Madame Boucher

Madame Boucher was a country woman from Brest, who spoke French with a strange accent and sang me to sleep at night with her haunting songs. Her Christian name was Ghislaine, and she was married to a quiet journeyman printer who also worked for my Uncle. She called me her little orpheline, or her pretty lamb, and I still remember her voice singing,

Daik, mab gwen Drouiz; ore;
Daik, petra fel d'idde?
Petra ganinnme d'idde?

"What does it mean?"

"It's a lay from Brittany in our tongue, the language Adam and Eve spoke in paradise. It's like a long lullaby, sung between a Druid and a child, and it teaches an infant her numbers and many other things."

"Aren't you French?"

Madame Boucher kissed my cheeks and studied me with her piercing, dark blue eyes. "Brittany is a beautiful country surrounded by the sea. It is a land that does not forget its past, and I can tell you the names of all my ancestors, back to the kings of Kernev, or of Cornouialle in French. We are not like the Serapians - by which she meant Parisians - we give to the poor and we open our homes to our guests, even to beggars if they ask for aid. Dumann e ty an homm is what we say, my house is everyone's home. But we do not have many books, only our bible, which is all we need. Instead we have our songs, that our fathers sang to us when we were children."

"What's a druid?"

"No one living remembers them, child, they have all disappeared. But we still sing their songs."

"Can you sing it again?"

"Only if you promise to settle down and ask me no more questions, for it is a long one, and I will explain it to you on another night, as far as I understand it."

And this is what I learned to sing, that we sang together, as I wiped away Ghislaine's tears, or until I fell asleep in tears myself, dreaming of wild boar and grim Ankou, of sharp swords and standing stones. Later I learned that four Bretons had been executed that year for resisting a tax collection in Nantes; Ghislaine's father among them.

Druid:

My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number one, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.


My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number two, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

There are two oxen yoked to a hull; they pull, they will expire, what a wonder to behold!
There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.

My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number three, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

There are three parts to the world: for man and oak, three beginnings and three ends; the three kingdoms of Merlin, three golden fruits, three brilliant flowers, three children who laugh.
There are two oxen yoked to a hull; they pull, they will expire, what a wonder to behold!
There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.

My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number four, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

There are four sharpening stones, the sharpening stones of Merlin, that sharpen swords fast.
There are three parts to the world...
There are two oxen yoked to a hull...
There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.

My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number five, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

There are five zones around the earth: five ages in the expanse of time; a dolmen of five stones upon our sister.
There are four sharpening stones...
There are three parts to the world...
There are two oxen yoked to a hull...
There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.

My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number six, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

There are six grandchildren of wax, brought to life by the power of the moon, you may not know it, but I do. Six herbs in the small pot, a small dwarf to mix the drink, the little finger in his mouth.
There are five zones around the earth...
There are four sharpening stones...
There are three parts to the world...
There are two oxen yoked to a hull...
There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.

My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number seven, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

There are seven suns and seven moons, seven planets and the hen with her chicks; seven elements of the air.
There are six grandchildren of wax...
There are five zones around the earth...
There are four sharpening stones...
There are three parts to the world...
There are two oxen yoked to a hull...
There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.

My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number eight, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

There are eight winds that blow and eight fires with fathers' fire lit in May on the mountains of war. Eight heifers as white as sea foam, grazing grass on the island deep, eight heifers of the Lady White.
There are seven suns and seven moons...
There are six grandchildren of wax...
There are five zones around the earth...
There are four sharpening stones...
There are three parts to the world...
There are two oxen yoked to a hull...
There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.

My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number nine, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

There are nine small white hands on the table by the tower of Lezarmeur and nine moaning mothers.
There are nine korrigan dancing around the fountain in the clear full moon, with flowers in their hair and robes of white wool, There the mother boar and her nine little boars in the gate of their castle their pigsty, snuffling and digging; little one run to the orchard, the old boar shall teach you trick!
There are eight winds that blow...
There are seven suns and seven moons...
There are six grandchildren of wax...
There are five zones around the earth...
There are four sharpening stones...
There are three parts to the world...
There are two oxen yoked to a hull...
There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.

My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number ten, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

Ten enemy ships were seen coming from Nantes: Woe to you and woe to them! The men of Vannes!
There are nine small white hands on the table...
There are eight winds that blow...
There are seven suns and seven moons...
There are six grandchildren of wax...
There are five zones around the earth...
There are four sharpening stones...
There are three parts to the world...
There are two oxen yoked to a hull...
There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.

My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number eleven, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

Eleven armed Belek, from Vannes, with their broken swords;
And their bloodied robes and crutches; of their three cents but eleven is left.
Ten enemy ships were seen coming from Nantes...
There are nine small white hands on the table...
There are eight winds that blow...
There are seven suns and seven moons...
There are six grandchildren of wax...
There are five zones around the earth...
There are four sharpening stones...
There are three parts to the world...
There are two oxen yoked to a hull...
There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.

My pretty, my white child of the Druid, pretty one, what do you want? Of what shall I sing?

Child:

Sing to me the cycle of the number twelve, until I have learned it for today.

Druid:

There are twelve signs and twelve months, and Sagittarius the next to last lets fly his arrow armed with a dart. The twelve signs are at war. The beautiful black cow with a white star on her face, leaves the forest of mortal remains, feels in her breast the sting of the arrow, and her blood flows as she lows, her head raised: The tornado sounds: fire and thunder, rain and wind, thunder and fire, nothing, nothing, nothing, no cycle remains.
Eleven armed Belek, from Vannes...
Ten enemy ships were seen coming from Nantes...
There are nine small white hands on the table...
There are eight winds that blow...
There are seven suns and seven moons...
There are six grandchildren of wax...
There are five zones around the earth...
There are four sharpening stones...
There are three parts to the world...
There are two oxen yoked to a hull...
There is no cycle for the number one, only the unique need, Ankou the bringer of death, the father of pain, nothing before, nothing more.