Doing Away With The Devil

Are we going in the poem bag? asks the knowlesi.

What poem bag? asks Quiet-tartus.

Weren't you listening? says Terence. It's your bag for going in, and there's a poem on it.

No I wasn't, says Quiet-tartus. I was looking at these dead mosquitoes.

Too bad, says Terence. You missed a good poem.

I don't even like poems, says Quiet-tartus. 

You'd LOVE this one, says Terence. Saint Michael comes down and splits eveything in half. Including the devil. 

What with? asks Quiet-tartus.

A sword, says Terence. Even the lizards and flowers get splitted.

No they don't, says Belle. Only the devil. 

And he dies but not yet, says Terence. On the sand.

A great poem to be in the bag of, says Quiet-tartus. 

What if it's a metaphor? says the knowlesi. 

Quiet-tartus is prepared to consider that it might be.

The formation of the valley. The reason for Mont Saint Michel. The difficulty of doing away with the devil.

Okay, says Quiet-tartus. Let no one say I'm a philistine.

Great, says Belle. Let's get going. Who's got the moules for Roo-kai?

I have, says Jeanne Jugan.

They leave the café.

The frogs are in the poem bag, testing it. 

The sun filters through the paper. They can see a few words, inside out.

elbas el rus trom erocne sap

It does not say much about splitting. Maybe Terence was wrong.

The paper bag sits in Belle's panier velo, Arthur having gone on without it.

Terence is in the panier velo as well.

Stop jigging, says Belle.

I'm practicing riding my pony, says Terence.

It's not about jigging, says Belle. 

Indeed not, says Saint Méen, from behind them. It's sbout confidence.

Terence has confidence, says Belle. 

And a straight back, says Saint Méen.

I've got a straight back, says Terence.

Heels down, says Saint Méen, and knees gripping.

Terence tries out the instructions. 

At least he's stopped jigging.