BRITTANY
A cycle of Breton folk-tales deals with the winds, which play a major part in Breton folklore. Fishermen on the north coast are said to speak to the winds as if they are living beings, shaking their fists and swearing at them if they blow in the “wrong” direction.
There was once a goodman and his wife who had a little field where they could grow flax. One year their field produced a particularly fine crop. After cutting it, they laid it out to dry. Then Norouas, the North-West Wind, with one sweep of his great wings tossed it up into the air as high as the tree-tops. It fell into the sea and was lost.
The goodman saw what had happened and began to swear at the North-West Wind. He took a stick and set out to find and kill Norouas for spoiling his crop.
He was impatient to set oflF and took no food or money with him. When night fell, hungry and penniless, he came upon an inn. He explained his situation to the hostess. She gave him some bread and allowed him to sleep in a comer of the stable. When morning came, he asked her the way to the abode of Norouas and she took him to the foot of a mountain, where she said the wind lived.
The goodman climbed the mountain and on the summit he met Surouas, the South-West Wind. The goodman asked if he was Norouas, but the wind denied it.
“Where is that rogue Norouas?” the goodman cried.
Surouas hushed him. “Not quite so loud, goodman. If he hears you he will throw you up into the air like a straw.”
Then Norouas appeared, whistling wildly.
“Ah, you thief!” cried the goodman. “It was you who stole my lovely crop of flax!”
But the North-West Wind took no notice of him.
“Give me back my fiax!” the goodman shouted fiariously.
“Hush!” said Norouas. “Here’s a napkin that may keep you quiet.”
The goodman howled in frustration, “But with my crop of fiax I could have made a hundred napkins like this. Give me back my fiax!”
“Hush, you fool,’’ said the North-West Wind, “this is no ordinary napkin I am giving you. You have only to say ‘Napkin, unfold’ and you will have the best-laid table in the world.”
The goodman grumbled as he took the napkin and went down the mountain. Disinclined to believe what Norouas had said, he placed the napkin down in front of him and said the words “Napkin, unfold” as he had been told.
Instantly a table appeared spread with a banquet. The smell of finely cooked dishes filled the goodman’s nostrils and rare wines sparkled and glowed in glittering vessels.
When he had finished eating, the goodman folded up his napkin and returned to the inn where he had slept the previous night.
The hostess asked, “Well, did you get any satisfaction out of Norouas?”
“I did indeed,” the goodman said, eager to demonstrate his success. He produced the napkin and said, “Napkin, unfold.” Instantly the magic table appeared, laden with food and drink.
The hostess was speechless with astonishment. She wanted that napkin for herself That night she placed the goodman in a handsome bedchamber with a beautifijl bed and a soft feather mattress. He slept more soundly than he had ever slept in his life. While he was asleep, the cunning hostess tiptoed into the room and stole the napkin, leaving one that looked similar in its place.
In the morning the goodman set olf for home and eventually arrived at his little farm. His wife eagerly asked him if Norouas had made reparation for the damage done to the flax and he said that he had. He proudly produced the napkin from his pocket, anticipating how pleased his wife would be when he demonstrated what it could do.
“Well,” said the wife, unimpressed, “we could have made two hundred napkins like this from the flax that he destroyed.”
“Ah, but this napkin is not the same as the others,” said the goodman. “I only have to say ‘Napkin, unfold’ and a table loaded with food appears.”
He said the words but nothing happened.
“You are an old fool,” said his wife.
The husband’s jaw dropped and he grabbed his stick. “I have been tricked by that scoundrel Norouas!” he shouted. “I shall not spare him this time.”
He rushed olf toward the home of the winds.
As before he slept at the inn and the following morning climbed the mountain. He called loudly on Norouas, demanding for his crop of flax to be returned.
“Be quiet!” Norouas shouted back.
“I shall not be quiet!” The goodman shook his stick. “You cheated me with that napkin of yours.”
“Very well,” Norouas answered. “Here is an ass. You have only to say ‘Ass, make me some gold’ and it will fall from his tail.”
The goodman was eager to test the value of his new acquisition and led it to the foot of the mountain. He said, “Ass, make me some gold.” The ass shook its tail and a shower of gold pieces fell to the ground.
The goodman hurried back to the inn, where he showed the magic donkey to the hostess. That night, she went to the stable and exchanged the magic ass for an ordinary one and the goodman took the wrong ass home to show to his wife.
Once again the goodman launched into a demonstration of his prize. The ass failed to respond to the magic words and the goodman’s wife ridiculed him a second time.
He set off" in a towering rage, arriving on the mountain of the winds for a third time, and called on Norouas, heaping insults on him.
Norouas replied, “Gently, gently. Ease off, my friend. I am not to blame for your misfortune. You must know that it is the hostess at the inn where you slept who is the guilty party. She is the one who stole your napkin. She is the one who stole your ass. Take this cudgel. When you say ‘Strike, cudgel’ it will attack your enemies for you. All you have to do is to say ‘Orapro nobis.’’ When you want it to stop.’
The goodman was eager to try it out, so he said at once, “Strike, cudgel.” The cudgel set about beating him soundly, which he deserved. He shouted, “Ora pro nobisr and made it stop.
He went back to the inn in a black mood, loudly demanding that the hostess return his napkin and ass. She threatened to call the constables. He cried, “Strike, cudgel,’’ and the cudgel straightaway set about giving her a beating. She begged the goodman to call it off and said she would give him back his napkin and his ass.
Once he had his property back, the goodman hurried home, where his wife was overjoyed by the treasures he conjured up. He rapidly became rich.
But his neighbors were suspicious at the sight of so much wealth acquired invisibly. They reported him to the constable and he was accused of wholesale murder and robbery and taken before a judge, who sentenced him to death.
On the day of his execution, he made a final request: that his cudgel might be brought to him. This favor was granted.
He cried, “Strike, cudgel,” and the cudgel beat the judge, the constables, and the neighbors so hard that they all fled. It beat the scaflbld too, breaking it up, and cracked the hangman’s head. There was a general cry for mercy and the goodman was instantly pardoned.
After that, he and his wife were left alone to enjoy the treasures the North-West Wind had given him as compensation for his ruined crop of flax.
THE NUBERU
GALICIA, SPAIN
The Nuberu is a character in Galician mythology. He is the Cloud Master, the god of clouds and storms. He is sometimes represented as a man with a bushy beard, wearing goat leathers and a big hat. He wields control over the weather and entertains himself by setting olf storms and launching gales, striking down livestock with bolts of lightning, and wrecking the harvests of men with storms of rain and hail. He can be cruel to people, but he can also be kind to those who have helped him:
Long ago, the Nuberu arrived on a cloud, but was unlucky enough to fall olf and land on the ground. He asked for shelter, but no one wanted to help him. Eventually, late at night, a peasant took pity on him and took him into his house. In gratitude, the Nuberu watered his dry Adds and gave him good harvests.
Some years later, this peasant had to travel to Egypt and when he arrived there he heard that his wife was about to marry someone else; she evidently thought, because her husband had been gone a long time, that he was dead. The peasant then asked for Nuberu’s help. Together they traveled back to Galicia riding on clouds, and they arrived in time to halt the wedding.
According to myth, the Nuberu lives in the city of Orito, in Egypt. Some folklorists believe he is a late memory of the Celtic god Taranis, who similarly ruled over the skies. If he is attacked, he does not hesitate to hurl lightning in retaliation.
The Nuberu is greatly feared for the damage he causes. There are superstitious folk who think they can scare him away by lighting candles and ringing bells. Fishermen fear him because of his ability to whip up strong winds at sea, forcing them to hurry back to the safety of their harbors.
World History
