Events 

Kids Euro Festival   

  In 2010,  Elle represented the Embassy of France at the national Kids Euro Festival in Washington, D.C. with The Maze (read the story below), a fictional tale about the Mont Saint-Michel, Normandy, France.

        In 2009, she was France's representative by authoring The Ingredients of Life , a short story about Provence.

Kids Euro Festival is one of the country’s largest performing arts festivals for children with more than 150 FREE events in and around Washington, D.C. The month-long event is geared to kids ages four through twelve and will feature artists in almost every performing genre, whose talents range from opera for children to improvisational storytelling, to puppeteers, dancers, and acrobats. Kids Euro Festival is staged through the cooperation of the 27 Washington-based European Union embassies and more than a dozen major local cultural institutions [www.kidseurofestival.org]

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THE MAZE

by Elle Jauffret

Pierre shrugged in fear.

A mile away, he could see the huge clump of rocks jutting out from the English Channel’s waters, piercing threateningly the surrounding fog.

“Relax,” he told himself. “It’s just a castle.”

Mont Saint-Michel was a rocky islet built as a medieval fortress. It was fortified by crenellated ramparts, large towers to defend its entrance, and was crowned by a Gothic abbey church. Pierre knew it well. He had visited it several times with his class in preparation of this specific day:  his rite of passage into adulthood.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell of fear mixed with sadness permeated the salty humid air. A chilly breeze slithered through his open collar and sleeves, leaving a trail of frigid goose-bumps on his skin as it traveled toward his bare feet.

“I run faster without my shoes,” he had told his mother.

Pierre reopened his eyes and watched the fog dissipating and the tide receding, exposing the Mont Saint-Michel in the midst of vast sandbanks that would be soon victims to powerful tides;  revealing the deadly maze that had been built at the bottom of the sea between the shore and the fortified island.

“I can’t believe that such an austere building symbolizes my salvation!” he mumbled.

He had to be strong and refrained from crying. His parents stood behind him, his mother weeping silently. “How could she not?” he wondered. “After all, I am her only child still alive.”

Pierre tried to mentally focus on the maze’s blue print he had been memorizing since first grade. He wondered what mistake his deceased brothers could have made while running through it and speculated on the obstacles they might have encountered along the way.

“If I follow the path I have learned by heart these past eight years, I should, no… I WILL reach the Mont before the tide swallows me up,” he whispered as to convince himself.

Pierre was anxiously waiting for the signal when he heard it. The first church bell ripped through the winter morning’s deadly silence, wounding the present souls, warning them of a potential death.  The second ring resonated throughout the land, its sound rippling on the thousand puddles created by the low tide.

“Two…” Pierre counted. There would be fifteen in total, one for each of his years of life.

Pierre started to walk in place, warming up his feet for the race. He clenched his fists repetitively, pumping blood into his upper body.

“Three…”

He breathed deeply through his nose to warm the air before it reached his lungs.  He had practiced running every day since he was five, training his body, making sure he would not collapse on that special day.

“Four…”

He wanted to start running, but he wasn’t allowed to move until the last ring; the one that would tell him to dash forward and fast; as fast as he could.

All fourteen rings echoed into the sinister atmosphere, like a funeral oration, harbinger of another teenager’s death.

“Fifteen!”

Pierre darted through the salty mist like an arrow, his eyes targeting the entrance of the maze, his mouth exhaling a white breath. He trusted that his feet and legs would carry him to the other side before the tide could engulf him alive. He just needed focus on the maze’s blue print he had engraved in his mind.

An acrid smell welcomed him as he stepped into the labyrinth. The structure’s ceiling was marked with scarce openings, allowing just enough daylight to light the inside path. The walls were covered with algae and barnacles, giving them the appearance of black-greenish rot.

“Just the smell of fish trapped by the tides…” he thought. But was it? He didn’t want to think about it. He had to focus to fight the claustrophobic sensation of being buried alive.

“Turn right,” his mind told him as he reached a fork in the path. His feet and legs obeyed instantly.  He was running as fast as his muscles would allow. He could feel his heart pulsing through his temples in cadence with the rhythm of his breath.

“Left,” his mind commended. His body followed. “Straight. Straight. Then left.”

Pierre noticed the presence of clothing on the sand, but he didn’t have the time to examine them more closely. He also saw a hat. The same his brother wore the fateful day of his rite of passage.

“Right. Right. Left.”

He could feel sorrow rising inside of him. What if it were his brother’s hat?

“Straight, then right.”

“Focus… Focus....” he told himself. Sadness wouldn’t help him in his task; it could only kill him.

“Right. Right. Straight. Left.”

The surrounding air had turned putrid and lacked oxygen. Pierre’s breathing became more labored, but he had trained for this as well. He used to run, a scarf tied around his mouth, filtering the precious oxygen his lungs were begging for. So, his body continued dashing through the labyrinth, barely bothered.

“Left. Left. Left. Straight. Jump,” he said as he avoided a series of spikes on the sea floor.

Pierre’s mind was sharp, remembering every stretch of sand on which to sprint, every turn to make, and every pitfall to avoid.

“Your intelligence and memory will save you. You will reach the Mont before the high tide and you will save us all,” his mother had told him. He wondered if she had given the same speech to his brothers.

“Right. Straight. Right.”

He didn’t know how long he had been running, but he could see the sunlight intensifying through the ceiling’s small openings.

“The sun must be rising,” he thought, wondering how long he had been in the maze and how much more time he had before the tide would rise again. In the Bay of Mont Saint-Michel, the tides were the fastest and strongest of Europe. They could change quickly, as swiftly as a galloping horse, sending anyone in their path to an inevitable death.

“Right, left. Duck.”

Pierre bent forward, avoiding a low beam protruding from the ceiling. He continued dashing throughout the maze, guided by his memory.

“Straight. Straight. Left.”

The brightness intensified, giving the walls a warm emerald glow. The smell of incense replaced the rancid stench of the maze’s air, birthing hope of the near exit.

“Right. Left. Straight.”

Pierre swallowed hard to rid his throat of the ball that had just formed.

“And straight to the end,” he said in disbelief.

He could see the natural brilliance of sunshine illuminating the end of the hallway.  He didn’t push himself, keeping the same steady pace that took him through the maze, because he knew more was yet to come.

He entered into daylight, squinting, not sure of what to expect. And there it was, the ‘Wonder of the West’, dominating the bay by its architectural beauty. Pierre inhaled deeply the fresh marine air and dashed upward along the cobblestone street of Mont Saint-Michel, spiraling from its granite base to the Benedictine Abbey.

The path was steep but Pierre’s legs refused to give up, following the trail to the steepled church where he would have to ring the bells. His life was safe but he had to free all the others from the rite of passage that killed dozens yearly.

When he finally arrived, short of breath, at the top of the Gothic masterpiece, he was blinded with tears. Would his ringing the bells before the rising tide really put an end to the rite of passage? He approached slowly the thick leather-like dangling bell rope and jumped as high as he could. And there, mid-air, he grabbed the cord with his trembling hands before falling down with force.

Pierre’s mind went blank. He could see the seagulls flying above him, but he couldn’t hear them. The sound of the bells’ percussion echoed in his temples like a powerful drum throbbing in his head. He jumped again and again, hanging down from the rope as if holding onto life, making sure everyone on land could hear him and would know he had arrived.

When his hands could not take the burn of the rope anymore, Pierre let go of the line. His legs gave in and he collapsed on the parapet. He squinted, his head still aching from the loud chimes, and looked toward the open sea. The vast sandbanks were still free from water.

“The rite of passage is over…”

By reaching the Abbey before the tide returned, he had become a man. By ringing the abbey’s bells before the high tide, he had won freedom for all.

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