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Undisona
Olim erat nympha aquatilis. Nata'st in aetate antiquissima et ignota, ferme ipsa origine mundi, de qua philosophi somniant et poetae ratiocinantur. Vix ortus sui meminerat, sed iam vetusta erat dum Iupitter patrem Saturnum falce superavit. Neque deum neque titanum novit ei parentum esse ; corpus simpliciter ex aqua ortum est. Tum in Oceano incolabat, tum in amne, tum in fonte. Ita mortales, si umquam conspexissent, eam in numero Nereïdum putabant, aut Potameïdum, aut Oceanidum, secundum locum. Propter gaudium cruoris, nonnumquam Lamiam vel Empousam nuncupabantur, etiamsi falso. Orta'st tantummodo ex eo genere numinum prisco, incertorum et inconstantium, et propterea malevolentium (ut habent homines), cui postquam Christi fides totam Europam occupavit, nomine daemonum (novo sensu) nocebant sacerdotes. Nomen suum ipsa ignorabat neque curabat.
Quoquoversum in facie Terrae errabat, huc flumine illuc undis rapta, maribusque fluviisque adlata, et aliquando evaporans ut nubeculas basiaret et in pluvio ad tellurem reveniret. Cum tempus non agnovit, hic unum diem in fonte, illic annos centum in stagno demorabatur.
Nec titanes nec deos in usu habebat, nec homines in primum aliis ab animalibus dinoscebat, donec Prometheus eis ignem — hoc elementum inimicum — donavit. Tum interdum formam puellae perpulchrae induebat, ut istam gentem igniferam suo elemento lacesseret, venustate iuvenes adliciens in gremio aquarum.
Mox quacumque iit, homines ibi invenit. Vicos aedificabant, qui oppida fiebant, et oppida urbes. Et habitus eorum et linguae mutabantur, et magnificentia aedibus armis artibus crescebat, sed gens humana pavorem profundorum et numinum quo in eis obsiderentur non seposuit. Donis et nonnumquam sacrificiis numina placere didicerat, et in fine philosophia terrorem temperavit, ut populus insciens non iam placeret sed simpliciter evitavit.
. . .
Longe igitur nympha dormiebat, somniis umidis quiescens. Oculis apertis, ei videtur se novo in mundo experrectam esse, pluribus cum hominibus in maioribus oppidis. Et in fine cupido videndi parvum ad oppidum eam adduxit.
Nam, nympha nostra saecula ignorabat ; neque aetatum nomina neque gentium, quae ea nominarent, censebat, sed nos mortales talia subsidia requirimus ut narrationes sequeremur. At dubito. Quoniam argumentum istius libelli non multos abhinc annos actum'st, et domus, locus eius et nexus, etiam stat. Tacere igitur me oportet, ne indagatores mysteriorum, studiosi vel tantum avidi novitatum, ad pericula mortifera currant. Dicam modo haec eventa illum Magnum ante Bellum acta, et in oppido minori in insula britannica sita esse.
Oppidum scopulis herbosis adhaeret, ordines domuum de medio colle usque ad oram maritimam extendunt. Via lapidosa et inusitata ad oppidum propinquum fert, et pharos in summo promontorio naves ab oppido arcet. Viri hic naufragio seu potu moriuntur, feminae metu et stamine et desperatione.
Olim nauta, ultimus stirpis suae, uxorem peregrinam duxit, et cum ea e mare revenit. An miserae fuissent nuptiae annon, scit nemo, quippe breves. Vix mensis dilapsus est anteaquam nauta ad navem revenit, et vix secundus mensis fugavit anteaquam nuntium naufragii per oppidum cucurrit.
Sola erat uxor veteri in domo vana, nunc sola erit vidua, nullo cum sodale nisi frigus et spumosa mare. Amicam habebat nullam ; ut alienigenam, eam devitabant feminae. Quam lentule loquebatur, verbis alienis inusitata. Quam fusca erat pelle, quam atra crinibus ; tum barbaram nuncupaverunt feminae nuptam, tum difformam dicebant viduam, cui tristitia vero pulchritudinem amplificabat.
Et tertius mensis dilapsus est, et venter eius non tumuerat, ut gens mariti sui extincta sit. Et annus dilapsus est, et feminae aiebant viduam verumtamen infantem peperisse — et ipsa occidisse. Nonnullae putabant eam infantem devorasse, quippe gens eius est pro certo anthropophagorum natio. Invidia et suspicio ubique sequebantur, sed unum peccatum reliqua, et vera et falsa, exsuperabat : etsi maritum eripuit, non oderit mare.
Cottidie in litore sola ambulabat. Tempestates non verebatur. Aspergo salsa faciem rugis non exarat, nec ventus umidus ossa gelabat. Semper enim mare noverat, et carmina suae iuventutis undis aestuantibus etiam canebat. Itaque aliae viduae, siccae et rugosae, eam veneficam aiebant, putantes eam procellam evocasse quae virum eius in profundis merserat. Sin plerumque populus obtrectationes anillarum rideret, superstitiosi eis crederent ; nonne canes coram ea latrant ? nonne pueri domum eius aufugiunt ? et visum evitant, ne fascinum eliciant ? nonne rosae, quas maritus severat, ea praesente marcebant ? Atque rumor malevolus ex ore parentum oppidum pervadebat, quod si mormolykeion non iam pueros tereret, sed timor viduae eos cogeret ut cubiculum purgerent et preces recitarent.
Insequenti hieme tempestas atrox coörta est. Undae litus percusserunt, tonitrus coelum divellit, fulgor crucem lapideam in fori centro quassavit. Diem totum et noctem saeviebant venti. Mane imbres omnes terra hauserat, sed mare turbulentum etiam spumantibus undis aestuabat. Vidua autem impavida iter cottidianum in litore fecit, et flatus carmen triste ad fluctum ferabat, quo aures inmortales auscultabant.
Non revenerant naves neque advenerant nuntia, ut uxores nautarum parentesque precibus defectis metuerent. Quam facile metus in odium mutatur ; viduam, ut veneficam, culpabant, et inimica verba mox facinora incitaverunt. Femina unius nautae, quem viduae pulchritudinem mirari suspectebat, canem suum Molossum in litore immisit.
Bestia furens nemini praeter dominam suam oboediebat, et multas manus mordebat. Cito odorem viduae vestigavit. Ferociter latrans ei obstitit et e litore fugavit. Per vias et semitas canis mordax viduam sectatus est, quae tandem cursu pavoreque exanimata in domum fugit ianuamque pessulo occlusit. Horam paene postea Molossus coram domo stetit. Vidua clausas aures tenebat ne horrisonus canis ei mentem alienaret. Denique latratus desiit ut singultus leniter decrescrent.
Proximum diem iam territa domi sese abdidit. Cum, fortitudine tandem induta, ad litus revenisset, murmur aestus metum deleniebat. Etsi siccis in harenis ambulare curabat, undae invisae a tergo repebant ut pedes titillarent. Ridebat lusu, maestitiae oblita'st quoad turbam feminarum procul conspexit. Corpus hirtum circumstabant, quod aestus in litore reliquit. Molossus iste mordax mortuus est ; videbatur in mare demersum esse. Cadaver incolume, praeter oculos, quos pisces aut aves carpserant. Domina Molossi lachrimans clamabat, viduam tremulo digito monstrans. Scio te, inquit, canem mihi carum veneficio tuo necasse ! Turba feminarum voces suas ad iram eius adiunxit. Effugit vidua ut domi refugium peteret. Rumor autem iam volebat.
Mediam ad noctem tres pueri cachinnos opprimentes lapides colligerunt. Per tenebra serpserunt ultores ut tela in domum viduae inimicissimae iacerent. Fragor vitri viduam suscitavit. E cubito siluit ut ad fenestram properaret, sed nihil vidit. Offensionem obstrepebat, nihilominus caeca tela fenestras adsidue oppugnabant. Lapis ei caput percussit. Sub lectulo refugium petiit, vulnus cruentum manu tenens. Telis exhaustis pueri ridentes in noctem fugerunt.
Mane pueri singuli ad scholam ambulaverunt, attamen duo non advenerunt. Absentia haud erat eis inusitata, tamen solebant una e classe elabi. Tertius enim puer amicis absentibus irascebatur, qui nova scelera sine eo gerebant. At domum ad cenam non revenerunt, itaque parentes vicinique pavidi pueros exquirebant, vias vespertinas perambulantes nomina clamantes. Praeter viduam, quae etiam fenestras contabulabat, totus paene populus investigationi intererat — frustra. Sollicitam post noctem piscatores diluculo pueros prope navale invenerunt. Cadavera madida erant intacta excepto quod aves seu pisces eis oculos comederant.
Mater pueri tertii eum domi detinebat ne in intinere ad scholam quoque evanesceret. Duos dies eum custodiebat donec fata subivit. Mater filium in balnea mersum invenit. Aqua erat tincta sanguine, e cavis oculorum profluente. Vecordia eam invasit, in vias propulit. Vicini matrem furentem tandem sedaverunt ut horribilem speciem ostenderet. Nemo dubitaverunt quin necatus sit veneficio.
Quinque viri, robustissimi et validosissimi e numero senum, quos non amplius labores pelagi temptarent, fortitudine vino aucta, sclopeta sumpserunt et domum viduae incesserunt. Fores irate pulsaverunt ; cum vidua aperire recusasset, magni vi introruperunt.
Strepitus diri, qui secutus est, populus oppidi numquam oblitus est, neque stragis mentionem umquam faciat. Fragor sclopetorum vix auditus est quod tempestas in aedificio saeviit ; tam subito exorta'st quam silentium noctis iterum remeavit. Unus vir solus egressus est, immo erepsit. Viam ad portam praetentavit, cruor de oculis erutis stillabat. Senex nunc infans ; usum linguae amisserat. Paucis diebus vixit, dolore acerrimo mortuus est. Interea cadavera sodalium eius in litore inventa sunt, et cito prope ecclesiam sepulta. Nemo ausus est ultionem petere. Agnoverunt nullam magicam mortalem viduam servasse, et omnes vim antiquam reverebantur. Etenim parochus erat semi-paganus. Iam tandem oppidum et mare quiescabant.
Vesperis musica in atrio viduae sonabat, nunc saltatio lenta per gramophonum, nunc cantus barbara voce perdulcis. Mox vidua iter in litore cottidianum repetebat — neque sola. Virgo eximia forma cum vidua laete ambulabat, manibus inter se iunctis. Magna eius pulchritudo oppidianos exarmabat dum per vias domum reveniebant, ut nonnulli appropinquarent cupidi intuendi. Timidioribus vicinis virginem venustam describabant. Peregrina erat (ut dicebant) pro certo, cutis ei pallidior marmore. Habitu enim has deas in caelatura super basilicae porticum attingebat, sed crines demissi erant et semper madidati. Raro verbum dulci ex ore auscultabatur, nisi suspirium sicut aestus refluus cum in aure viduae susurravisset. Praeter eruditos paucos qui naturam virginis aquaosae coniectabant, populus ei nomina gallorum numinum antiquorum varia dederunt. Cautae matres pueros puellasque monebant ne viduam neque consortem vexarent. Sed uxores nautarum aram prope domum viduae aedificaverunt, in qua noctibus procellosis dona nymphae ponerent, cum mariti sui in alto navigassent.
~ finis ~
The roaring waves
Once there was a water nymph. She was born in the most remote and unknowable antiquity, perhaps at the very beginning of the world, of which the philosophers dream and the poets reason. She scarcely remembered her own origin, but she was already old when Zeus overcame his father Cronus with a sickle. She knew neither Titans nor gods as her parents; her body simply arose from the water. At times she lived in the Ocean, at times in a river or a spring. Thus mortals, should they ever catch sight of her, counted her amongst the number of Nereïds, Potameïds, or Oceanids, according to place. Because she delighted in blood, sometimes they called her Lamia or Empousa, but wrongly. She came merely from that primaeval race of spirits, uncertain and inconstant, and accordingly malevolent (according to mankind), whom after the Christian faith had spread across all of Europe, the priests slandered with the name of Demon (in its new sense). She herself neither knew her name nor cared for one.
She wandered all over the Earth, carried off this way by a river and that by the waves, borne away by streams and seas, and sometimes evaporating so she could kiss the clouds and return to the ground in a shower of rain. For she knew nothing of tie, she would spend a day in a fountain, then a hundred years in a lake.
She did not associate with the gods and Titans, nor at first could she distinguish humankind from the other animals, until Prometheus gave them fire, that most hated of elements. After that she would sometimes assume the form of a lovely maiden, that she might strike out at that fire-bearing race, luring youths into the bosom of the waters with her charms.
Soon whithersoever she went, she found humans there. They built villages which became towns, and these became cities. Their dress and languages changed, and their magnificence in arms, arts , and architecture grew, but the human race never got over its fear of the watery depths and the spirits that lurk within them. Through offerings, and sometimes sacrifices, they learnt to placate them, and in the end their philosophers tempered their fears, so the ignorant populace no longer placated but simply avoided them.
. . .
The nymph slumbered for a long time, reposing in her watery dreams. And having opened her eyes it appeared to her that she’d awakened in a new world, with ever more of humanity in ever larger settlements. And in the end, curiosity lead her to a small town to see what it was like.
Now, our nymph knows nothing our our age, neither the name we call it nor the names of the peoples who so named it, but we mortals require such a crutch to follow along with a story. But I hesitate; for the action of this tale occurred not many years ago, and the house around which it takes place still stands. Thus I must be silent, lest seekers after mysteries, either learned or merely desirous of novelty, should fly towards mortal danger. I may say only that these events occurred before the Great War, and in a small town on one of the smaller British isles.
The town clings to grassy cliffs, rows of houses extending from halfway up the slope down to the seashore. A stony and seldom used road leads to the next town, and a lighthouse at the end of the promontory warns ships away. The men here die from shipwrecks and drink, the women from worry, spinning, and desperation.
One day a sailor, the last of his line, married a foreign bride, and returned with her from the sea. Whether their marriage were miserable or not, none can say, for it was so brief. Hardly a month had passed when the sailor returned to his ship, and a second month had barely passed before news of a shipwreck flew through the town.
The wife had been alone in an old and empty house, now she’d be alone there as a widow, with no companions save for the cold and the foamy sea. She had no friends ; as a foreigner, the other women avoided her. How slowly she spoke, unused to their alien words. How dark her skin, how black her locks ; as a bride the women called her barbarian, now as a widow they called her hideous – her, whose sadness had if anything augmented her beauty.
And a third month passed, and her belly had still not swollen, so her husband's race was truly extinct. And a year passed; the women began to say the widow had in fact borne a child – and murdered it herself. Some even claimed she’d devoured the child, for her folk must certainly be a tribe of cannibals. Jealousy and suspicion followed her everywhere, but one sin overshadowed all the rest, both the true and false: for although it had taken away her husband, she did not hate the sea.
Daily she waked alone on the beach. She had no fear of storms. The salty spray did not crease her brow with wrinkles, nor the damp winds freeze her bones. She had always known the sea, and still sang to it the songs of her youth. And so the other widows, dry and shrivelled, began to call her a witch, saying even that she had called up the tempest which had drowned her man in the deep. But if the majority of the people laughed at the widows’ disparagements, the superstitious did credit them; for did not dogs bark in her sight? Did not the children run past her house, and avoid her gaze, lest they meet her evil eye? Were not the roses planted by her husband wilting in her presence? And the spiteful rumours began to pervade the town, for if the boogeyman no longer frightens the children, fear of the widow might move them to clean their rooms and say their prayers.
The following winter a terrible tempest arose. Waves pounded the shore, thunder ripped open the sky, lightning shattered the stone cross in the town centre. For a whole day and night the winds blew furiously. By morning the earth had swallowed up all of the rains, but the turbulent ocean still seethed with frothing waves. Undaunted, the widow made her daily walk upon the shore, and the winds bore her sad song over the tide, where immortal ears were listening.
The ships did not come in, nor did any news, so that the wives and parents of the seamen having forsaken their prayers began to fell fear. And how quickly this fear became hate; they blamed the widow, as a witch, and their odious words soon provoked action. The wife of one of the sailors — whom she suspected of admiring the widow’s beauty, let loose her great hound on the beach.
The furious beast was obedient to non save its mistress, and had bitten many a hand. Soon it had the widows scent. Barking ferociously it barred her way and chased her from the shore. The snarling hound pursued the widow through the streets and down paths until at last, breathless from fear and flight, she fled into her house and barred the door. The hound stood before the house for nearly an hour. The widow had to cover her ears lest the terrible barking drive her mad. Finally the barking ceased, and her sobs gradually waned.
Fore the whole of the following day, still terrified, she hid herself at home. When she’d finally gotten up the nerve to return to the seashore, the murmur of the tide soothed her fears. Although she took pains to walk on the dry sand, waves came up unseen behind her to tickle her feet. She began to laugh at the game, her sorrows forgotten until she espied a group of women in the distance. They were standing is a circle around a shaggy body, which the tide had left on the beach. The terrible hound was dead, seemingly drowned in the sea. Its body was intact, except the eyes, which fishes or birds had plucked out. The hound’s mistress was screaming through her tears, pointing at the widow with a trembling finger. “I know you killed my dear hound!” The other women added their voices to her ire. The widow fled home for refuge. But rumour was already winging through the town.
Round midnight three boys were collecting stones whilst suppressing their cackles. They crept through the darkness, avengers, with their missiles to throw at the house of that most hated widow. Shattering glass awakened her. She leapt out of bed and hurried to the window, but could see nothing. She shouted her displeasure, but invisible missiles kept up the assault on her windows. A stone hit her head. She sought refuge beneath her bed, holding the bloody wound I her hand. Having exhausted their ammunition, the boys ran off laughing into the night.
In the morning the each boy set off for school, but two never arrived there. Their absences were hardly unusual, but they preferred to skip school together. Indeed the third boy became very cross with his absent friends, who were up to no good without him. But they did not come home for their dinners, and so their affrighted parents and neighbours went looking for them, walking up and down the evening streets and calling their names. Other than the widow, who was still boarding up her windows, nearly the whole of the town joined the search – but in vain. In the grey of the morning after an anxious night, some fishermen found the boys near the dock. Their bodies were sodden but intact, save that the birds or fishes had eaten their eyes.
The third boys mother kept him locked up at home lest he too disappear on his way to school. She guarded him for two days until fate caught up with him. She found him drowned in his bath, the water tainted with blood flowing from his empty eye sockets. Madness seized her, and drove her into the street. Her neighbours calmed her down enough that she might show them the horrible sight. There were none who doubted that he was killed by witchcraft.
Five men — the strongest and hardiest amongst the old men who could no longer brave the labours of the sea – with wine-fortified courage took up their rifles and marched to the widow’s house. They pounded angrily upon her door, and as she refused to open, broke in by force.
The awful din which followed is something that the townsfolk would never forget, nor would they ever mention of the accompanying slaughter. The report of the rifles was hardly audible for a tempest raged in the house. It arose quite suddenly, and just as suddenly the silence of the night returned. Only a single man came out, or rather crawled. He felt his way toward the gate, gore dripping from his ruined eyes. The old man was silent, struck completely dumb. He lived for a few days and died in utter agony. Meanwhile the bodies of his associates were discovered on the beach and hastily buried near the church. No one dared seek revenge. They recognised that no mortal magic had saved the widow, and they all knew to fear and reverence the ancient power. Even the parish priest was half pagan. At last both the town and the sea were at peace.
In the evenings music was heard in the widow’s front parlour, now a slow dance playing on the gramophone, then a sweet air sung in a foreign tongue. Soon the widow resumed her daily walks along the shore – but not alone. A young woman of exceptional beauty walked happily beside her, hand in hand. Her surpassing loveliness disarmed the townsfolk as they walked home through the streets, and not a few of them came near, curious to see her. They described the radiant beauty to their more timid neighbours. She was certainly a foreigner (so they said), with skin paler than marble. Her dress recalled the goddesses chiselled in low relief above the courthouse’s porch, but her unbound tresses were always dripping with water. Rarely was a word from her sweet mouth to be heard, save in a sigh like the ebbing tide when she whispered in the widow’s ear. Other than the few erudite souls who speculated on the nature of the watery maid, everyone referred to her by various names of ancient Celtic sprites. Cautious mothers warned their children never to bother the widow and her companion. But the sailors’ wives builded a shrine before the widow’s house, where they would leave offerings to the nymph on stormy nights when their men were out at sea.
~ finis ~
Olim erat nympha aquatilis. Nata'st in aetate antiquissima et ignota, ferme ipsa origine mundi, de qua philosophi somniant et poetae ratiocinantur. Vix ortus sui meminerat, sed iam vetusta erat dum Iupitter patrem Saturnum falce superavit. Neque deum neque titanum novit ei parentum esse ; corpus simpliciter ex aqua ortum est. Tum in Oceano incolabat, tum in amne, tum in fonte. Ita mortales, si umquam conspexissent, eam in numero Nereïdum putabant, aut Potameïdum, aut Oceanidum, secundum locum. Propter gaudium cruoris, nonnumquam Lamiam vel Empousam nuncupabantur, etiamsi falso. Orta'st tantummodo ex eo genere numinum prisco, incertorum et inconstantium, et propterea malevolentium (ut habent homines), cui postquam Christi fides totam Europam occupavit, nomine daemonum (novo sensu) nocebant sacerdotes. Nomen suum ipsa ignorabat neque curabat.
Quoquoversum in facie Terrae errabat, huc flumine illuc undis rapta, maribusque fluviisque adlata, et aliquando evaporans ut nubeculas basiaret et in pluvio ad tellurem reveniret. Cum tempus non agnovit, hic unum diem in fonte, illic annos centum in stagno demorabatur.
Nec titanes nec deos in usu habebat, nec homines in primum aliis ab animalibus dinoscebat, donec Prometheus eis ignem — hoc elementum inimicum — donavit. Tum interdum formam puellae perpulchrae induebat, ut istam gentem igniferam suo elemento lacesseret, venustate iuvenes adliciens in gremio aquarum.
Mox quacumque iit, homines ibi invenit. Vicos aedificabant, qui oppida fiebant, et oppida urbes. Et habitus eorum et linguae mutabantur, et magnificentia aedibus armis artibus crescebat, sed gens humana pavorem profundorum et numinum quo in eis obsiderentur non seposuit. Donis et nonnumquam sacrificiis numina placere didicerat, et in fine philosophia terrorem temperavit, ut populus insciens non iam placeret sed simpliciter evitavit.
. . .
Longe igitur nympha dormiebat, somniis umidis quiescens. Oculis apertis, ei videtur se novo in mundo experrectam esse, pluribus cum hominibus in maioribus oppidis. Et in fine cupido videndi parvum ad oppidum eam adduxit.
Nam, nympha nostra saecula ignorabat ; neque aetatum nomina neque gentium, quae ea nominarent, censebat, sed nos mortales talia subsidia requirimus ut narrationes sequeremur. At dubito. Quoniam argumentum istius libelli non multos abhinc annos actum'st, et domus, locus eius et nexus, etiam stat. Tacere igitur me oportet, ne indagatores mysteriorum, studiosi vel tantum avidi novitatum, ad pericula mortifera currant. Dicam modo haec eventa illum Magnum ante Bellum acta, et in oppido minori in insula britannica sita esse.
Oppidum scopulis herbosis adhaeret, ordines domuum de medio colle usque ad oram maritimam extendunt. Via lapidosa et inusitata ad oppidum propinquum fert, et pharos in summo promontorio naves ab oppido arcet. Viri hic naufragio seu potu moriuntur, feminae metu et stamine et desperatione.
Olim nauta, ultimus stirpis suae, uxorem peregrinam duxit, et cum ea e mare revenit. An miserae fuissent nuptiae annon, scit nemo, quippe breves. Vix mensis dilapsus est anteaquam nauta ad navem revenit, et vix secundus mensis fugavit anteaquam nuntium naufragii per oppidum cucurrit.
Sola erat uxor veteri in domo vana, nunc sola erit vidua, nullo cum sodale nisi frigus et spumosa mare. Amicam habebat nullam ; ut alienigenam, eam devitabant feminae. Quam lentule loquebatur, verbis alienis inusitata. Quam fusca erat pelle, quam atra crinibus ; tum barbaram nuncupaverunt feminae nuptam, tum difformam dicebant viduam, cui tristitia vero pulchritudinem amplificabat.
Et tertius mensis dilapsus est, et venter eius non tumuerat, ut gens mariti sui extincta sit. Et annus dilapsus est, et feminae aiebant viduam verumtamen infantem peperisse — et ipsa occidisse. Nonnullae putabant eam infantem devorasse, quippe gens eius est pro certo anthropophagorum natio. Invidia et suspicio ubique sequebantur, sed unum peccatum reliqua, et vera et falsa, exsuperabat : etsi maritum eripuit, non oderit mare.
Cottidie in litore sola ambulabat. Tempestates non verebatur. Aspergo salsa faciem rugis non exarat, nec ventus umidus ossa gelabat. Semper enim mare noverat, et carmina suae iuventutis undis aestuantibus etiam canebat. Itaque aliae viduae, siccae et rugosae, eam veneficam aiebant, putantes eam procellam evocasse quae virum eius in profundis merserat. Sin plerumque populus obtrectationes anillarum rideret, superstitiosi eis crederent ; nonne canes coram ea latrant ? nonne pueri domum eius aufugiunt ? et visum evitant, ne fascinum eliciant ? nonne rosae, quas maritus severat, ea praesente marcebant ? Atque rumor malevolus ex ore parentum oppidum pervadebat, quod si mormolykeion non iam pueros tereret, sed timor viduae eos cogeret ut cubiculum purgerent et preces recitarent.
Insequenti hieme tempestas atrox coörta est. Undae litus percusserunt, tonitrus coelum divellit, fulgor crucem lapideam in fori centro quassavit. Diem totum et noctem saeviebant venti. Mane imbres omnes terra hauserat, sed mare turbulentum etiam spumantibus undis aestuabat. Vidua autem impavida iter cottidianum in litore fecit, et flatus carmen triste ad fluctum ferabat, quo aures inmortales auscultabant.
Non revenerant naves neque advenerant nuntia, ut uxores nautarum parentesque precibus defectis metuerent. Quam facile metus in odium mutatur ; viduam, ut veneficam, culpabant, et inimica verba mox facinora incitaverunt. Femina unius nautae, quem viduae pulchritudinem mirari suspectebat, canem suum Molossum in litore immisit.
Bestia furens nemini praeter dominam suam oboediebat, et multas manus mordebat. Cito odorem viduae vestigavit. Ferociter latrans ei obstitit et e litore fugavit. Per vias et semitas canis mordax viduam sectatus est, quae tandem cursu pavoreque exanimata in domum fugit ianuamque pessulo occlusit. Horam paene postea Molossus coram domo stetit. Vidua clausas aures tenebat ne horrisonus canis ei mentem alienaret. Denique latratus desiit ut singultus leniter decrescrent.
Proximum diem iam territa domi sese abdidit. Cum, fortitudine tandem induta, ad litus revenisset, murmur aestus metum deleniebat. Etsi siccis in harenis ambulare curabat, undae invisae a tergo repebant ut pedes titillarent. Ridebat lusu, maestitiae oblita'st quoad turbam feminarum procul conspexit. Corpus hirtum circumstabant, quod aestus in litore reliquit. Molossus iste mordax mortuus est ; videbatur in mare demersum esse. Cadaver incolume, praeter oculos, quos pisces aut aves carpserant. Domina Molossi lachrimans clamabat, viduam tremulo digito monstrans. Scio te, inquit, canem mihi carum veneficio tuo necasse ! Turba feminarum voces suas ad iram eius adiunxit. Effugit vidua ut domi refugium peteret. Rumor autem iam volebat.
Mediam ad noctem tres pueri cachinnos opprimentes lapides colligerunt. Per tenebra serpserunt ultores ut tela in domum viduae inimicissimae iacerent. Fragor vitri viduam suscitavit. E cubito siluit ut ad fenestram properaret, sed nihil vidit. Offensionem obstrepebat, nihilominus caeca tela fenestras adsidue oppugnabant. Lapis ei caput percussit. Sub lectulo refugium petiit, vulnus cruentum manu tenens. Telis exhaustis pueri ridentes in noctem fugerunt.
Mane pueri singuli ad scholam ambulaverunt, attamen duo non advenerunt. Absentia haud erat eis inusitata, tamen solebant una e classe elabi. Tertius enim puer amicis absentibus irascebatur, qui nova scelera sine eo gerebant. At domum ad cenam non revenerunt, itaque parentes vicinique pavidi pueros exquirebant, vias vespertinas perambulantes nomina clamantes. Praeter viduam, quae etiam fenestras contabulabat, totus paene populus investigationi intererat — frustra. Sollicitam post noctem piscatores diluculo pueros prope navale invenerunt. Cadavera madida erant intacta excepto quod aves seu pisces eis oculos comederant.
Mater pueri tertii eum domi detinebat ne in intinere ad scholam quoque evanesceret. Duos dies eum custodiebat donec fata subivit. Mater filium in balnea mersum invenit. Aqua erat tincta sanguine, e cavis oculorum profluente. Vecordia eam invasit, in vias propulit. Vicini matrem furentem tandem sedaverunt ut horribilem speciem ostenderet. Nemo dubitaverunt quin necatus sit veneficio.
Quinque viri, robustissimi et validosissimi e numero senum, quos non amplius labores pelagi temptarent, fortitudine vino aucta, sclopeta sumpserunt et domum viduae incesserunt. Fores irate pulsaverunt ; cum vidua aperire recusasset, magni vi introruperunt.
Strepitus diri, qui secutus est, populus oppidi numquam oblitus est, neque stragis mentionem umquam faciat. Fragor sclopetorum vix auditus est quod tempestas in aedificio saeviit ; tam subito exorta'st quam silentium noctis iterum remeavit. Unus vir solus egressus est, immo erepsit. Viam ad portam praetentavit, cruor de oculis erutis stillabat. Senex nunc infans ; usum linguae amisserat. Paucis diebus vixit, dolore acerrimo mortuus est. Interea cadavera sodalium eius in litore inventa sunt, et cito prope ecclesiam sepulta. Nemo ausus est ultionem petere. Agnoverunt nullam magicam mortalem viduam servasse, et omnes vim antiquam reverebantur. Etenim parochus erat semi-paganus. Iam tandem oppidum et mare quiescabant.
Vesperis musica in atrio viduae sonabat, nunc saltatio lenta per gramophonum, nunc cantus barbara voce perdulcis. Mox vidua iter in litore cottidianum repetebat — neque sola. Virgo eximia forma cum vidua laete ambulabat, manibus inter se iunctis. Magna eius pulchritudo oppidianos exarmabat dum per vias domum reveniebant, ut nonnulli appropinquarent cupidi intuendi. Timidioribus vicinis virginem venustam describabant. Peregrina erat (ut dicebant) pro certo, cutis ei pallidior marmore. Habitu enim has deas in caelatura super basilicae porticum attingebat, sed crines demissi erant et semper madidati. Raro verbum dulci ex ore auscultabatur, nisi suspirium sicut aestus refluus cum in aure viduae susurravisset. Praeter eruditos paucos qui naturam virginis aquaosae coniectabant, populus ei nomina gallorum numinum antiquorum varia dederunt. Cautae matres pueros puellasque monebant ne viduam neque consortem vexarent. Sed uxores nautarum aram prope domum viduae aedificaverunt, in qua noctibus procellosis dona nymphae ponerent, cum mariti sui in alto navigassent.
The roaring waves
Once there was a water nymph. She was born in the most remote and unknowable antiquity, perhaps at the very beginning of the world, of which the philosophers dream and the poets reason. She scarcely remembered her own origin, but she was already old when Zeus overcame his father Cronus with a sickle. She knew neither Titans nor gods as her parents; her body simply arose from the water. At times she lived in the Ocean, at times in a river or a spring. Thus mortals, should they ever catch sight of her, counted her amongst the number of Nereïds, Potameïds, or Oceanids, according to place. Because she delighted in blood, sometimes they called her Lamia or Empousa, but wrongly. She came merely from that primaeval race of spirits, uncertain and inconstant, and accordingly malevolent (according to mankind), whom after the Christian faith had spread across all of Europe, the priests slandered with the name of Demon (in its new sense). She herself neither knew her name nor cared for one.
She wandered all over the Earth, carried off this way by a river and that by the waves, borne away by streams and seas, and sometimes evaporating so she could kiss the clouds and return to the ground in a shower of rain. For she knew nothing of tie, she would spend a day in a fountain, then a hundred years in a lake.
She did not associate with the gods and Titans, nor at first could she distinguish humankind from the other animals, until Prometheus gave them fire, that most hated of elements. After that she would sometimes assume the form of a lovely maiden, that she might strike out at that fire-bearing race, luring youths into the bosom of the waters with her charms.
Soon whithersoever she went, she found humans there. They built villages which became towns, and these became cities. Their dress and languages changed, and their magnificence in arms, arts , and architecture grew, but the human race never got over its fear of the watery depths and the spirits that lurk within them. Through offerings, and sometimes sacrifices, they learnt to placate them, and in the end their philosophers tempered their fears, so the ignorant populace no longer placated but simply avoided them.
. . .
The nymph slumbered for a long time, reposing in her watery dreams. And having opened her eyes it appeared to her that she’d awakened in a new world, with ever more of humanity in ever larger settlements. And in the end, curiosity lead her to a small town to see what it was like.
Now, our nymph knows nothing our our age, neither the name we call it nor the names of the peoples who so named it, but we mortals require such a crutch to follow along with a story. But I hesitate; for the action of this tale occurred not many years ago, and the house around which it takes place still stands. Thus I must be silent, lest seekers after mysteries, either learned or merely desirous of novelty, should fly towards mortal danger. I may say only that these events occurred before the Great War, and in a small town on one of the smaller British isles.
The town clings to grassy cliffs, rows of houses extending from halfway up the slope down to the seashore. A stony and seldom used road leads to the next town, and a lighthouse at the end of the promontory warns ships away. The men here die from shipwrecks and drink, the women from worry, spinning, and desperation.
One day a sailor, the last of his line, married a foreign bride, and returned with her from the sea. Whether their marriage were miserable or not, none can say, for it was so brief. Hardly a month had passed when the sailor returned to his ship, and a second month had barely passed before news of a shipwreck flew through the town.
The wife had been alone in an old and empty house, now she’d be alone there as a widow, with no companions save for the cold and the foamy sea. She had no friends ; as a foreigner, the other women avoided her. How slowly she spoke, unused to their alien words. How dark her skin, how black her locks ; as a bride the women called her barbarian, now as a widow they called her hideous – her, whose sadness had if anything augmented her beauty.
And a third month passed, and her belly had still not swollen, so her husband's race was truly extinct. And a year passed; the women began to say the widow had in fact borne a child – and murdered it herself. Some even claimed she’d devoured the child, for her folk must certainly be a tribe of cannibals. Jealousy and suspicion followed her everywhere, but one sin overshadowed all the rest, both the true and false: for although it had taken away her husband, she did not hate the sea.
Daily she waked alone on the beach. She had no fear of storms. The salty spray did not crease her brow with wrinkles, nor the damp winds freeze her bones. She had always known the sea, and still sang to it the songs of her youth. And so the other widows, dry and shrivelled, began to call her a witch, saying even that she had called up the tempest which had drowned her man in the deep. But if the majority of the people laughed at the widows’ disparagements, the superstitious did credit them; for did not dogs bark in her sight? Did not the children run past her house, and avoid her gaze, lest they meet her evil eye? Were not the roses planted by her husband wilting in her presence? And the spiteful rumours began to pervade the town, for if the boogeyman no longer frightens the children, fear of the widow might move them to clean their rooms and say their prayers.
The following winter a terrible tempest arose. Waves pounded the shore, thunder ripped open the sky, lightning shattered the stone cross in the town centre. For a whole day and night the winds blew furiously. By morning the earth had swallowed up all of the rains, but the turbulent ocean still seethed with frothing waves. Undaunted, the widow made her daily walk upon the shore, and the winds bore her sad song over the tide, where immortal ears were listening.
The ships did not come in, nor did any news, so that the wives and parents of the seamen having forsaken their prayers began to fell fear. And how quickly this fear became hate; they blamed the widow, as a witch, and their odious words soon provoked action. The wife of one of the sailors — whom she suspected of admiring the widow’s beauty, let loose her great hound on the beach.
The furious beast was obedient to non save its mistress, and had bitten many a hand. Soon it had the widows scent. Barking ferociously it barred her way and chased her from the shore. The snarling hound pursued the widow through the streets and down paths until at last, breathless from fear and flight, she fled into her house and barred the door. The hound stood before the house for nearly an hour. The widow had to cover her ears lest the terrible barking drive her mad. Finally the barking ceased, and her sobs gradually waned.
Fore the whole of the following day, still terrified, she hid herself at home. When she’d finally gotten up the nerve to return to the seashore, the murmur of the tide soothed her fears. Although she took pains to walk on the dry sand, waves came up unseen behind her to tickle her feet. She began to laugh at the game, her sorrows forgotten until she espied a group of women in the distance. They were standing is a circle around a shaggy body, which the tide had left on the beach. The terrible hound was dead, seemingly drowned in the sea. Its body was intact, except the eyes, which fishes or birds had plucked out. The hound’s mistress was screaming through her tears, pointing at the widow with a trembling finger. “I know you killed my dear hound!” The other women added their voices to her ire. The widow fled home for refuge. But rumour was already winging through the town.
Round midnight three boys were collecting stones whilst suppressing their cackles. They crept through the darkness, avengers, with their missiles to throw at the house of that most hated widow. Shattering glass awakened her. She leapt out of bed and hurried to the window, but could see nothing. She shouted her displeasure, but invisible missiles kept up the assault on her windows. A stone hit her head. She sought refuge beneath her bed, holding the bloody wound I her hand. Having exhausted their ammunition, the boys ran off laughing into the night.
In the morning the each boy set off for school, but two never arrived there. Their absences were hardly unusual, but they preferred to skip school together. Indeed the third boy became very cross with his absent friends, who were up to no good without him. But they did not come home for their dinners, and so their affrighted parents and neighbours went looking for them, walking up and down the evening streets and calling their names. Other than the widow, who was still boarding up her windows, nearly the whole of the town joined the search – but in vain. In the grey of the morning after an anxious night, some fishermen found the boys near the dock. Their bodies were sodden but intact, save that the birds or fishes had eaten their eyes.
The third boys mother kept him locked up at home lest he too disappear on his way to school. She guarded him for two days until fate caught up with him. She found him drowned in his bath, the water tainted with blood flowing from his empty eye sockets. Madness seized her, and drove her into the street. Her neighbours calmed her down enough that she might show them the horrible sight. There were none who doubted that he was killed by witchcraft.
Five men — the strongest and hardiest amongst the old men who could no longer brave the labours of the sea – with wine-fortified courage took up their rifles and marched to the widow’s house. They pounded angrily upon her door, and as she refused to open, broke in by force.
The awful din which followed is something that the townsfolk would never forget, nor would they ever mention of the accompanying slaughter. The report of the rifles was hardly audible for a tempest raged in the house. It arose quite suddenly, and just as suddenly the silence of the night returned. Only a single man came out, or rather crawled. He felt his way toward the gate, gore dripping from his ruined eyes. The old man was silent, struck completely dumb. He lived for a few days and died in utter agony. Meanwhile the bodies of his associates were discovered on the beach and hastily buried near the church. No one dared seek revenge. They recognised that no mortal magic had saved the widow, and they all knew to fear and reverence the ancient power. Even the parish priest was half pagan. At last both the town and the sea were at peace.
In the evenings music was heard in the widow’s front parlour, now a slow dance playing on the gramophone, then a sweet air sung in a foreign tongue. Soon the widow resumed her daily walks along the shore – but not alone. A young woman of exceptional beauty walked happily beside her, hand in hand. Her surpassing loveliness disarmed the townsfolk as they walked home through the streets, and not a few of them came near, curious to see her. They described the radiant beauty to their more timid neighbours. She was certainly a foreigner (so they said), with skin paler than marble. Her dress recalled the goddesses chiselled in low relief above the courthouse’s porch, but her unbound tresses were always dripping with water. Rarely was a word from her sweet mouth to be heard, save in a sigh like the ebbing tide when she whispered in the widow’s ear. Other than the few erudite souls who speculated on the nature of the watery maid, everyone referred to her by various names of ancient Celtic sprites. Cautious mothers warned their children never to bother the widow and her companion. But the sailors’ wives builded a shrine before the widow’s house, where they would leave offerings to the nymph on stormy nights when their men were out at sea.
