Galician Tales

‘Lloran los muertos, cantan las hadas, cera en el viento, campanas en el alma.’

The night shadows that silhouetted the orbs were quick to emerge as they came closer to where he was standing. A troop of hooded figures in dark, simple robes that one would attribute to monks or medieval penitents slowly made their way along the trail in a formal cortege. It was the floating lights that gave them away: the eerie orbs numbering a dozen or more in procession that alerted my cousin to their presence.

He could distinctly hear the bell getting louder as they approached and the overpowering smell of candle wax.  He had the good sense to launch himself to the side of the path and avert his eyes. It is a well known fact in Galician tradition that you do not look into the eyes of dead souls. For then you will be bound to them doing your duty as their living guide. Tradition also dictates that you will not live long if you are caught in their binding contract. So he cowered to the side of the road and looked away waiting for them to pass. That night they were on a mission to collect the soul of one whose time had come and escort them away from the land of the living. Where to? We have no idea. The story goes that these beings are not necessarily malevolent, just souls lost in purgatory assisting the dead onto the next plane. It is what they do in payment for their own sins, serving, presumably the living and perhaps God - a job mopping up the ghosts of those deceased. The job Galician’s attribute to La Santa Compaña.

This theme - or any number of variations across northern Spain - are popular tales. My cousin swears by his story and so do other neighbours who have witnessed similar other worldly experiences. There is no denying that my cousin had seen something quite supernatural that evening. As he recalls he had never been so frightened in his life and yet given his family’s propensity for being adepts in such matters, for they have seen many things, it should not have come as a surprise that such phenomena marked him out as a witness. When Señor Álvaro, an elderly villager did indeed die on the day of his strange encounter there was no detering him from his conviction that what he saw were the spirits of the dead come to fetch the soul of the newly departed. And so there we were, a family sitting in my grandparents kitchen at dusk recounting old Galician family tales and stories that would make anyone less inclined to understand the legends and the old ways either very uncomfortable and twitchy in their seats, or scoff in time worn cynicism.

It is not every day that I fall for the myths and legends of a region that is so steeped in superstition I simply lose all my faculties and proclaim myself a believer. No. But I’m easily persuaded when the cessation of life comes to mind. Death has a way of giving rise to stories and explanations to try and divert us from the frightening prospect of oblivion. The fear of something we do not totally understand, the end of all things leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. The supernatural helps to create a mythos around the process of dying that keeps us in check. If such things exist then the afterlife is a sure thing. Everything has its purpose and we follow the rules. So when you see La Santa Compaña be sure to do so and get out of their way.

The Romans proclaimed Galicia, namely Fisterra (Finisterre) and all its moody beauty by the coast, as the land at the edge or end of the world. It was the last port of call before the great expanse that is the Atlantic Ocean. Just as the Celts were big on worshipping the sun here, so the Romans had a wary superstitious respect for the unknown. I believe they had enough on their plates being lords of most of the (then) civilised world. Falling off the end of a landmass or an ocean couldn’t have been very appealing. And who knew then what monsters were lurking in those uncharted depths? It takes a lot of courage and conviction to get past the inherent apprehension that fear evokes.

Galicia lends itself to many legends and strange tales. The land itself is changeable, primal, with forests and woods that invite the supernatural to reside within them, certainly in centuries gone by. Even now the sounds and smells of wood and pine, bonfires and damp are especially sharp during the winter months. Mists can appear out of nowhere. It is, after all, a wet and rainy region. Strange fogs move in the breeze and appear to have a will of their own. In the summer you can walk through the dense trees and find yourself lost under a canopy of leaves that allow for very little sunlight to penetrate. Occasionally, you’ll come across beams of light that break up the dark trails but it’s easy to get lost. I would always walk with family members or friends who knew the woods well. My grandfather particularly was a master when it came to understanding the nature of the deceitful trails. You never quite know how it works, particularly when you come across the unmarked crossroads. Each trail could lead to a village, or worst case scenario you’d end up deeper in the woods. Once, we did get lost thinking the short cut was the best option, only to find an hour later we were back at the crossroads.  Round and round in circles went the routes. We suspected that other forces were at work; the hushed trees where bird song suddenly evaporated and everything sounding muffled all of a sudden made my hackles rise. The imagination is a powerful hallucinogen sometimes. I was ready for fight or flight at this point. And although it was daylight I was frightened to the point where I was shivering in fear. I wanted to be some other place than there. My grandfather was unfazed:

“As bruxas andan xogando con nos” (the witches are playing with us), he told me.

And with that he adjusted his boina (beret), fixed on a trail point and smiled:

“Vamos nena!”

Yes, well, you can imagine what I thought of that. I never walked so fast in my life!

Do you believe in the supernatural? In my eagerness to hope that there is more out there than meets the eye I want to. Maybe not the scary monsters that lurk under your bed, but a reassuring sign that perhaps oblivion is not how it ends.