#les lavandières de nuit

[mask131]

Reblogging a French painter depicting one of the most famous French types of ghosts (well... Breton to be precise. Bretagne is in many ways its own thing) - because it's the Halloween season!

I was quite shocked when I discovered as a teenager other countries did not always have their own version of the Night Washerwoman, due to how big they were in French media and legends. Some countries have their equivalents and others not at all apparently...

Jean Edouard Dargent (1824-1899) - Les Lavandières de la nuit (The Washerwomen of the Night), c. 1861

[adarkrainbow]

Long ask. Bear with me, please.

I'm still thinking about what counts or not as a fairy tale.

To be honest, I think the only pre-requisites for something to become a fairy tale in pop culture is for it to be a popular fantasy children's story in public domain. And kinda look like a fairy tale, too.

In your opinion, which work would be considered a fairy tale if it weren't for copyright?

Let me give, my examples

C.S. Lewis' Narnia books, especially the first one, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. If Alice in Wonderland and Wizard of Oz are considered fairy tales, especially in crossovers, Narnia should be too as it shares many themes, plot points, and character archetypes.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It literally uses all fairy tale archetypes and cliches under the sun, even if it ditches magic for extremely soft sci-fi. Willy Wonka is like Frau Holle or that fairy godmother from Toads and Diamonds, the four brat children are like those siblings and step-siblings who are always magically punished, and even as a child I knew Charlie Bucket was Cinderella but with no focus on romance. He's the youngest sibling that always is magically rewarded.

It is quite funny because I had the idea to make a post about this subject specifically! But since you asked I'll drop some elements of my planned posts here - it can be a good introduction!

Now if you ask me, "fairytale" can't be everything and anything, but that's probably because I come from France where "fairytales" are literaly a literary genre first, and then a category of folktales and legend, and we have specific categorizations different from other countries (again, the merveilleux/fantastique divide for example which determines the French approach to supernatural and fantasy, but is absent from English literature if I am not mistaken).

I... personally do not believe any "popular children story" would be a fairytale. Else that would make the first Harry Potter books a fairytale, or the Winnie the Pooh stories a fairytale or Despicable Me or the recent musical Troll movies fairytales. I think the inherent decision to make something "for children" fairytale like is bad because, again, fairytales were not originally meant for children and thus should not be limited to a child audience.

From my point of view, a fairytale needs to be either a folktale that hold itself in a specific format that makes it separate from legends and myths (the type of local folkloric stories told by old storytellers to children in the countryside for example - but with a clear plot, clear characters, and beginning and ends, separating it from vague legends ; and with a minimum religious element, to separate it from myths for example). I do not like to think of Greek myths as "Greek fairytales". For example, to take an example of the folkloric fairytales of France vs the legends: we have in Bretagne the belief in "les lavandières de nuit", "the night washer-women", ghostly, otherwordly apparitions of women washing clothes at night, and you should never help them else you'll end up dead or with your arms broken. If someone simply tells you what I told you above "It is said there are ghostly women who wash linen at night...", this is more of a "legend", like ghost stories, or "Oh, this is a fairy mound haunted by fairies!" or "It is said a monster lives in this cave". But if you actually tell the story of a specific peasant boy with a specific name, who due to specific reasons ends up meeting these women, and either escapes or falls to their fate, we already are closer to the folktale and thus the "fairytale of Bretagne". But this is all obvious, as these kind of fairytale-folktales were those collected by Grimm and Jacobs and Moe and others...

And then you have literary fairytales, which are stories meant to evoke or imitate the folktales described above, and can derive in many ways (be more "literary") but still identify or present themselves or link themselves to these folktales. These are the Perrault and d'Aulnoy and Andersen fairytales for example. This category can be pushed further with what we call in French "contes détournés" - you could call them "fractured fairytales" to take back a common English term, that is to say all the parodies and rewrites and deformations of fairytales, sometimes for humoristic effects, other times not. Modernization and expansion of fairytales are part of that, so to speak. But we stay in a domain where the story is presented or follows the code and format of fairytales, while also explicitely avoiding, pointing out or reversing the common tropes and rules.

But where the Narnia books and the Dahl books enter, we reach a domain that is not fully fairytale but rather a crossroad between three genres deeply intertwined. "Fairy tales" (or rather "modern fairytales") ; "Fairytale-Fantasy" and "Children fantasy".

Children fantasy is basically any modern children story (by modern I mean deliberately fictional and written as fiction) that involves magic and the supernatural. And these stories can be influenced by fairytales, since it is something children are very aware about, but not always. Peter Pan, just like the Oz books, are "children fantasy" - a form of fantasy for children primarily, or rather a form of children stories that step into the fantasy realm. Pinocchio is one of the oldest "children fantasy", as in a work primarily aimed at children, but with magical and fantastical elements in it.

"Fairytale-fantasy" however is a term usually given to a subgenre of fantasy works that, instead of taking inspiration from epic sagas (epic fantasy) or horror works (dark fantasy) or other things ; takes inspiration from fairytales and folktales. The same way Tolkien was the father of "epic fantasy" he was also the father of "fairytale fantasy" through his Hobbit novel, and also other works (his Tom Bombadil poems, his Farmer Gilles of Ham novel).

The thing is that "children fantasy" and "fairytale fantasy" are deeply interconnected since both can draw source from fairytales and folktales to build entirely new stories. As a result there is a frequent overlap. The Oz books belong as much to "children fantasy" (one of the biggest success in terms of magical series of children-book) as "fairytale fantasy" (they were a pure deconstruction of typical fairytales, explicitely playing with fairytale codes, and later becoming an "American fairytale" classic). The Narnia books are also part of this crossroad, as they are "children fantasy" (they are a traditional fantasy story with epic tones, but for children and teenagers), while also being "fairytale fantasy" (taking inspiration and paying homage to several fairytales and folktales). They all belong to this category of works which are not fairytales per se (since they are not of folkloric origins, nor were they meant to be faithful rewrites or perfect pastiches of traditional folkloric fairytales), but definitively works of fiction based upon fairytales, inspired by fairytales, and mant to take fairytales into the "next step" of the world of fiction.

The main difference between "children fantasy" and "fairytale fantasy" would be as such. Children fantasy, while sometimes inspired by fairytales, is not always tied to fairytales and can be completely fairytale free. For example many of Roald Dahl stories do pay homage to fairytales and are inspired by his fairytales (his witches in The Witches, his giants in THE BFG, Wonka and his factory, the Giant Peach, etc...), he is part of the "writers of modern fairytales". But you have also lot of children stories with magic that do not involve any fairytale reference. Children fantasy can be inspired and allied by fairytales, but is not defined by them.

On the opposite side, "fairytale fantasy" is defined by fairytales - but not by age. Yes some of the most famous "fairytale fantasy" works are for children: the Oz books or the Narnia books. But just as many are for adults and definitively not for children. Neil Gaiman wrote a Coraline for children, but his Stardust is definitively for adults. The movie "Legend", while one of the most iconic fairytale-fantasies, is for adults.

So, I think the real way to point out what a fairytale is, is to look at the format and intentions of the author and of the work, to see if it fits the literary fairytales of old. There needs to be a conscious emulation, pastiche or imitation of traditional fairytales, there needs to be something that make it feel like a fairytale, and not like a story inspired by fairytales. But honestly... this is deep down really, really hard to draw a line as it mostly comes to personal definitions and appreciations. The genre of fairytales is vast and blurry, as it covers traditional European folktales and a specific short literary genre first, but was then expanded to cover other literary works and non-European folktales - and so the lines are... muddled.

I do not hesitate to say that "Over the Garden Wall" is actually a modern fairytale, as seeing the show made me literaly feel again the same kind of feeling I had when I first discovered fairytales. But I can understand why people would consider it "fairytale fantasy" rather than a "modern fairytale" because it was made with the intent of it being a children show and fantasy show first and foremost. Dahl stories are definitively "modern fairytales" - but the fact they are set in "modern day" and a grounded reality where the supernatural is not supposed to exist can disqualify them from being traditional fairytales ; or the humor and parody and play with the fairytale codes can also create a distanciating humor that make them fairytale subversions or pastiches or parodies rather than fairytales. Pinocchio has everything that fits a literary fairytale - but its format also evokes old "story-cycles" like the Reynard adventures or Gargantua ones, and its lack of simplicity and uniformity, or rather its long, flowing nature can also disqualify it from being a fairytale and rather make it a fairytale-inspired fantasy....

Honestly the narrowest definition you can have of "fairytale" is: printed works that explicitely designate themselves as such, from collected folktales (Grimm) to literary fiction written to emulate and imitate them (Andersen). This is the most narrow definition you can have. But then, one can expand to include all folktales that inspired fairytales ; or on the other side, one can push into the literary direction, to include stories that do not have the fairytale format, but that were so heavily inspired and shaped after fairytales, and gained such a popular influence and widespread presence, that they became "modern fairytales". But then this also opens the door to questions such as "What is a myth?" or "What about literary myths?" (like Faust or Don Juan or Frankenstein, all those famous "literary myths" as we call them in French).

As you can see by this convoluted answer, it is not a clear-cut question and nobody can truly answer it. Everybody will have a different opinion, and there is no real limit. The question mostly defines in how the work label itself. Perrault and Grimm and Andersen works called themselves fairytales, so there is no doubt about it. But take Neil Gaiman's Stardust - an iconic of fairytale fantasy, and yet Gaiman refers to it as a "romance in Faerie", evoking more the genre of fantastical and supernatural romances (medieval-meaning of the sense) like "The Well at World's End" and others - and the work is also very inspired by fantasy fae stories with a vague proto-urban fantasy feel to it, like "Lug-in-Mist". Same thing with the movie "Legend" which is definitively inspired by fairytales and a fairytale-fantasy, but was sold as a "fantasy movie" or even "heroic fantasy" movie first and foremost. Meanwhile the Oz books were intended by Baum to be a "modern, American fairytale" - even though their novel format and their franchise nature removes the idea they can become as "traditional" as the folktales he meant to imitate...

I'll stop there for now, but long story short: It's complicated, and when in doubt, don't hesitate to refer to intermediary terms like "children fantasy" or "fairytale fantasy", which clearly evoke modern fictional works and can highlight a difference with classic literary fairytales or folkloric fairytales, without rejecting the idea these "modern fairytales" aren't fairytales in their own right.

[ohcaptainhartford]

Yan'Dargent

Les Lavandières de la nuit, 1861

Quimper, musée des beaux-arts

(source)

[nous-dormirons-ensemble]

10 juin 1936

Au détour du chemin, Il étendit la main, Devant le beau matin.

Le ciel était si clair Que les nuages dans l’air Ressemblaient à l’écume de la mer.

Et la fleur des pommiers Blanchissait dans les prés Où séchait le linge lavé.

La source qui chantait, Chantait la vie qui passait Au long des prés, au long des haies.

Et la forêt à l’horizon, Où verdissait le gazon, Comme une cloche était pleine de sons.

La vie était si belle, Elle entrait si bien dans ses prunelles Dans son cœur et dans ses oreilles,

Qu’il éclata de rire : Il rit au monde et aux soupirs Du vent dans les arbres en fleur.

Il rit à l’odeur de la terre, Il rit au linge des lavandières, Il rit aux nuages passant dans l’air.

Comme il riait en haut de la colline, Parut la fille de belle mine Qui venait de la maison voisine.

Et la fille rit aussi Et quand son rire s’évanouit Les oiseaux chantaient à nouveau.

Elle rit de le voir rire Et les colombes qui se mirent Dans le bassin aux calmes eaux Écoutèrent son rire Dans l’air s’évanouir.

Jamais plus ils ne se revirent. Elle passa souvent sur le chemin Où l’homme tendit la main À la lumière du matin.

Maintes fois il se souvint d’elle Et sa mémoire trop fidèle Se réflétait dans ses prunelles.

Maintes fois elle se souvint de lui Et dans l’eau profonde du puits C’est son visage qu’elle revit.

Les ans passèrent un à un En palissant comme au matin Les cartes qu’un joueur tient dans sa main.

Tous deux pourrissent dans la terre, Mordus par les vers sincères. La terre emplit leur bouche pour les faire taire.

Peut-être s’appelleraient-ils dans la nuit, Si la mort n’avait horreur du bruit : Le chemin reste et le temps fuit.

Mais chaque jour le beau matin Comme un œuf tombe dans la main Du passant sur le chemin.

Chaque jour le ciel est si clair Que les nuages dans l’air Sont comme l’écume sur la mer.

Morts ! Épaves sombrées dans la terre, Nous ignorons vos misères Chantées par les solitaires.

Nous nageons, nous vivons, Dans l’air pur de chaque saison. La vie est belle et l’air est bon.

Robert Desnos

[Alfred Sisley - Normandie, le sentier au bord de l'eau, soir à Sahurs]

[mask131]

These are pictures of les lavandières de nuit, the night washerwomen.

'Breton Legends' illustrated by Maurice de Becque, 1921.

[corydon8]

KATHERINE LA DENTELLIÈRE

FILLE AMOUREUSE

Elle naquit vers le milieu du quinzième siècle, dans la rue de la Parcheminerie, près de la rue Saint-Jacques, par un hiver où il fit si froid que les loups coururent à travers Paris sur les neiges. Une vieille femme, qui avait le nez rouge sous son chaperon, la recueillit et l’éleva. Et premièrement elle joua sous les porches avec Perrenette, Guillemette, Ysabeau et Jehanneton, qui portaient de petites cottes et trempaient leurs menottes rougies dans les ruisseaux pour attraper des morceaux de glace. Elles regardaient aussi ceux qui pipaient les passants au jeu de tables qu’on appelle Saint-Merry. Et sous les auvents, elles guettaient les tripes dans leurs baquets, et les longues saucisses ballottantes, et les gros crochets de fer où les bouchers suspendent les quartiers de viande. Près de Saint-Benoît le Bétourné, où sont les écritoires, elles écoutaient grincer les plumes, et soufflaient la chandelle au nez des clercs, le soir, par les lucarnes des boutiques. Au Petit-Pont, elles narguaient les harengères et s’enfuyaient vite vers la place Maubert, se cachaient dans les angles de la rue des Trois-Portes ; puis, assises sur la margelle de la fontaine, elles jacassaient jusqu’à la brume de la nuit.

Ainsi se passa la prime jeunesse de Katherine, avant que la vieille femme lui eût appris à s’asseoir devant un coussinet à dentelles et à entrecroiser patiemment les fils de toutes les bobines. Plus tard, elle ouvragea de son métier, Jehanneton étant devenue chaperonnière, Perrenette lavandière, et Ysabeau gantière, et Guillemette, la plus heureuse, saucissière, ayant un petit visage cramoisi qui reluisait comme s’il eût été frotté avec du sang frais de porc. Pour ceux qui avaient joué à Saint-Merry, ils commençaient déjà d’autres entreprises ; certains étudiaient sur la montagne Sainte-Geneviève, et d’autres battaient les cartes au Trou-Perrette, et d’autres choquaient les brocs de vin d’Aunis à la Pomme de Pin et d’autres se querellaient à l’hôtel de la Grosse Margot, et sur l’heure de midi, on les voyait, à l’entrée de la taverne, dans la rue aux Fèves, et sur l’heure de minuit, ils sortaient par la porte de la rue aux Juifs. Pour Katherine, elle entrelaçait les fils de sa dentelle, et les soirs d’été elle prenait le serein sur le banc de l’église, où il était permis de rire et de babiller.

Katherine portait une chemisette écrue et un surcot de couleur verte ; elle était tout affolée d’atours, ne haïssant rien tant que le bourrelet qui marque les filles lorsqu’elles ne sont point de noble lignée. Elle aimait pareillement les testons, les blancs, et surtout les écus d’or. C’est ce qui fit qu’elle s’accointa à Casin Cholet, sergent à verge au Châtelet ; sous ombre de son office, il gagnait mal de la monnaie. Souvent elle soupa en sa compagnie à l’hôtellerie de la Mule, en face de l’église des Mathurins ; et, après souper, Casin Cholet allait prendre des poules sur l’envers des fossés de Paris. Il les rapportait sous son grand tabart, et les vendait très bien à la Machecroue, veuve d’Arnoul, belle marchande de volaille à la porte du Petit-Châtelet.

Et sitôt Katherine cessa son métier de dentellière : car la vieille femme au nez rouge pourrissait au charnier des Innocents. Casin Cholet trouva pour son amie une petite chambre basse, près des Trois-Pucelles, et là il venait la voir sur la tarde. Il ne lui défendait pas de se montrer à la fenêtre, avec les yeux noircis au charbon, les joues enduites de blanc de plomb ; et tous les pots, tasses et assiettes à fruits où Katherine offrait à boire et à manger à tous ceux qui payaient bien, furent volés à la Chaire, ou aux Cygnes, ou à l’hôtel du Plat-d’Étain. Casin Cholet disparut un jour qu’il avait mis en gage la robe et le demi-ceinct de Katherine aux Trois-Lavandières. Ses amis dirent à la dentellière qu’il avait été battu au cul d’une charrette et chassé de Paris, sur l’ordre du prévôt, par la porte Baudoyer. Elle ne le revit jamais ; et seule, n’ayant plus le cœur à gagner d’argent, devint fille amoureuse, demeurant partout.

Premièrement, elle attendit aux portes d’hôtelleries ; et ceux qui la connaissaient l’emmenaient derrière les murs, sous le Châtelet, ou contre le collège de Navarre ; puis, quand il fit trop froid, une vieille complaisante la fit entrer aux étuves, où la maîtresse lui donna l’abri. Elle y vécut dans une chambre de pierre, jonchée de roseaux verts. On lui laissa son nom de Katherine la Dentellière, quoiqu’elle n’y fît point de la dentelle. Parfois on lui donnait liberté de se promener par les rues, à condition qu’elle rentrât à l’heure où les gens ont coutume d’aller aux étuves. Et Katherine errait devant les boutiques de la gantière et de la chaperonnière, et maintes fois elle demeura longtemps à envier le visage sanguin de la saucissière, qui riait parmi ses viandes de porc. Ensuite elle retournait aux étuves, que la maîtresse éclairait au crépuscule avec des chandelles qui brûlaient rouge et fondaient pesamment derrière les vitres noires.

Enfin Katherine se lassa de vivre close dans une chambre carrée ; elle s’enfuit sur les routes. Et, dès lors, elle ne fut plus Parisienne, ni dentellière ; mais semblable à celles qui hantent à l’entour des villes de France, assises sur les pierres des cimetières, pour donner du plaisir à ceux qui passent. Ces fillettes n’ont point d’autre nom que le nom qui convient à leur figure, et Katherine eut le nom de Museau. Elle marchait par les prés, et le soir, elle épiait sur le bord des chemins, et on voyait sa moue blanche entre les mûriers des haies. Museau apprit à supporter la peur nocturne au milieu des morts, quand ses pieds grelottaient en frôlant les tombes. Plus de testons, plus de blancs, plus d’écus d’or ; elle vivait pauvrement de pain et de fromage, et de son écuellée d’eau. Elle eut des amis malheureux qui lui chuchotaient de loin : « Museau ! Museau ! » et elle les aima.

La plus grande tristesse était d’ouïr les cloches des églises et des chapelles ; car Museau se souvenait des nuits de juin où elle s’était assise, en cotte verte, sur les bancs des porches saints. C’était au temps où elle enviait les atours des demoiselles ; il ne lui restait maintenant ni bourrelet, ni chaperon. Tête nue, elle attendait son pain, appuyée à une dalle rude. Et elle regrettait les chandelles rouges des étuves parmi la nuit du cimetière, et les roseaux verts de la chambre carrée au lieu de la boue grasse où s’enfonçaient ses pieds.

Une nuit, un ruffian qui contrefaisait l’homme de guerre, coupa la gorge de Museau pour lui prendre sa ceinture. Mais il n’y trouva pas de bourse.

[paysendormis]

Alentours d’𝓗𝘶𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵, il y a quelques matins.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐄𝐒 : ˗ ˏ ˋ 𝓈𝒸𝑒̀𝓃𝑒𝓈 ˎ ˊ ˗

Aux abords de la ville, il est une forêt dense aux sapins frissonnants fouettés par un vent froid venu de l'est. Un garçon marche au côté de son destrier. La chanson qu’il siffle du bout des lèvres résonne pour la lune penchée sur l’horizon, aussi ronde qu’une monnaie d’argent. Elle écoute leur pas cadencé et la mer en contrebas qui lui rugit sa terreur. 

Il y a un cimetière non loin de là. 

Félix en aperçoit les monolithes immenses lorsqu’il longe la lisière de la sylve. Leurs mornes couleurs se détachent contre le matin qui bleuit à vue de nez. Comme pour confirmer l'intime instinct qui avait guidé son regard vers les monuments, il distingue dans le lointain le clairon des cloches de la cathédrale d’Hurlevent. Elles sonnent cinq fois.

Le garçon s'enfonce au cœur des bois. Il poursuit un sentier ténu jusqu'à percer une plage, le bord d'un lac, dissimulée par le couvert des arbres. Il laisse son cheval s’abreuver, puis s'agenouille à son tour contre les galets frais du rivage. 

Il plonge ses deux paumes dans l'eau glacée, et rinçant son visage, tourne ses paupières closes dans la direction du levant. Une prière murmurée échappe ses lèvres gercées. 

Son corps bousculé par le manteau froid de la nuit tremble et frissonne, mais toujours brave, toujours droit, Félix reste statuesque jusqu’à la fin du rituel. Le crépuscule mourrant le traverse sans qu'il ne plie.

Quand il rouvre les yeux, une jeune fille nue est accroupie de l’autre côté du lac. 

La moitié de son visage est ensanglantée et dans sa mâchoire, elle serre une épée de bronze enroulée de chaînes fines, dont les métaux aux diverses nuances lui sont inconnues. Alors qu’elle crache son tribut dans l’eau pour en retirer la terre, le garçon aperçoit quelques pierres précieuses miroiter. 

Elle, vomit une bave rougeâtre et pousse des râles pathétiques ponctués d’injures et de grognements sauvages. Elle tousse parfois des touffes de poils noirs. 

Il veut le trésor pour lui. Et la fille, aussi. 

Ses cheveux si sales qu’ils paraissent bruns traînent dans l’eau claire. Elle observe les environs en reprenant son souffle. Felix porte une oeillade inquiète à son camp de fortune, puis juge inconfortablement qu'il n'a rien à craindre. Le bosquet qu'il a choisit est assez dense et éloigné pour l’abriter de son regard inhospitalier. 

Les gestes décisifs mais lents de la fille trahissent un épuisement qu'il observe avec curiosité. Et pourtant ces mains pâles n’ont que des manières précises et agiles. Les manières rodées d'une femme de chambre rinçant les bijoux de sa reine tous les jours, d'une lavandière habituée à la rare pureté d'un linge propre, d'une mère caressant la peau délicate d'un nouveau-né.

Elle ramasse son butin et l’enroule dans un large pan de tissu brun qu'il n'avait pas encore vu.

Quand elle entre dans l’onde pour s’y baigner, Félix détourne son visage, pudique.

(…)

Goran suit le garçon du coin de l’œil depuis l’autre côté de la berge. Il parcoure à pas de loup la distance qui les sépare. Il doit se congratuler intérieurement pour sa discrétion. 

Elle l’attend. Ses muscles bandés brûlent sans discontinuer depuis sa transformation. Son souffle rauque, ses mains tendues mais tremblantes, les larmes qui s’écoulent de ses yeux comme si elle avait été frappée au nez, sont autant de signes qu’elle a appris à reconnaître : elle est épuisée. 

Fuir aurait été la solution la plus sage. Mais elle ne l’avait repéré que quelques minutes plus tard, alors qu’il avait déjà vu l’épée et, surtout, son petit manège autour de l’arbre lui servant de cache. Elle était nue et vulnérable. Aucune de ses favorites flagellations mentales ne lui rendaient pas sa force.

Il aurait fallut étrangler le garçon pendant sa prière, tout de suite, à la manière de cette sirène gargantuesque dont elle avait entendu parler dans les contes.

Si elle n’avait pas mis autant de temps à retrouver cette tombe, elle dormirait déjà sur l’une des branches de l’arbre. Son butin serait secret. Son avenir serait sauf. Elle n’aurait pas à s’imaginer le tuer.

Ses cheveux s’étendent autour de son visage à moitié immergé, comme une épaisse toile d’araignée dans laquelle elle serait empêtrée. 

La marque pourpre que Félix avait aperçu de loin ne disparaît pas tout à fait sous l’eau. Le soleil levant apparaît entre les troncs et ricoche, accusateur, sur sa joue tatouée. Je te vois. Je sais ce que tu as fais. 

Goran admet qu’elle a repéré le garçon, qu’elle fixe effrontément — lui, prétend encore se cacher derrière son arbre. Trop proche de ses possessions. Un gargouillement sauvage étreint son estomac. Elle lui crache dessus un long filet d’eau teinté par son sang.  

« — Va-t-en! »

Son regard évite précisément le trou entre les racines qui abrite ses affaires. Peut-être qu’il n’a pas vu. 

« — Les hommes ne sont pas autorisés dans ces bois, » ment-elle sans ciller, « Un pas de plus et je devrais te tuer. »

Le mythe se glisse sous sa peau. Être une nymphe sanguinaire vaut mieux qu’être… elle-même. Faible, maigrichonne, Goran. Elle sent tous ses muscles contractés par l’eau glaciale. Ses lèvres sont à présent plus bleues que rosées, donnant à sa peau des reflets métalliques qui ne lui appartiennent pas.

à continuer?

[paperandsong]

Les Laveuses de nuit, Maurice Sand, illustration for Légendes rustiques by George Sand, 1858

Les Laveuses de nuit, also known as Les Lavandières or Annard Noz are female specters having the appearance of women busy beating their laundry along rivers at night. Sand reports that they are seen as the souls of mothers who have killed their infants, condemned to wash their clothes until the end of time. Anyone who sees them and observes them too closely or disturbs them is in great danger of being caught, beaten and twisted to death along with their laundry.

[surprendslejour]

Les Lavandières de la nuit, 1888, huile sur toile, Yan D’Argent, Musée des Beaux-arts de Quimper

[candela888]

The “Washerwoman” folklore motif in Europe

The Lavanderas, or Washerwomen, are three laundresses in the folklore of many regions of Europe. They are said to predict the deaths of people, thus being an omen or portent of death.

They go to the water's edge at midnight to wash shrouds for those about to die.

In the folklore of Iberia they are known as the Lavanderas, Lavandeiras, Garbigileak, and Llavanderes depending on the region.

They are old women who frequent rivers and fountains, where they work with a hypnotic and tireless gesture, inviting those who pass by to help them.

In Iberian folklore, there are two ways to deal with them once seen.

The first, is simply to keep walking, to pass by without saying a word to them, ignoring their pleas.

The other is agreeing to help without complaints, and to twist the clothes in the opposite way as they do.

Other names for the Washerwomen in various Celtic languages include the kannerezed noz in Brittany & the Bean nighe in Scottish.

The three old women go to the water's edge at midnight to wash the bloodstained clothing of those who are about to die, according to Celtic folklore

In Wales and Cornwall a passerby must avoid being seen by the washerwomen.

In Ireland, they are an ominous portent, foretelling death, either one's own or a death in the family.

In Scotland, if one can get between the washerwomen & water, they are required to grant three wishes

Brittany & Normandy have the lavandière de la nuit.

They can be an ominous portent, foretelling death. They have very pale skin and are often dressed in white.

They wash graveclothes, usually at night, under the moonlight, and have an intense dislike of being disturbed.

Selon les légendes des Corbières occidentales en Languedoc, les fées lavandières peuplent les grottes et les endroits ténébreux, sortent la nuit et vont laver leur linge avec des battoirs d'or dans le Lauquet (rivière affluent de l'Aude) ou les ruisseaux voisins.

Spiorad baineann i mbéaloideas na hÉireann is ea banshee a fhógraíonn bás duine den teaghlach, de ghnáth trí caoineadh nó ag screadaíl. Tá gruaig fhada shruthlaithe aici, agus tá a súile dearg ó caoineadh leanúnach. Is gnách go dtaispeánann siad in aice le coirp uisce.

I Panas sono gli spiriti delle donne morte di parto. Sono tornati nel mondo mortale e hanno l'aspetto di essere vivi. Lavano i vestiti dei loro bambini. È possibile trovare panas vicino a fiumi e torrenti che si trovano vicino agli incroci. Cantano ninne nanne tristi.

[nocnitsa]

Jean-Édouard Dargent (French, 1824-1899) , "Les Lavandières de la nuit" ("The Washerwomen of the Night"), c.1861

[audientvoid13]

Yan' Dargent --  “Les Lavandières de la nuit”, 1861

[sunkentreasurecove]

[nebris]

"This painting by Fernand Le Quesne is an academic (and Parisian) version of the Brittanic folkloric story Les Lavandières de la Nuit or The Washerwomen of the Night. Whereas, in the painting by Dargent (ca. 1861), the spectral women are depicted as clothed and ghoulish, here they are naked and comely - luring the lone bagpiper to a watery and not entirely unpleasant grave."

[shadowknight465]

Sons of the Moon

Is the warlock is evil as the legend said? If so then why do those things so that he can make my scythe?

Nightmare thought quietly while taking Dream to a road trip. He stop in surprise when he heard the cries of horses. He slowly turn his head to the sound, and saw the monstrous snail. "Moon,... you're being more quieter than usual; is something wrong?" Dream asked. "Lou Carcolh." Nightmare whispers. "Really? Let me see." Dream whispers as quietly as he could in excitement. The twins look the creature in awe. Both deciding they should camp here for tonight. Nightmare grab necessary items so they can make a smokeless fire. While Dream hunted a few animals and gather some berries. After they were done they went to hunt the largest bear they could, and use it's skin for a bed; while it's paws for pillows. Because they knew the creature takes life from any valley it could, they decide to camp in a cave. "Bonne nuit, lunaire." Dream whispers, as he is frightened by the desperate cries of the equestrians. "Bonne nuit, peu de soleil." Nightmare reply back. The dreams he had weren't as pleasant as he thought it would be. He keeps seeing so many people that reminded him of Dream turning into fire elemental-spider-like entities. He struggled to try to control his dreams when he woke up. Seeing Dream paralyzed, while looking sick to his stomach. "Is something wrong Dream?" Nightmare whispered. "I-I saw her.." Dream mutter under his breath. "Who?" Nightmare asked. "Les Lavandière..." Dream replied. "What?"

"I woke up feeling really thirsty and decided to take a drink from the river, and that's when I saw her..." Nightmare try to analyze the situation. "Who's clothes was she washing?" Nightmare asked firmly. Dream's eyes widen. "I only saw her eyes before she screamed." Realizing he forgot that one simple thing to do whenever he sees a ghost like her. "I'm sorry-"

"You're just terrified so don't be." Nightmare reminded him. The brothers comfort each other until they fall asleep on each other's arms.

~~~~~~~~

"Dream, The croissants are ready." Nightmare call his brother. No answer. "Dream?" Nightmare called out again while removing his apron. He then heard some laughing, and followed the sound of leaves shaking. Seeing a few of his bullies, and Dream on top of a tree. "DAYDREAMER! GET YOUR HIPBONE BACK DOWN RIGHT NOW!" Nightmare yelled with a hint of worried in his voice.

"Daydreamer?" He overheard a bully. "Its what my brother calls me when I'm in deep trouble, or if he's worried." Dream answered. " Daydreamer." Nightmare calls again. "I got to go, see ya." Dream told everyone goodbye. "Is something wrong?" Dream walk towards him. "Breakfast." Nightmare answered. Dream got confused there's only remembers he skipped breakfast. " OH! Breakfast; what are we having?" Dream asked. "Croissants; with a new recipe." Nightmare replied as they went back. Dream took a look at the croissants, and noticed some brown stuff. "Cinnamon?" Dream asked. Nightmare shook his skull as he began eating. Dream took a bite. "Chocolate."

Nightmare nodded. As the twins were eating, Dream say something that was almost out of his character. "You know sometimes I think these chocolate croissant you made remind me at the moon."

"Because of the crescent shape?" Nightmare guessed. "That and itself."

"Hmm?"

"On the outside the moon may seem beautiful, yet plain; but if you break them you can see some dark secrets it's been hiding." Dream explains. Not knowing it made Nightmare feel guilty about giving him a amnesia spell. Plus some worrying? Maybe he's just over analyzing. "Moon, are you ok?" Dream snapped out Nightmare's thoughts. "Y-Yeah just doze off for a bit." Nightmare reply." Then again, Dream did beg Nightmare to give him that amnesia spell since no one else can do it for some reason. "Before I forget. A friend of mine is going to labor, and she asked me to see her baby, and the trip is a day away from here, plus 10 by catching up to do; so you think you can take care of the tree on your own?" Dream asked. Nightmare nodded. Knowing this is a perfect opportunity to go out at night without being question. "Sure. Just grab what you need, and I'll give you a navigation book. This time with guides." Nightmare replies. " I am not going to go till tomorrow, so I think I have some time for us to have a conversation." Dream said.

Nightmare thought about the 200 year old urban legend. How is scared of him and Dream at the same time, yet none of them said their thoughts about it.

"Remember that 200 year old urban legend? With the half demon half heroes being massacred?" Nightmare started the conversation. His first time doing that actually. "It send me chills every time I think about it, why?"

"Well it's because I've been trying to find what gender is that moon demon character is. I mean I get that the moon demon is born a girl, yet she wants to be a boy so should we regress her or him as his/her preferred gender?" Nightmare dance around the truth while trying to see if Dream also sees Moon as a boy. Even if the Moon wasn't born one. "Thank God, you were also thinking about that." Dream expresses relief.

"I thought I was the only one who thought of about that." He later explains. He took a sip of his tea. "Personally I think we should address Moon as a boy. Because if it makes him uncomfortable being a dress as a girl, then address him as a boy." Nightmare smiles. "Do you remember the other eleven urban legends where the main character is basically suffering the same thing?"

"If those characters were still alive today I want to address them as what they want to be, and maybe try to get all of them to be your friends."

"Hm?"

Dream put his cup aside. "Do you remember the stories you tell me? All of them are basically outcast just like you are; so I thought birds of a feather flock together in a way?" Dream tries his hardest to explain.

"What about the girl that had a crush on Moon? Better yet all those people that seems to be their only friends?"

Nightmare asked. Both of them knowing full well that he was referring to all 11 urban legends embodiments of evil, being outcast, for them to be scapegoats.

Dream fell silent.

Did I upset him?"

Nightmare thought. "Dream?"

Dream woke up from his trance. "Sorry, it's just... all of them are extremely toxic, or abusive in some form to those poor scapegoats; and yet for some reason I see their reasonings while feeling connected to them-don't get me wrong I'm very angry about what they done to their friend. I just wish that they could've done better." Dream answered holding his cup hastily. Nightmare thought of the 11 victims, and wonder if they're all connected somehow until.

"EKK!" Dream yelled. Nightmare realized he was in a trance again, and ran went to see the problem. "What is it?" Nightmare asked. Dream pointed at a orange golden spider that's as big as his hand on his bed. Nightmare took a closer look at it to see what kind of spider is it, so he can be sure if it's venomous, or not. Surprisingly it's not the spiders he ever read about. Nightmare knew that he has to take a risk, but he needs more information. Nightmare walk towards, and cupped the spider with his hands. No reaction.

Maybe it's dead?

Nightmare use his thumbs to rub the spider's adamant, and felt a warm beating heart. He knows he'll look crazy in front of his brother, but it's worth a try.

"Hey little guy, what's wrong?" Nightmare asked while placing it down on a desktop. The spider makes a web with the words. "My friend needs help."

Nightmare took a seat along with Dream.

"Where is your friend?" Dream asked. Spider rearrange his web. "At the fountain the giants got him." The twins look each other, then remember the new fountain.

Nightmare grabbed the spider, and place it on his shoulder. Lucky for them the bullies got away. However they didn't expect an octopus to be spider's friend. The octopus was a pretty sight to behold. Purely black with cyan colors on both the shining pattern and underneath it's tentacles.

The twins took a strong look at each other, then back at the friends.

"Dream, I need you to grab the biggest bowl we have." Dream nodded, and came back with a big bowl of salt water. The two later found a river full of sea water, and placed the octopus there. With the spider crawling on top of it. Sitting itself down like a crown as they dragged themselves to the sea.

"Kind of reminds me of us." Dream said. Nightmare turn to him. "You the octopus, and me the spider." Dream explains. Nightmare roll his eye-lights as the two went home.

~~~~~

Well, this is it.

Nightmare thought as he was about to leave his home. Nightmare walked out of the village, and ring the bell to grab a wagon. Not surprisingly when the wagon arrive. The carrier, and the passengers looked at him distastefully. Nightmare got on, and kept both his hands and his feet to himself feeling awkward every situation. He can feel the horrible whispers turned into judgmental eyes.

"Where do you want to go, demon?" The Carrier asked. "T-To the ruins of the celestial heroes."  Nightmare hastily answered. "Aren't celestial heroes part demon?" A passenger asked. "Why would you want to go there?" Another asked. "W-Well.. I wish to exercise the ruins. Even ghosts of demons need peace, right?" The others turned away. Nightmare felt like an idiot. The journey went on with an awkward silence until his stop. When he got off he noticed someone. However the little shadow disappeared into the ruins. He trying to catch up, but ended up losing it. He then heard a a owl's hoot follow by the sound of purrs. He look behind him, and saw the skeleton of a griffin purring at his legs. "Hey little girl what's your name?" He asked the Feline-Strigiform. Only to find a collar with a crescent moon, yet no name.

I guess, I could let the griffin follow me.

Nightmare took a deep breath as he walked towards that very ruins seeing a gallery of weapons with astrology signs in the carving on top of the room they were in. From the mercury bow and arrow to the Magic stuff of Pluto. Then he heard a voice. He turned and saw what could be a female ghost in the Mercury room crying. Nightmare then glance at the other rooms seeing more girls in their respected rooms. All have shown some parts of mutilation and hollow eyes. Their skin is like death it's self some were rotting with maggots and other bugs.

This must be the ghosts of the demons-heros.

He thought. He's not sure if he should feel happy or more scared when none of them said a word to him. Just staring. A few tried to look away from him. Because no one else is around and he's near the end of the hallway he felt like it's appropriate to talk a little.

"Are all of you really the ghosts of the demon-heros?"

"Yes?" One responded.

"Well let me just say.." Nightmare put his supplies down.

"You cunts got what do you deserved."

Then he heard the sound of giggling. Nightmare quickly turn around, and saw a young girl with purple yet Silveriest-white hair gradient, and the heaviest violet eyes he ever seen. Wearing a witch apprentice clothing. "You must be him." The girl said revealing her skeleton hands.

Nightmare look at her hands, then back at her. "Pardon me if I'm rude, but who are you?"

The girl blush in embarrassment. "Right, I'm sorry. My name is Hecate." She said. "I am his apprentice. Though between you and me; he's more like a dad." Nightmare nodded. "Can you lead me the way?" Hecate blush again. "Why do I always forget?" He heard her whispering to herself. As they begin walking Nightmare felt like he needs more answers. "So how old are you when you started working for him?" Hecate scratch her head. "To tell you the truth, i'm not sure. Maybe 2 1/2 years? Because all I remember him offering to teach me when I was 10." Hecate turn to Nightmare.

"Why are you so interested in that?"

"Because I always thought there's an age limit when it comes to apprenticeship."

Hecate nodded. "By the way,

why are you interested in necromancy? And how do you found Moon."

Hecate uncomfortably chuckled. "It's a long story. Plus he was the only family I had ever since my parents were murdered when I was just a baby." She answered. Nightmare nodded understandably, and took a look at the night sky noticing it's changed purple.

Nerco magic?

He thought. "We're here." Nightmare return his focus to the lunar scythe. The legend said that the scythe was silver, not black. Nevertheless he tried to walked towards the scythe when he heard. "You were supposed to wait for him." Nightmare turn around and saw another person standing next to Hecate.

The person almost black and white, except for should been his eyes, and parts of his hair, and appears to be missing arm replaced with what he has assume to be a magic-prosthetic version of it.

Nightmare gulped, and proceeded to ask for his name. "The name's Nox. I was an experiment partly created by W. D Gaster to travel worlds, unfortunately I got stuck in this one." "Quit it Nox, you're scaring him." He turn back to the scythe, and saw a ghost with a large wound on his chest before he turned into a person of the night. "Are you the warlock?" Nightmare asked. The warlock nodded. "I hope you don't mind me interrupting, but do do realize there's a little girl here right?" Nox cuts the conversation short. The warlock looks at Hecate, and transform to what he might have looked like in life.

"Anyway, without further interruption I guess we should get started-"

"Wait."

The warlock raise his only eyebrow. "Should we start introducing ourselves?" Nightmare suggested.

"Hmm.. I suppose we could do that first." The warlock snap his fingers revealing the room they were in is a graveyard. "Um..My name is Nightmare." He introduce himself. "Moon." Moon reply. Moon then chuckled. "At first I thought you were Nim reincarnated."

"Why would you think that?" Nightmare asked. "Because I taught her the reincarnation spell. One of my best students truly, but isn't willing to work under my wing."

"Um..what does she look like?" Nightmare asked suspiciously feeling uncomfortable.

"Aside from her clothes. Just a tree spirit with green skin, darker green hair, and a little cute tree branch on her forehead."

"That's my mom." Nightmare could easily see Moon blushed in embarrassment.

"Anyways before you can get your scythe I need you to do this small favor for the moon."

"And that is?"

"Stop the sun's children before they hurt another innocent soul."

"Are you suggesting me too..?"

"Yes, kill them."

"Why couldn't you do it?"

"My friend, I am bound to my scythe."

"Oh." Nightmare chuckle at forgetting that last part of the legend.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Aren't you already asking me a lot of questions?" Moon questioned Nightmare.

"Right.. anyways how can you talk to the moon, and are there others like us?"

"We are the moon's sons call the Lunarians, and yes there are ten more."

"Are there also Solarians?"

"They're called Solarite."

"Every Lunarian has at least one Solarite. However unlike us the Solarites contain every color of the dawn in the sun so this might help you get started on your mission. Anymore questions?"

"No, in fact I am completely satisfied that I got all of my questions answered. But so you're expecting more then what does a little light orb things that appears when I'm alone?"

Moon smiled. "Those are the little Astros, citizens of both the Sun and Moon Empire." Moon summon a base of Nightmare's scythe. "It will be done in 12 days. You can use this time to find and eliminate the Solarites. However it won't be easy."

"12 days?"

"Yes, and the moon asked me to give you some gifts. Most of them are from the Moon, but this one is from me."

"And that is?"

"Temporary Immortality. And it's not what you think it is."

"You mean I can get hurt?"

"Yes, as well every time you appear to be dead you're just in a deep sleep for a few hours."

"That doesn't sound like anything in the books I read."

"Magic always has a price to pay."  Moon reply.

"But first just know that they can't be killed with just any weapon. They can be killed by our scythes. And the book the Astros gave you is a bit outdated."

"What-"

"There's actually 12 realms of hell. One is controlled by three queens."

"Oh. But my scythe-"

"You can use mine. Temporary of course. Nox."

Nightmare turned to Nox, and can tell that he doesn't like the idea of giving the scythe to him. Nevertheless it seems he agreed on it. As soon as Nox had it over Nightmare was blinded by a beaming white.

"It has been done."

Nightmare rubs his eye-lights realizing that the scythe is missing, then look up to see Moon smiling. "You know out of all the lunarians you seem to be the only one that has both his eyes-"

"Actually my right eye-light is fake." Nightmare then proceeds to take it off. "See?"

Moon stared at the fake light for a while then back at Nightmare. "Also I really like your Griffin. Is it the same one back when you were alive?" Nightmare asked. "What are you talking about? I don't have a griffin back then. Though I did have a memory of seeing a dead Griffin. Come to think of it I don't remember any happiest memories back when I was alive." Nightmare felt like he should've brought Dream along. "But let bygones be bygones." Moon offered Nightmare to shake his hand. Nightmare proceeded, and felt something off about it then remembered Dream. "You're not fooling me with your gloves."

"Hm?"

"My brother basically wore gloves all the time so I know you have a skeleton hand as well." Nightmare explains now fully knowing the full costs of necromancy. Moon took off his glove revealing a similar hand like Hecate's, yet Nightmare doesn't feel any fear. Just comfort. "By the way do you have a spare book that will teach you how to read? I want to give it to my brother before he goes on a trip."

Moon nodded, and summoned a copy of that book. From the alphabet sounding to words sounding. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

~~~~~

Should I tell him the truth about his friend, and what they really are when his back is turned?

Nightmare thought as he watch his brother packing. He tried making the visions appear to him, but it didn't work for some reason. He took a deep breath, and made up his mind.

"Hey Dream, there's something I need to tell you about your friends."

"Hm?" Dream turned. "You see whenever you're not around, and I'm left alone with them they are a bit hostile." He explains. "What do you mean?"

"I mean they would attack me, and rarely torture me. Calling me horrible names, and tells me to kill myself." Nightmare hold back his tears. Reliving the memories is worse, than him being there. "Are you telling me that I shouldn't go?"  Dream questioned his brother. "No, I mean- It's your decision if you want to go or not.  I'm not forcing you to stay, but i'm not gonna force you to leave either." Nightmare explains. Dream put down his belongings, and went up to Nightmare. "I'll try to get them to stop while in the trip, OK?" Dream continue on. "And  I did have a new friend, and he recently lost his arm, his wife, and his son. So maybe you two can try to be friends."

Nightmare has his doubts, but he did had some comfort in his brother's words. " What's his name?" Nightmare asked. "Neil." Dream answered. The boys, then heard the whistle blowing. "Wait." Nightmare rush himself, and grab the book from the Moon. "Something for you to read."

"But I can't-" Dream looked at the book. "Does this teach you how to read?"

Nightmare nodded as The second whistle blows.

"I gotta go, goodbye." Dream said. As the golden twin ran to the cart to get to the boat Nightmare whispers to himself. "Goodbye."

[alexar60]

La lavandière

Autrefois, elle attirait les gens en se transformant en jeune fille en pleurs. Elle savait attendrir les voyageurs au point de les envouter pour les emmener dans un lavoir et les obliger à laver son linge avant la fin de la nuit. Sinon, elle les emporterait pour leur dernier voyage dans le monde des morts.

Maintenant tout le monde la connait. Plus personne ne s’arrête pour la secourir. Les gens l’évitent, passant leur chemin, détournant les regards afin de ne plus être charmé. Alors, elle décida de changer de méthode. « Puisqu’ils ne sont plus apitoyés par une jeune femme en détresse, puisque le malheur ne les attendrit plus, prenons l’apparence de ce qu’ils cherchent » conseilla-t’elle à ses sœurs.  

Depuis, elles ont décidé de s’en prendre aux âmes noires. C’est ainsi que de nombreux hommes se font avoir en prenant en stop de belles jeunes filles habillées de blanc le long de certaines routes, espérant combler leur libido avec elles dans un bois à l’écart de tout ou sur la banquette arrière de leur voiture. Et ils sont nombreux à regretter de ne pas savoir laver eux-mêmes leur linge sans utiliser de machine. Et c’est normal car la machine ne peut pas tout laver, surtout pas les pêchés.

Alex@r60 – juillet 2019