Episode 178 – The Flying Canoe – Myths Your Teacher Hated

Episode 178 Show Notes

Source: French Canadian Folklore

This week on MYTH, we’re heading to the province of Quebec in Canada for some supernatural warnings. You’ll learn that you shouldn’t pay for a flight with your soul, that air travel has always been hell, and that you shouldn’t drink and cast dark magic. Then, in Gods and Monsters, we’ll learn the secret to hunting a ghostly spirit. This is the Myths Your Teacher Hated podcast, where I tell the stories of cultures from around the world in all of their original, bloody, uncensored glory. Modern tellings of these stories have become dry and dusty, but I’ll be trying to breathe new life into them. This is Episode 178, “The Flying Canoe”. As always, this episode is not safe for work.
This week, we’re covering a particularly popular tale from the French-Canadian province Quebec. The version used was originally published by Honore Beaugrand in 1892 as translated by Dr. Elizabeth Blood. We begin our tale in an isolated logging camp in Canada. The day’s work had ended and everyone had gathered around the fire inside the cabin where they lived. The loggers were sharing a barrel of rum bought by the boss man as a sign of goodwill (and a good way to keep the men from causing mischief from boredom at night). Joe the cook had finished up his famous pigs’ feet stew and dumplings early; he was letting the maple syrup bubble away in a cauldron for partie de tire (a maple taffy made by pouring hot syrup in lines onto fresh snow to cool) the next day. As the men filled their pipes to smoke and relax, Joe launched into a tale.
“Listen up, my dudes, and listen well. I know you all think you’re rough and tumble, and you seem like the kind of guys who might try something stupid like hunting a loup garou or trying the chasse-galerie. I figure a story might keep you from doing that.” You might recall the loup garou, a type of werewolf, from back in Episode 39B. As for the chasse-galerie, that is the subject of our story. Some versions have translated the term as flying or bewitched canoe, but according to Dr. Blood, quote “There is no good English translation for the term ‘chasse-galerie’ unless you can think of a word that means ‘a flying canoe filled with woodsmen who have made a pact with the devil so that they can go visit their loved ones and magically return to their job site in time for work the next day.’” That’s a bit of a mouthful, so I’ll stick with flying canoe but at least now you have full context.
Joe had been working in logging camps for over 40 years, so he knew a thing or two about the supernatural dangers that lurked in the woods. He’d seen it all, and as the men were discovering, all it took was a little rum to loosen up his tongue. In his youth, Joe had been exactly the same kind of brash, devil-may-care man that he saw in today’s loggers. On the day in question, a New Year’s Eve maybe thirty-five years before the relative present, he and his buddies had finished up the day’s labors and were sitting around the fire getting piss drunk. It hadn’t started that way – they’d intended to just have a little rum to take the edge off, but things got a little out of hand and soon everyone was schnokered.
By eleven o’clock, Joe had already tossed back at least half a dozen increasingly heavy pours of rum and was feeling a little spinny. He managed to stagger over to his cot to crash, fully intending to get back up around midnight to ring in the New Year by jumping over a pork-barrel, which was apparently customary as a way of leaving the old year behind. That done, the loggers would visit the neighboring camps to celebrate even harder and getting even more blind drunk than they already were. He could have sworn he had only just laid down when Baptiste Durand, the camp boss at the time, shook him awake.
“Joe, get the fuck up man. It’s already midnight – you’re late for your turn at the pork barrel. The other guys have already headed out to line up, but I’ve got a better idea. I’m heading out to Lavaltrie to see my girl. You wanna come along?” I’m assuming that Baptiste means come along to the town, not to see his girl but the story doesn’t specify and hey, I’m not here to kink shame. Joe stared at his boss, bleary-eyed and not entirely sure that he’d heard correctly. “Am I still dreaming, or are you drunker than me, boss? Lavaltrie is, like, a couple hundred miles away! Best case scenario, it’d take you two months to make that trip, what with all the roads being snowed over for the winter. I know we have tomorrow off, but we’ve got to be back the day after.”
Baptiste rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know we have work on the second, I scheduled it. Where we’re going, we don’t need roads. I’ve got a better way – we’ll go by canoe, get some female companionship, and be back in camp by six AM tomorrow. Easy peasy.” Joe stared even harder, head cocked to the side like a confused dog. “Okay boss, now I know you’re wasted. You’re seriously proposing that we take the chasse-galerie? I know I’m not exactly religious and yeah, I’m more than a bit of a horn dog, but I’m not sure that I’m down with selling my soul to the literal Devil for a bit of nookie.”
Baptiste just laughed at this honestly reasonable objection. “Don’t be such a scared little baby, dude. It’s not nearly as dangerous as everyone says. Come on, we can get to Lavaltrie, see our girls, and be back in like six hours. There’s literally no downside. That magical canoe flies hundreds of miles an hour with the right strapping young men to pull the oars properly. All we gotta do is make sure we don’t say God’s name during the trip and take care that we don’t get ourselves caught in any crosses on church steeples along the way. Simple, right? There’s no danger as long as we’re careful about what we say, pay attention to where we’re going, and don’t drink and fly. I’ve made the journey five times already and I’m totally fine! Nothing bad has ever happened to me and it’s sure as shit not going to tonight. So nut up or shut up dude. Don’t you want to see your pretty little Liza Guimbette and give her a proper New Year’s celebration tonight? We’ve got seven people going, but we need an even number to keep the oars steady, so we need you as our eighth.”
“That’s all well and good boss, but it still means I literally have to SELL MY SOUL TO THE DEVIL! Seems like a pretty steep price to me. I’m not sure Liza would be terribly thrilled with me for taking that deal.” “Stop being a baby, Joe! Everyone else is doing it, so give in to peer pressure already! There aren’t any very special episodes on tv about it yet since tv doesn’t exist, so clearly there’s nothing to worry about. Just don’t get drunk, watch your damned mouth, and mind your oar. The guys are all waiting outside by the canoe we use to drive logs down the river – do you really want to be the reason they can’t get laid tonight?” Joe was still very much unsure about this whole mess but he was still pretty shit-faced and he didn’t want to seem like a coward in front of all his friends, so he let himself be convinced.
Baptiste led the still stumbling cook outside where, sure enough, six men were waiting with oars in hand. The big canoe had been laid out in a clearing in the snow with two more oars standing by. Before he had time to reconsider the wisdom of this course of action, the boss man had shepherded his employee into the very front of the canoe and put an oar in his hands. Doesn’t seem super OSHA compliant, but then OSHA doesn’t exist yet and this story isn’t in the US anyway. Baptiste, who apparently hadn’t gone to confession in more than seven years (making him a lapsed Catholic, which makes sense for someone who’s sold his soul to the devil for fast travel), took his seat at the back. “Alright boys, repeat after me: Satan, king of hell, we promise to give you our souls if, in the next six hours, we say the name of your lord and ours, our God, or if we touch a cross during the trip. In return, you will carry us through the air to the place we want to go and bring us back to our camp when we’re ready. Abracadabra and alakazaam! Let us fly over the mountains!”
As soon as the rest of the men repeated these words, the canoe launched itself straight up into the air. It soared up five or six hundred feet off the ground. The craft and all the men inside felt light as a feather, able to float along on the wind itself. At another word from Baptiste, they all dipped their oars together and rocketed off into the night, rowing like the damned. Which, in a very real sense, they were. The thing moved faster than Joe had ever gone in his whole damned life. It felt like the devil himself was carrying it along in the palm of his hand, which he kind of is. They flew faster than the wind, moving with such impossible speed that they struggled to catch their breath.
The first fifteen minutes were uneventful. The scenery was just an endless expanse of dark pine trees lit by the moon with nary a sign of civilization. It was a good night for flying though; the full moon hung fat and bright in the sky, lighting up the world almost as well as the noonday sun. Even for men used to working outside in the Canadian winter, it was bitterly cold up in that canoe. Ice crystalized in their beards and mustaches, but they were also drenched in sweat from the exertion of hauling on the oars. It was an appropriately hellish way to travel, but it got the job done to be sure. Soon enough, Joe spotted an opening in the trees that could only be the Gatineau River, its iced-over surface glimmering in the moonlight like an enormous mirror. Not long thereafter, lights began to appear along its banks as isolated farmhouses hove into view followed by the bell towers of the churches in the towns. They gleamed in the night like the bayonets of soldiers as they marched around the Champ de Mars in Montreal.
The steeples flitted by faster than telephone poles outside a train window with the flying men soaring on the breeze as the devils do. A trail of burning sparks marked their passage as they raced along, leaping past the towns and villages. Baptiste, one of the longest-damned of the men, took command from the rear of the canoe, calling out directions since it was he who best knew the route we were taking. He led the men true and they soon arrived in the skies over the Ottawa River, which they followed down to the Deux Montagnes lake.
“Hold up a second, boys! Let’s take it in close to the edge of Montreal. Come on, it’ll be fun to give a good scare to the late night revelers with a little dive bomb. Joe! You’re in the lead, so why not use that raggedy ass voice of yours to lead us in a little rowing song!” The other loggers looked and, sure enough, they could see the thousand twinkling lights that marked the major city appearing out of the night. With a great pull on his oar, Baptiste led the canoe down towards Montreal for literally no good reason. Joe spat out the tobacco he’s apparently been chewing for a while now so that he didn’t swallow it as he led the other men in a rowing song. And apparently, he had one all ready for just such an occasion as a late night trip on an infernal flying canoe. The song has a lot of repetition in its verses, as is common in any good work song, so I’ll read the first two verses as they actually appear and then just the ones that change for the rest.
“My father had no daughters but me, oh canoe flying through the air…and down to the sea he sent me, oh canoe flying through the air, flying, flying, flying through the air! And down to the sea he sent me oh canoe flying through the air…there, a sailor started looking at me, oh canoe flying through the air, flying flying, flying through the air.” You see what I mean about the repetition. “There a sailor started looking at me, he said ‘my beauty, come and kiss me.’ No monsieur, I shall not kiss thee. For if my father ever caught me, I’m fairly sure he’d smack me.”
It was around 2am by this point but, being New Year’s, there were still plenty of people out on the streets to stop and gawk at this impossible spectacle. None could get more than a glimpse of this flying canoe and its wake of sparks crewed by eight damned men since they were moving so incredibly fast. In a blink, they were through and out of Montreal. Having some idea of where they were now, Joe the cook began to count bell towers as they passed to keep up with the towns they sailed over. It wasn’t long at all before the twin silver towers of Lavaltrie appeared on the horizon, soaring high above the pine trees surrounding the town. At last, they had arrived.
“Listen up, men,” called Baptiste as they began to slow. “We’re going to land this damned thing in a field near the woods owned by my godfather, Jean-Jean Gabriel. From there, we’ll head into town on foot to surprise our friends and girlfriends, who are surely out having supper at a friend’s or dancing with their neighbors.” The men all agreed that this was a sensible plan and so the boss man led the flying canoe down to a safe landing five minutes later. They came to rest in a snowbank at the entrance to Jean-Jean Gabriel’s property and the eight men dashed off into the night to raise the hell they’d sold their souls to achieve. It wasn’t an easy trek as the snow was nearly waist-deep, and no one had been out this way in a while to break a trail. Still, excitement gave their legs strength as they bounded through the fresh fallen snow.
Baptiste, who was more brazen than the rest as we’ve seen, marched up to his godfather’s place and knocked on the door. There were clearly lights on inside, but the only inhabitant was a young maid who said that the older folks had gone to have dinner at old man Robillar’s house. The younger, handsomer bachelors and the pretty young maids had all gone into town instead to celebrate the New Year at Batissette Auge’s house on Petite Misere lake across the river. “Then it’s off to the lake, my boys! Our girlfriends are probably there now dancing the night away!” Everyone else cheered and the eight men hurried back to the canoe. Getting to the party at the lake would be a long, exhausting trek on foot but a very short hop in the skies.
The men were still thoughtful about not saying the forbidden words and aware that they had to be back by 6am or they would all burst into flames and be dragged into hell by the devil himself. “Abracadabra and alakazaam! Make us fly over the mountains!” And with those words, the canoe rose back into the air and soared away. With only two pulls of the oars, they were across the river and over Batissette Auge’s house, which was alive with revelry. The place glowed with candle and lantern light. Laughter and violin music competed to be the loudest accompaniment to the silhouettes of people dancing past the frosted window panes.
They landed and stashed their canoe behind some frozen mounds of dirt beside the river, left behind when the river levels dropped that year. “Let’s go enjoy ourselves but keep your wits about you. Don’t drink too much, don’t touch any crosses, and don’t get too shit faced to get back home in a few hours. Dance all you want, but not a single glass of rum, nor even a tankard of beer. You hear me, boys? When I give the sign, everyone make your excuses to head outside.” We need to leave without drawing too much attention. Everyone agreed to these terms and so they marched up to the house and knocked on the door.
Batissette’s father himself opened the door for his unexpected guests. They were welcomed in nonetheless, being well-known around the town. Indeed, the newcomers knew almost everyone currently ringing in the New Year in a true celebration of drinking and dancing. Everyone who noticed the loggers coming in had a lot of utterly reasonable questions like ‘how did you get here? Weren’t you up at the logging camp hundreds of miles away? Would you like a drink or three?’ Baptiste saved his men the struggle of having to deflect these questions by speaking up. “Come on, lads! Take off your coats and let’s dance a bit – that’s why we’re here, after all. And don’t worry everyone, I’ll be more than happy to answer all of your questions in the morning. But for now, let’s party!” There was a cheer, and the group split up.
Joe the cook headed into the horde and soon saw his dear Liza Guimbette who was currently being courted by young Boisjoli from Lanoraie. Well now, that simply wouldn’t do. Joe strutted over to say hello to a surprised Liza and ask her for the next dance, which just so happened to be a reel, an upbeat traditional Scottish folk dance. She accepted his invitation with a dazzling smile that made Joe almost forget that he was literally risking his very soul to be here. And it definitely made it worth the risk, even if all he was going to be doing was shaking his ass in her vicinity. For the next two hours, Joe monopolized Miss Liza’s time, claiming every dance with her. He claims that no one within a hundred miles danced a better jig than he that night. To be fair, I have no idea how many people are actually within a hundred miles, so it might be an accurate statement.
The rest of the loggers were having just as much fun and raising just as much hell. By 4am, the local farmers’ sons were getting more than a little annoyed at these interlopers taking a lion’s share of the beautiful young women’s time that night. Alas, all good things must come to an end, and it was nearing the time that the loggers would need to climb back into their canoe in order to make the return journey in time. And that was when Joe noticed that brash Baptiste hadn’t stuck to his own rule. Not only had he been drinking against his own orders, he was well and truly fucked up. Joe had to throw his boss’ arm over his shoulder to help him stagger outside at all. Likewise, it was Joe who gave the signal to the others that it was time to go, since Baptiste was way, way too drunk to remember tiny details like a bargain with the devil.
One by one, the men made their way outside for one reason or another. A few minutes later, they were all gathered together outside and headed for the canoe. They’d pulled the classic ghost maneuver, leaving the party without saying goodbye to anyone. They wanted to avoid any awkward questions about where they were going or why they wouldn’t be around the next day. Joe had even asked Liza to dance the next dance with him and then bailed without a word. He figured she was so angry with him about abandoning her that she betrayed him by marrying Boisjoli. Joe was especially peeved that she hadn’t even invited him to the wedding. I don’t think she married the other guy who was very clearly into her just because you were an ass (though that’s probably why she didn’t marry you), but I wouldn’t be surprised if that party did indeed factor into his lack of a wedding invitation.
Everyone climbed back into the canoe, but they were all very concerned that Baptiste was going to have a hell of a time staying in the damned thing without falling out. He was supposed to be guiding them since he was the only one who knew just how the hell to navigate back to their isolated logging camp by air. He was clearly too drunk to pilot the ship, but no one else knew enough, so his unsteady hand ended up on the rudder. They didn’t have time to wait for him to sober up if they were going to make their 6am deadline. From his spot up front, Joe swore to do his best to try and guide them, having had the best view of their path here. Before they took off, he turned to Baptiste. “Think sober thoughts, pal. Head straight for the mountain at Montreal as soon as you can see it.” Baptiste waved him away with the kind of indignation that only someone way too drunk to drive can muster when insisting that they’re fine, they drive better drunk. “I know what I’m doing! Back the fuck off and mind your own damned business!” Not dying in a drunken canoe crash was kind of everyone’s business, but there was no telling Baptiste that in his current state. With some trepidation, they took off into the air. “Abracadabra and alakazaam! Make us fly over the mountains!”
The canoe launched itself into the air like a spooked deer and lurched into flight. They were still moving as fast as they ever had, but their course was no longer straight and true. It weaved and wobbled terrifyingly in time with the chaotic dizziness of their drunken pilot. They passed through Contrecoeur only a hundred feet from the church tower (which was needlessly dangerous) and, instead of turning west towards Montreal, Baptiste steered the boat towards the Richelieu River. They burst over the Beloeil Mountain like a bullet and had to throw themselves to one side to avoid crashing into the enormous temperance cross that the Bishop of Nancy had installed there.
Joe, sitting up front, had the best view of these near disasters and was a major reason that they were narrowly avoided. “Baptiste, you’re going to get us killed or worse dragged into hell! Turn right, boss! No, your other right! Shit dude, you’re too drunk for this.” Grumbling about insubordination, Baptiste did as he was told and the canoe sailed off towards Montreal in more or less a straight line. It was a relief to be heading the right way again, but Joe’s nerves were on edge. If Baptiste didn’t get his shit together soon, they were going to crash and burn, get dragged screaming into hell by the devil himself, and then burn some more. And there was only so much that any of them could do about it. Baptiste was their only option for pilot, three sheets to the wind or no.
Montreal rose up quickly above the horizon and, moments later, they were zipping through the town way, way too low. The mountain rose up in front of them and it was clear that they were going to crash right into it in seconds, so they did the only thing they could – they bailed. The loggers tipped the speeding canoe over and crashed it into a snowbank near the mountain’s base. The gambit paid off – the fresh-fallen snow softened their falls and stopped the canoe without breaking anything. A close call, but any landing you can walk away from is a good enough landing.
Seven of the men immediately set about righting the canoe and climbing back in only to realize that one person was missing. Baptiste, their pilot, was stumbling away towards Montreal. “Where you going, boss man? The canoe’s behind you and we need to get moving.” “Not going to the canoe, goin’ to the city. Need a drink. Need five after that crash. Don’t wanna go back without a drink.” Joe tried to talk his boss out of his incredibly terrible plan, which went about as well as expected. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried talking someone who is belligerently drunk out whatever foolhardy escapade they’ve set their mind to, but it’s like arguing with a brick wall that occasionally takes a swing at you. Joe hurried back to his six companions for a whispered conference. The canoe required an even number, so they couldn’t just abandon Baptiste to his fate without condemning someone else to damnation as well. That only left them one option: they jumped Baptiste’s ass and beat him six-on-one until they could get him tied up.
They dragged the cursing and squirming drunk back to the canoe, tossed him in the back, shoved a gag in his mouth to keep from saying the forbidden word, and took to the skies once more. Time was a wasting, and the beleaguered crew had only an hour to get back in accordance with their bargain. Joe took the helm this time as their best option. He had a keen eye and a strong arm and, after the night’s excitement, he was feeling as sober as a nun. He didn’t know the way as well as sober Baptiste, but he was clearly a better option than drunk asshole Baptiste.
They navigated along the Ottawa river until the landmarks started looking familiar and headed inland at Pointe-a-Gatineau to head north towards the camp. They were going to make it! And that’s when the devil played his last trump card in the form of drunk bastard Baptiste. While the other seven men had been pulling the oars for their very souls to make up for their missing pilot, said pilot was working on getting out of the hastily tied ropes. The canoe was maybe twenty miles from the camp when Baptiste finally got loose. He stood up unsteadily, making the whole canoe wobble, and began bellowing a string of curses at the heavens. Before anyone could do more than stare at him in shock, Baptiste grabbed the unused oar and began flailing wildly at his crewmates with it.
It was impossible to fight the bellowing drunk in an unsteady canoe several hundred feet in the air, so the men did their best to avoid his wild swings and continue on the last handful of miles. It worked okay until Baptiste aimed the oar at Joe’s skull with enough force to shatter it. The desperate cook dropped down to avoid having his head bashed in. Unfortunately, he couldn’t really pilot the canoe from the bottom of it, so they careened off course and crashed into a pine tree. The lumberworkers bounced down from limb to limb cursing and squawking all the way down. Joe wasn’t sure how long it took to finally crash to earth because he took a lump to the skull from one of the branches along the way and passed out.
When Joe finally opened his eyes again, he fully expected to be looking upon his own damnation. Instead, he found himself lying in the lumber cabin, in his very own bed. As he discovered later, some of the other lumberjacks had been up early and spotted the group lying unconscious and buried up to their necks in the snow. Despite bouncing from the sky along a tree like a plinko chip, no one had any serious injuries. Like the they say, god looks after drunks, children, and madmen. That wasn’t to say that they didn’t hurt just everywhere though. Joe’s body felt like he’d been sleeping on a bed of nails for a week with a black eye to boot. The other lumberjacks just assumed that the eight men in the snow had gotten blackout drunk and wandered out into the snow to cool down before passing out. It was many, many years before Joe ever told any of his friends the story of what had actually gone down that night.
“So take it from me, boys – don’t fuck with the chasse-galerie to try and see your girlfriends over the winter. Wait until summer rather than risk flying with the devil at your back and a drunken lunatic at the helm. It’s a lot safer and you won’t piss your girl off so much that she marries someone else. Now come on, lads. The tire is ready to eat.” And they all tromped outside to collect their maple taffy.
I love these hyper-localized versions of stories meant to warn off listeners from trying the well-known superstitions in the area. Sure, having a magic canoe at your beck and call to get you home for a bit when you’re working a long stint away sounds nice. As someone who’s had to spend months away from home at a time for work, I get the temptation. I don’t think I’d agree to it, but I get it. Anyway, with everyone back from their damnation-adjacent party (which feels like a movie they would have made in the mid 90s), it’s time for Gods and Monsters. This is a segment where I get into a little more detail about one of the gods or monsters from this week’s pantheon that was not discussed in the main story. This week’s ghostly apparition is the feu follet.
This little ghost light is common in many places with bogs, marshes, or swamps. Known alternatively as a will-o-the-wisp, a will-o-wisp, jack’s lantern, a jack-o-lantern, or a hinkypunk, the feu follet is French for fool’s fire. It is said to resemble a flickering lamp or lantern floating in the darkness to lead travelers astray. There’s a reason that stories of these floating lights are so prevalent and that’s because they’re real. They’re not spirits or demons or fairies, but a form of bioluminescence caused by the interaction of gasses produced by organic decay in swampy conditions. The book French Canadian Folktales has a tale of an encounter with a feu follet, originally published by Charles-Edmond Rouleau in 1901 and translated by Dr. Elizabeth Blood.
The story opens with our narrator and a companion out walking near sunset. It was a perfect day to be outdoors – early spring when it’s cool and crisp but not cold without a single cloud in the sky. The duo is headed for Beauport but weren’t sure which of the available routes to take. With the weather so nice and the views so lovely, they were spoiled for choice. After some contemplation, they decided to head to Quebec, the city that had once been called Stadacone.
The pair wandered the streets of the city looking at all of the architectural marvels, but they found that they were restless. With all the patience and curiosity of a ten year old child, nothing could hold their interest long. Wandering aimlessly, they soon came to the Palace of the Intendant of New France, but even that grand structure steeped in history did nothing for them. Frustrated, they noticed a small crowd gathering around a man who was gesticulating hugely in what was obviously a story. He was well-known as a skilled hunter in the region with any number of dramatic tales of his many exploits. As the pair joined the crowd, they noted that they were just in time to hear the next tale of the man from Saint-Roch: his encounter with the feu follet.
The hunter was out one night, sitting by a wood-burning stove in a cabin in the woods all alone. He was smoking his pipe as he pondered a problem that had been perplexing him – namely, that he had twelve beautiful hens and no idea where to put them to keep them safe and warm over the coming winter. They were good laying hens, so he didn’t really want to sell them. He came up with and abandoned a thousand ideas, each more preposterous than the last. Abruptly, his musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was unexpected but hardly alarming, so the hunter opened the door to find a pleasant farmer from Charlesbourg standing there. He had come all the way out to the hunter’s cabin on an errand. “You wouldn’t happen to have a Petit Albert that I could borrow for a day or two, would you?”
I had to look up what a Petit Albert was, fully expecting it to be like some kind of dutch oven or something. Nope, it’s an 18th century grimoire of natural and cabalistic magic. It contains instructions on sex magic (love, seduction, and how to make a woman dance naked), ways to improve agricultural efficiency, ways to deal with inconveniences (such as menaces who kill crops or livestock), dinner recipes, daily hygiene recipes (such as soap), ways to move people and horses quickly without fatigue, and how to make a hand of glory (a magical artifact made from the hand of a hanged man). That’s a little all over the place, so there are all kinds of reasons this nice farmer wants to borrow this spellbook.
The hunter was a man of the world, so naturally he had a copy of Petit Albert. “You’re a life saver! We’ve seen a feu follet in our cellar for the last few weeks, every night at the same time. My wife and children are terrified to go downstairs anymore, even during the day. I’m hoping the Petit Albert has something on how to rid ourselves of this monster.” The hunter nodded slowly. “I’m not sure it has anything to help you, but you don’t need it anyway. I can take care of your pesky spirit problem myself.” The relief on the farmer’s face was palpable. “Really? You’d do that? If you really get rid of it, I’ll pay whatever you ask!” The hunter was a reasonable man. “Oh don’t worry, it won’t cost much at all. Say, I’ve got twelve hens that need a place to winter. How about you watch after them for me if I get rid of your feu follet problem?” That seemed an incredibly reasonable price to the farmer and so the bargain was struck. The hunter promised to be at the farmer’s house the next evening at 8pm.
And so it was that the next night, at the agreed upon time, the hunter knocked on the farmer’s door. The entire household ran out to greet his arrival, shouting and cheering as though he were their savior come to pull them out of hell. The hunter fought to keep a straight face at this overblown welcome, knowing that this meant the world to them. After letting everyone break the tension for a bit, the hunter quieted them down. “You say this feu follet always appears in the cellar at the same time, right?” “Yes, sir. Always the same time and place, sir.” “Can it be seen now?” “I haven’t looked to be perfectly honest, but I’m sure it must be there. The feu follet is always in the northwest corner, no bigger than an egg but with a long glimmering tail like a comet that stretches across the entire house!”
The hunter nodded slowly as though confirming his suspicions. “I understand. Well, no time like the present. Open the trap door; I’ll head down to the cellar.” The farmer took two steps that way and paused. “Shouldn’t we fetch you a candle or something before you go down into the pitch black cellar?” The hunter shook his head emphatically. “Absolutely not. No light. I’ll need to handle this in the dark where the thing dwells. And no matter what sounds you hear, don’t come down after me. I go to battle, and I can only do that if I don’t have to worry about protecting anyone else, so stay up here and stay silent for me.” Armed only with a large club, the hunter descended into the darkness in search of the feu follet.
Plunging boldly into the darkness, he saw the feu follet hanging right where the farmer had said it would be. With his well-honed instincts, he leapt immediately into battle, bringing his club crashing down on it. For all its diminutive size, the spirit proved to be a formidable foe, dodging every blow the hunter rained down upon it and refusing to be scared off by his bellowed war cries. The combat dragged on for what felt like hours but was actually more like fifteen minutes, and the feu follet seemed utterly unfazed by this sudden attack. It hung there, mocking the hunter’s feeble efforts. For his part, our hero was exhausted, sweating and panting like a stuck pig. The ghost light flitted around the gasping warrior now, letting out squeals of joy and mocking laughter.
This was too much for the hunter, who was enraged by how futile this had all been. Gathering the last of his strength, he took his club in both hands and held it high. With a last bellow of rage, he brought it down with all his might on the feu follet. And finally, he connected solidly. The spirit collapsed under the blow, evaporating into a wisp of blue smoke. The battle was over. The day was won.
The hunter trudged over to the trapdoor in the darkness and called up to the farmer. “It’s over. You won’t be bothered by that foul spirit ever again.” He climbed out to find that quite a crowd had gathered to listen to the epic fight of man and spirit. Many were trembling in fear, others clutching their neighbors for comfort. The hunter stumbled over and collapsed into a chair someone dragged out for him, too exhausted to stand. The farmer’s wife and daughter came out of the house with a bowl of cool water and a cloth to scrub at their hero’s face until he regained his wits enough to recount what had happened. “It’s fine now, I’m fine. The spirit is no more. It was a nasty business, but like Caesar at the Battle of Pharsalus, I can now say “veni, vidi, vici! I came, I saw, I conquered!”
The hunter looked around the crowd and saw plenty of doubt and fear still on the surrounding faces. “You don’t believe me, I see. Fair enough. Let the owner of this fine farm journey with me down into the cellar and see for himself that the feu follet is no longer hanging in its usual spot. Once he is convinced that it is gone forever, maybe the rest of you will be also.” This was deemed reasonable, although the farmer did not want to journey down there alone. He brought four friends along with him for courage to journey down into the darkened cellar. They returned shortly with huge smiles on their faces. “He speaks true! The feu follet is gone! We’re saved!” The crowd let up a cheer and began to celebrate the defeat of the foul beast. The farmer rushed over to shake the hunter’s hand and thank him over and over again. “You’ve done me a great kindness, truly – you are a hero. Don’t worry about bringing your hens all the way over to me. I’ll stop by your place and pick them up myself.”
Back in the present, the hunter finished his tale and looked around at his assembled audience, including our nameless narrator. It was clear to him that many of his audience did not believe his tale. From somewhere in the crowd, a skeptical voice piped up. “That was a very exciting story to be sure, but how exactly did you defeat the feu follet? Surely you’re not implying that you beat a ghost light to death with a club?” The hunter smiled. “Fair enough, sir. I did indeed have a second tool at my disposal: mud. You see, when I went down into that cellar, I discovered that, as I had suspected, there was no feu follet at all. Instead, I found a small crack in the wall where light from the neighboring house was leaking in. I took some mud to fill in the crack and packed it in tight with my club. And voila, no more fue follet. So now you know my secret for hunting these little spirits.” The audience laughed, agreeing that it was indeed a good trick, and then everyone went on their own way.
So what have we learned today? Always look for a rational explanation to whatever spooky thing you’ve seen before jumping to the strange and unusual. The supernatural probably isn’t real but, just in case it is, don’t sell your soul to it. A little nookie isn’t worth getting dragged down into hell by the devil – there are plenty of horror movies to prove that particular point.
That’s it for this episode of Myths Your Teacher Hated. Keep up with new episodes on our Facebook page, on iTunes, on TuneIn, on Vurbl, and on Spotify, or you can follow us on Instagram as MythsYourTeacherHatedPod, on Tumblr as MythsYourTeacherHated, and on Bluesky as MythsPodcast. You can also find news and episodes on our website at myths your teacher hated dot com. If you have any questions, any gods or monsters you’d want to learn about, or any ideas for future stories that you’d like to hear, feel free to drop me a line. I’m trying to pull as much material from as many different cultures as possible, but there are all sorts of stories I’ve never heard, so suggestions are appreciated. The theme music is by Tiny Cheese Puff.
Next time, we’re headed to the Polynesian islands for a Maori tale. You’ll see that some parents have no boundaries, that siblings can be the best or the worst thing to happen to you, and that not all gods are cut out for conflict. Then, in Gods and Monsters, the passion and fury of the volcano will rage across the oceans. That’s all for now. Thanks for listening.