The Gift of Maldoror
Written January 2026. Prompt (taken from Les chants de Maldoror):Where has that first song of Maldoror gone, since his mouth, full of belladonna leaves, let it escape, through the realms of anger, in a moment of reflection? Where has that song gone... We do not know for sure
. I chose not to read about the work and write based on my impression of the quote alone.
It was Maldoror who gave us speech, this gift which many call a curse. No one who lives now is old enough to remember the moment of this gift, but we have all experienced it. It was many years ago now when I first heard his song, and I have heard it many times since then.
Maldoror the destroyer, whose blows
The song disappeared as soon as he sang it, as soon as the sound tumbled from his lips. Even as his listeners heard it, even as it inhabited them, it was already gone.
His song itself was not yet speech. There were no words to it, only a trembling melody that shimmered from a cry to a whisper to a scream, emanating through syllables which none have been able to imitate. All speech has been an attempt to find this song again, to recover it from wherever it disappeared to, even as he sang it.
It was in search of his chant that they began to speak. The dancers, those who still carried the marks of the song upon their skin, were the first to do so. They spoke as soon as Maldoror collapsed on the ground, crushing his heart underneath him. It was they who were the first to speak his name as he left us behind. It was not enough to keep him here.
tore deep inside himself he sang,
Only after many months did other words appear, timid and questioning.
Cautiously, those who had witnessed Maldoror’s song began to recount what had happened.
Those who spoke asked each other what Maldoror’s song meant, what he had told us with his scream. No answer was ever sufficient, but still the mass of words known to us grew and grew, until they seemed to cover the whole world.
shifting ceaselessly
Questions continued to slip through. Even the most mundane of them we knew to be addressed to Maldoror, an entreaty that he return and tell us what he meant.
With the gift of Maldoror, those who he had left behind built a new world. They built homes, villages. They built the round wall which encircles us, the sharp points of its wood tearing into the sky, cutting into it to close it in on itself.
We have lived here for generations. Busy with the village, busy with our farms, we have little time to ask questions, but we have not ceased. It is the dancers who most often spoke in this tone of inquiry. Yes, although the first dancers to the song of Maldoror have died so long ago that no one remembers their names, the dance continues. And, as I have said, so does the song.
Those who sing his song are blessed, although I am not one of them. It is a painful blessing, for those who receive it must give up their own speech so that we may continue to receive it, this strange gift of Maldoror. In return, they receive his name, for he inhabits them, sings through them and then disappears in their silence. Many of them destroy themselves as they sing.
Each of us takes part in the ceremony of Maldoror. Once a year, those who are to come of age are taken from the village, spending four nights under the open sky. They eat what they may forage or hunt, drinking from the stream.
They are not to return to the village. Those who catch sight of it must turn back immediately, running until they are out of breath. Any who attempt to return during this period are exiled forever. Should any member of the village spot the exiled, they are to kill them.
had torn out that fragment of fury
On the fifth day, they return to the village, waiting outside the gates. The rest of the village meets them. Only those who have not yet come of age stay behind, for they are not to know of Maldoror yet.
The village travels to the site of that first song of Maldoror. It is the dancers who lead the way, for their body resonates with his chant and knows where it echoes in silence.
Belladonna grows in the same spot, and here stand the initiates. Around them, those already blessed with dance form a circle. Just behind them stand those blessed with song.
A belladonna leaf is placed into the mouth of every initiate, and every member of the village bearing the name of Maldoror. Speaking in one voice, the dancers tell the tale of that first song.
Some of the initiates begin to sing. These are the ones who will be called Maldoror.
Many of them join together in one strange voice, shrieking and whimpering all together. Most years, there are some who sing another part, disharmonising. Some years there are many, no distinguishable melody. The song of Maldoror has always and never been the same.
The older Maldorors join in the song, just as strange. Those who can no longer sing die within the year. The younger Maldorors fly into a rage.
his life-blood coursed
They beat the fellow initiates, striking them with jagged stones. Some perish after striking themselves. Those attacked lie transfixed, unable to move. Those who survive join in the dance, their feet pounding their own torn flesh into the ground.
Once the skin has healed, the scar is tattooed so that the song may be inscribed.
This has never kept it from escaping.
This year there was no song. No initiate so much as whispered. Those blessed with song in previous years shook and trembled, gasping soundlessly as they stared beyond the world, their eyes fixed on some unseeable point. The dancers have themselves remained almost silent. They have been able to tell us nothing other than “it is all over”.
Life in the village continues. The rain falls regularly, the crops grow just as strongly as before. Prey is readily found. There is an inescapable feeling of death. No one has asked what Maldoror meant.