Rayman:

His story begins in shadow

In a world many worlds away.

But his legend is so vast it has reached even us,

haunts even our distant dreams.

Chapter 1: Tender Childhood

A dark place – so much so, that you could imagine yourself at the beginning of life; before the explosion of the worlds concentrated in a tiny spark; at the very beginning of a tale, a legend...

A little hand gropes for a handhold in the shadows; it comes and goes, searching its way in the black. This little hand is special, first of all for its whiteness, almost dazzling in the shadows; but also because it is a hand entirely free, without an arm to tie it down to a body. It seems, however, to be thoroughly under someone's control. For it touches the floor like a blind man feeling out his way. It's the little hand of a child. A child who will shortly emerge in his turn from the shadows. His innocent, angelic face is perfectly easy to see in the darkness. But this is not any ordinary child. His physique is ... truly unique, all his extremities are completely detached from his body. He has neither arms, nor legs, nor neck. He controls his hands and his feet by an invisible force which he can extend at will. Which is perfect for threading one's way through tight spaces. His odd physique had earned him the name of Rayman. His face was also strange; his big eyes were of a dark blue, shading slowly into a complete black. He had an oddly projecting nose like a muzzle, that sometimes gave him an animal- like appearance, with his two big locks of blond hair that hung in front of his eyes like two floppy ears.

He made an effort to extricate himself from the dark spot where he was wedged. There were metallic sounds when he knocked against the cold partitions surrounding him. In front of him, his hand continued to hunt for something invisible. Behind him could be heard the voices of several children. Then another voice, louder, almost cavernous, was heard: "Hey! Limbless! Haven't you fixed that jam yet?"

At the sound of that voice, Rayman speeded up, indeed panicked. To the point that he struck his hand against a metal gear assembly and cut himself. He was still under one of those machines, one of the dozens of enormous spinning machines that filled the space of the cloth factory of Mr. Griffin – a large, callous man, always wearing a huge jacket in which he stored his keys, his tools, and other work materials. All of that created a multitude of clanging metallic sounds when he walked – which was fortunate, as it gave advance warning of his approach. As for his face, Rayman had rarely seen it. A square head, eyes crushed behind his enormous cheeks, and black hair curling in all directions, that poked timidly out from a dirty brown bandanna covering his head like a pirate's. Indeed, Rayman had sometimes seen a small gem set in gold implanted in his ear, and a ring of the same metal that he wore on a chain around his neck. Rayman had no idea of where he could have come by such things, his village never having had a supply of gold or diamonds. But that hardly mattered. Mr. Griffin reigned indeed the master of his small domain, and that was quite sufficient to spread terror among his workers, including Rayman, who in general was not someone easily frightened. Mr. Griffin thought of nothing but his spinning machines, which produced textiles which he required to make himself still more wealthy. From time to time, it happened that one of the machines would break down because of thread that was too thick and became stuck in the machinery. It would then be necessary to unstick it, and that was when Rayman intervened. In his great generosity, Mr. Griffin employed only children and elderly people. After all, they didn't need to be paid much, did they?

So, Rayman and some other children worked there for pitiful wages. But Rayman often risked his life in unjamming the machines; they could very easily start working again while he was inside. All because of his physique. He didn't know if his flexibility was a gift or a curse.

So he continued his voyage through the dark and the dust. He was having trouble breathing now in the suffocating heat, and his eyes were burning fiercely. The cinders and smoke blackened his normally pale face. He slipped through the black, grimy machinery until he caught sight of a ragged piece of cloth caught across two gears. Jammed under a burning hot cylinder and wedged in among the cables in his effort to worm his way through in the dark, he strained to reach out his hand to take hold of the bit of cloth. His hand twisted through the narrow space. He felt it make contact with the material, soft and still warm, though filthy and torn. For just a moment he thought he would fall asleep; that softness was like a reward after an exhausting journey.

A reward! Ha! He'd been inside this machine for half an hour trying to retrieve that blasted rag! He gave it a tug, and the material began to tear. He couldn't leave with only part of it; he took another, more analytical look at the situation. With all of his eight years, he still thought only like a child; but he thought quickly, he was smart, very smart, and there are times when to be smart is more to the point than to be intelligent. It was another characteristic that caused him trouble, along with his physique. In fact, the people of his village didn't like him for three reasons. First for his peculiar physique, then for his quick wit. And then also for his strange symbol, a white circle. To some, that symbol was a sign of ill omen. It was embossed on a purplish cloth that covered his whole body – in other words, his stomach. So he hid it under big shirts of heavy cloth. At least, his mother asked him to do that.

Rayman lived with adoptive parents. He had been found in the forest as a baby, wrapped up in a dirty blanket. His parents weren't badly thought of by the other villagers, as long as Rayman didn't cause any problems. So his mother dressed him in a way to conceal his differences as much as possible. Still, she didn't like that. She knew that Rayman preferred to feel as natural as possible in relation to others, but to her it was stupid to have to treat her son differently from everyone else. But she and her husband had always wanted to have a child, without success. Until they found Rayman. Since that day, they had always denied his differences. But there was one fact they could not turn away from – one day, Rayman would want to know why he was different.

So Rayman lay on his back and freed up his other hand, which joined the other, still in the piece of cloth. He gave a tug, but then stopped and thought. The unpleasant notion had struck him – what would happen to him if his attempt succeeded? All the cylinders and gears he was wedged under were being held motionless by that very piece of cloth. It was lucky he'd thought of it. A chill ran up his spine and he felt a hot flush, swallowing. Then he had an idea. Maybe his physique wasn't so bad after all. He fixed his hands tightly on the cloth and began to back out slowly. The air became fresher, the light more intense – it almost hurt his eyes, after so much darkness. He continued until his feet swung into emptiness, and then he emerged at last into the open air.

He had barely stood up before he was mobbed by children.

"I hope you found that jam! If not, we're all dead!" said one.

"Yeah! Hurry, before he comes back!" said another.

There were about ten of them who had been waiting there for half an hour now. They were all in the grip of Mr. Griffin, in the same situation as Rayman. They were all also terrified at the thought that Griffin might return and discover that little Blondie hadn't advanced things by a hair.

Rayman focused his concentration on his hands, still imprisoned in the machine. He pulled slowly, then harder. Suddenly, the cloth came unstuck, and Rayman found himself thrown violently on his back with a grimy rag in his hands. The machine roared into motion again like a whirlwind, giving off a deafening racket and belching black smoke. Once again, Rayman felt a chill. But he had succeeded; in the end, that was what counted – although not for everyone. A myriad of metallic sounds rang out in time with a heavy step.

"So, puppet, you managed to pull that off? Good, because I've got work for you."

Rayman sighed, closing his eyes. He turned towards Griffin.

"Go clean out the ventilation turbines, that will give you some exercise. And watch that you don't lose your hands in them – that would be such a shame." He walked off again, with an evil laugh.

Rayman had no choice. He had to work for Griffin. His mother barely earned enough to feed him, and his father had never returned from a certain voyage. Since then, his mother seemed more frail, even if she forced herself to hide it. He wondered if he wasn't too much of a burden for her, but she always told him that if they hadn't found him, she and her husband would never have had any children. Despite that, he felt he was too much of a load for her to carry, and he knew she wouldn't be able to bear it for long. So he spent his days working to earn something to make her happy when he came home in the evening; but it was rather the sight of him that gladdened her. He came home so late... It must be said that Rayman was Mr. Griffin's particular pet. He took pleasure in making him work more than the others, under the pretext that he was more agile and tougher – but good heavens, the boy was only eight years old! Though so advanced for his age... Griffin was even more strict and authoritarian with Rayman than with the others. That's how it always was. Rayman had always had to endure the mockery of others; most of all, from Griffin. That was why he tried every day to look a little more like everyone else. He also tried to attract attention by coming up with outrageous ideas - the problem with that being that he always attracted the attention of the wrong people, and his errors immediately brought their ridicule down on him. But that's how he was, and he only got worse with time. One day he took it into his head to move a water mill that powered an electric plant, on the pretext that it wasn't working well. He wanted to put it back up against the flow of the river to give it more power, but one of the ropes holding the machine broke, and the engine was swept away by the violent current before smashing apart against an enormous rock. Rayman barely had the chance to imagine what was going to happen to him when he was surprised by ... the owner of the mill. Griffin. And that's how it was from that day on.

When he was satisfied with the amount of work done, Griffin returned to summon Rayman. "That's enough, son. I want you to be in good shape for tomorrow." Then he left, trailing behind him that sound, that characteristic clanking of his tools knocking together with the rhythm of his heavy steps. Like a crowd of little devils laughing at the misery endured by all those who worked there...