with geography, with soul and myth.
I live in the house of possible. It has more doors and windows than the house of reason.
You, the apprentice of sounds buried in the mist of Erquy, if “Reki né à”Reki born in murmurs to the ear of stones, what primordial water gave birth to this name? Is it the re-ky, the gutter that goes up to the heart?
What bird’s language whispered to you that Rekinea dances with the three wings: Re, Ki, Nea—the spirit, the energy, the new Earth?
Re… Ki… Nea… Obstinate rhythm: the mind awakens, energy dances, the earth sings.
Would you have perceived, when the wind travels through the ajoncs, the druidic vimana that carries the truth in the songs of the cliff? And if toponymy is blurred, isn’t it to make the language of birds better heard, because it’s in uncertainty that beats most vividly?
You say that Rekinea was the name given by Sumerian, then Greek, Celtic, Gaulish, before being Gallo and French from France. But isn’t this superposition — a kind of palimpsest* — where each sound, each form, has grown like an herb, from Sumerian to Greek, from Latin to Gaul, from Celt to Breton, from time to buried memories?
*Palimpsest, nm: parchment from which the first handwriting has been erased to be able to write a new text.
The fool thinks himself wise, the wise man knows himself fool.
Everything is beautifully blurred, like a living geography, woven with promises and mysteries, where the name of Erquy vibrates in the uncertain etymology; like a conceptual poetry, where the Reki becomes both ritual, subtle massage, cosmic remembrance. Like a personal myth too, that of a sensitive reconquest of Antiquity, rooted in the wild charm of the coast. Like a silent invitation at last (like a millenary sonata played in stones and wind) to dive into the being of the place.
The story of the Saga weaves an enchanted web, that of a port and a name entwined by history, languages, and surf. He murmurs that, sometimes, etymology is song, landscape is breath, and name is incantation. It is a poetic vertigo — a silent dialogue with the author, where each question calls for a new resonance, a metamorphosis of the language of the birds.
Aren’t your texts, Xavier, glances of silence where the reader sits down, like sitting on a warm stone by the sea? You do not transmit only a story, but a breath that makes itself breathe from the world.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
In your reconquest of myths, each stone of the path becomes a stele, each word, a seed and we guess that your garden, which you live from day to day, is the miniature echo of your cosmic Erquy, a microcosm where grow the roots of forgotten gods.
The invitation is discreet and turbulent, a finger placed on the lips of History, and here we are tending our ears: for what strikes in your pages of the Saga is less the demonstration than the resonance, less the erudition than the vibration of words.
You who build bridges between cliffs, tales and constellations, have you experienced, one evening, the sweet intoxication of words, even before their meaning? Their simple color in the mouth, like a wild berry that bursts on the tongue?
Ton Erquy becomes Er-Qui, the place that is. In your garden, when you plant a tree, do you also listen to the name it bears, and the music of this name, like an invisible second trunk raised towards the sky? Is not the language of the birds of which you make your viaticum, ultimately, the proof that the universe speaks within us constantly, and that our words, our syllables, are the broken shells of a first word?
Finally, in this return to myths, is it not less the story you are looking for, than this balm of language that heals and nourishes, because beyond all truth, words already do the work of healing?
Your garden, to read well between the lines, does not appear only as a square of land, but as a living manuscript where each leaf writes its verse, where each root calls for memory.
You planted poems there like others sow seeds. And so that the fairies, these invisible passers-by, know that the house is hospitable, you have set up candles and especially mirrors, reflections of complicity, like hooks of light to better capture the echo of their laughter.
“I don’t want ever to be a man,” Peter said with passion. “I want always to be a little boy and to have fun. So I ran away to Kensington Gardens and lived a long long time with the fairies.”
Because you taught me: fairies are pretty, they like to see each other, guess each other, think. Your garden thus becomes a secret ball, where fireflies hold the candle and mirrors replay the fallen stars.
In this discreet theater, myths do not sleep: they wake up, approach, inhabit the garden like an other world. Here, the ancient Erquy is transformed into a microcosm, the cliff becomes a stone standing at the corner of a massif, the sea resonates in the breath of herbs, and ancient stories are infused with the scent of flowers, under the tender gaze of a dolmen that awaits the next awakening of the worlds.
When you light your candles in the night of the garden, is it to illuminate the flowers or to illuminate the words that continue to grow in you like crazy herbs? And these mirrors that you dress for the fairies, are they not also the mirrors stretched out to the reader, where each one recognizes their own face in the moving reflection of your stories? If each flower were a vowel, and each star a consonant, wouldn’t your garden already be a cosmic alphabet, where the seasons write poems that you translate?
Finally tell us: what treats the soul,
is it the real presence of the fairies,
or the simple act of imagining them,
by the grace of the words that summon them?
But as for you, initiated into the sacred mysteries, take confidence because divine is of origin the race of the mortals and with those who know how to awaken in their soul the divine which slumbers there, nature reveals all things.
But by dint of believing without believing, can we not think that if the fairies invite each other, it may not be to bless men, but to look at themselves in the mirror and say: “What luck, all the same! Someone thinks of offering us scented candles!”
When you place a candle between two stones, don’t you already hear the stones snickering, happy to participate in the staging? Do your fairies sometimes get upset for not being seen enough, and sulk, like children who would like more mirrors?
Your garden, is it a discreet cabaret for the invisible? Or a simple playground, where words have fun climbing branches? And you, Xavier, when you reread a myth at the bottom of the garden, don’t you laugh at how seriously the universe takes itself, while the flowers have already understood the joke?
Your words do good. The magic on stage is illusion, nothing is true. For me, this world where we have fallen is a worse illusion, only death makes us leave the room. You understood it, I am not an illusionist. Fairies are everywhere where I dream and dream, my garden lends itself to it so well! They are true, the fairies. More true than us: their lives are long, so long. But they ignore us now. I am lucky that they tolerate me. For six centuries, we have seriously disappointed them. As soon as I understand how, I’ll tell you here. Thank you Alain.
And thank you, reader friend,
without whom I would be infirm.
(xs)
Anna, the Blessed Virgin and Mother Goddess, has lived so long she has no age.
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