‘Here is thy son!’ croaked the Korrigan. ‘I have fed him on meal and honey, and he has learnt no evil. Give me my Poupican, and I will go.’
So Rose-Marie gave up the Poupican, and with a thankful heart took her own son home.”
“Do you know any more stories?” I asked when the Elf stopped for breath. I didn’t want to go back just yet, for it was jolly in the wood, and I could smell violets close by.
“More than I can tell,” replied the Elf, “but you shall hear what happened to Peric and Jean.”
“In a beautiful valley not far from here a number of Korrigans were accustomed to gather on summer nights, for the grass was soft as velvet, and the mountains sheltered it from the breeze. None of the peasants dare cross the valley after dark, lest they might be forced to join their revels; for it was known by all that the Korrigans must dance whether they would or not, until some mortal should break the charm that had been laid upon them.
One evening, when the west was aglow with fire, a farmer was sent for to attend the sick bed of his mother, who lived on the other side of the valley. His wife and he had been at work all day in the fields, since labour was scarce and they were poor, and as both loved the old woman dearly, they hurried off without stopping to lay aside their fourches—little sticks which are still used in some parts of Brittany as ‘plough paddles.’ By the time they were half-way across the valley, the dusk had fallen, and they found themselves encircled by angry Korrigans, who shrieked with rage and made as if they would tear them to pieces. Before they had touched them, however, they all fell back, and a moment later broke into singing. This was their song:—
‘Lez y, Lez hon,
(Let him go, let him go,)
Bas an arer zo gant hook;
(For he has the wand of the plough;)
Lez on, Lez y,
(Let her go, let her go,)
Bas an arer zo gant y!’
(For she has the wand of the plough!)