Ankou: A Breton Tale

Ankou: A Breton Tale

“Ankou is the name given to a messenger of death in Brittany. Each area has its own, who comes to fetch the souls of those called away. He wears a long cloak and a broad brimmed hat and sometimes carries a scythe. He rides a horse, or drives a cart in which to transport souls. A new Ankou takes on the role each year. It is the last man to die in the parish the year before.”

Extracts from a diary found by a river in Brittany…

 

20th January

You have gone and there are times when, in between the endless aching, I still cannot believe it.
I do not know how to reach you with a letter now, and I do not know how to forget to talk to you. So, from now on, this diary is the place where I will write to you, my darling.

 

22nd January

It plays through my head, over and over, broken into pieces like a play rehearsed out of order. I want to scream “Stop!” – go back and change things. Tell them never to do that evening again, to replace it with another, which I will forget.
Why did I persuade you to accept my father’s invitation to see in New Year? Why did I think he would be reasonable, or that you might like each other, when you really talked? Because you are alike. And now I know that is why you could not. Two hot tempers, two men of pride with hearts of gold. Two men who are passionate, and blind.
But why did you have to leave? Could you not have stayed for me and played it down, just once?
I know you could not. He was too rude, too closed, too final… but you should have waited for me in some sheltered spot nearby.
I expected to begin a new life with the new year… to run away at dawn and find you, leave with you, begin over again…
How could I know you would be hurt upon the road? The devil wielded the tree which struck you, stirred the storm which attacked you…
I CANNOT BEAR IT!   

 

31st January

Did they give you a new hat, or do you wear your old slouch? I imagine your handsome face shadowed by its broad brim, smudged with dirt after a long day. Skin, pale beneath your weathered bronze. Those brown eyes luring me in, like pools, deep and beautiful. I see you and I can feel myself being drawn into your arms, the brush of coarse, damp cloth, the warm strength underneath.
Why were you not warm and strong enough to resist the storm when you lay injured on that road?
Now I suppose, you must have a fine new black cloak… the horrible irony of it!

 

1st February

I will not speak to my father again.

 

20th February

Do you remember that time we were waylaid by the Korrigan, and lost our way on the homeward path? Neither of us then, could quite admit it, or deny it… those strange impressions flitting through the woods, and our confusion…. Now I am certain it was the faery folk, and I believe in them as an article of faith. If I deny it, I might also have to admit the possibility you are no longer with us.

 

8th March

“Ah, this one’s a nasty Ankou!” old Marie said to me in the village, shaking her head at the baby twins’ death. I’ve heard that phrase a thousand times before. But she peered at me with those milky, half-blind eyes as though I knew something. I do not like her. What does she know of you?

 

9th April

“I’m sorry, my dear, for your family’s troubles. One after another, this year! At least the strong and lovely are preserved.” I could have spat in her face for the cruelty of her words…
Did you do it?!! DO you have a say now, in who lives and who dies? Or are you just a henchman? Either way, it is despicable… it is betrayal… it is too close… too close to home.
My uncle was the one who advised my father not to let me marry you. Did you know that? Do you care about his wife and six children?
I cannot trust you anymore… and yet you’re the only person I ever completely trusted before.

 

25th April

Martin smiled at me today. I smiled back.
Please forgive me. I cannot.

 

13th May

Today, for once, I felt free.

 

18th June

Sun, bright on white lace, used to mean my head-dress laid out on a Sunday morning, and the pride of how pretty it was on my dark hair; or the girls, all gathered with a spring in the step and a nudge in the elbow, glancing at the men; or then the glow down within, biding, till I could slip away for the leisured afternoon with you, beside the river where the rocks are – wondering what they were used for by the Korrigan who carved their twisted shapes… and when you would kiss me and make everything shine!
Now, the sight sickens me. I think of the Sunday scene I ran past to find you lying, your best clothes soaked in mud, by the roadside. I watch the pile of spume trapped in a curved corner of the river, like a lace cap, abandoned, spinning and spinning, slowly becoming tainted by dull air and time – the useless turning on itself of an old maid’s mind.

 

15th August

You have come for other members of my family. When are you coming for me?

 

28th September

Wherever you are these days… do you remember those autumn afternoons, when the air is soft and sheeny, like that grey silk shawl Brigitte’s sailor brought her from the East? They are my favourite, more than the gorgeous summer shine, or frosted winter. I love the rich and mournful colours and quiet atmosphere. If I could come to you now – would I find peace? And would I see any colour?     

 

21st October

Granny passed away so peacefully. She always liked you, and you her, I think? Did you talk upon the way? Remember me to her, Dearest, please… I will miss her so much. I have grown used to the thought of death now, or this most expected one would be the worst of all…

 

3rd November

I notice, whenever we visit my fishing cousins on the coast, how the inside of their Church is wooden like a ship, and think how it must be a comfort to feel closer to their loved men out at sea. I sit up at night now, and lean far out the window into cold and dark, trying to feel where you are… It is a dreadful thought, to imagine being you – but better than that you should be only a body in a grave, or a spirit far away…

 

27th December

There was a dance tonight at the hall. I did not go, but stood by the grey church wall, picturing the painting within – of Death drawing his victims so elegantly towards their end… and imagining you, thinner as you must now be, in your hooded cape, extending to me your hand. How I long to dance La Danse Macabre with you!
And if you are not there? All the more reason to want death.

 

28th December

In case I cannot say it to you in person, when I try to find you… I must write this now:
It was my fault. I cannot bear to think it, but if I had not joined the argument it would not have grown so heated, and you never would have left. If I’d heeded my instinct that the journey was not safe, and followed you, I would have brought you help, before it was too late. If I had not been a coward, had been surer of my own feelings ⸺ less angry at your temper ⸺ I would have gone with you and we would be together now. It is too late… but I am sorry. Know I have been tortured by this ever since…

 

29th December

The year’s end draws near. You will be moving on. How can I let you go? Or allow myself to be collected by any other than yourself?
If I come of my own free will – will we be parted? You are innocent…
At least I will see you one last time, make that journey with you. You will forgive me…

 

30th December

I am not certain now, whether after everything, I will recognize you. Nor do I recognize myself.
It is too late to turn back – I have decided. And you know that I do not change my mind.
Do not bring your cart to my father’s door. I will meet you where we always did – at the river.
I am coming to you… my Ankou.

 

“Two days after this diary was picked up, washed up on the river-bank, the body of a young woman, Blanche Mollinou, was recovered.”

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