A monk, born in Gaul, was visiting this island, studying and copying texts kept at a monastary near a river. He cared not for the people who lived around the monastery, and he cared even less for the countryside, finding it not only too damp and wooded, but possessing a certain something in the air that set his teeth on edge. But one day he was sent by his superiors to visit the library of another monastery, and was to make the day-long journey alone and on foot.
He kept to the roads, but as he was not accustomed to walking, he had not reached his destination by dusk, and indeed, could not even see it on the horizon. With fall of night came the rain, and he left the road to take shelter in a large tree near the swollen river which not only protected him from the wet with its large branches, but provided him a small hollow near the base where he crawled in to wait out the rain--or possibly the night.
His anxiety and supperless journey left him weak, and soon he fell asleep. When he awoke in the morning, it was to voices, two voices, both that of the weaker sex. They were dressed in barbarian style of the common people, but richly and warmly; the broaches clasping the mantles around their shoulders were the finest of Irish goldwork. They walked hand in hand up the riverbank path, and toward the monk and his tree. When they stopped in front of his little den, they seemed not to notice him, and continued their conversation in their barbaric tongue.
One of the women suddenly threw herself on the ground and cried a wretched cry. The other woman looked down with a slightly satisfied smile before recomposing her face into sympathetic earnestness. She crouched and held her sobbing friend. Whatever she said soothed her friend and the crying woman picked up her head and looked directly at the tree the monk was hiding in.
He draw back deeper into the tree, but didn't think the woman could see him. He pressed himself as flat as he could against the floor of the tree's hollow, and must have fallen asleep again there. He awoke to find it was late afternoon, the rain had stopped, and the ground was startlingly dry. He started to move out of the tree, but again heard women's voices.
Two women approached his tree. The shorter one from this morning, but another who looked somewhat like the other. She was tall, but with courser features than the one from the morning. Her strides her longer, and she did not hold the hand of the other woman, but touched her shoulder and her waist, pulling her towards herself as they walked.
When they got to the tree, to his horror, the two women laid down and performed abominations on each other's bodies. The things the two women did were so bewitching and so devil-inspired that try as he might to lower his eyes and pray, he could not but watch every touch of hand, mouth, and thigh. But God must have seen him in his danger, for he fainted.
He discovered himself waking with the rain pouring into his hole in torrents, and it was still blackest night. The Witches were but a Dream! It was all a horrible, cursed dream. The monk staggered out in blind fear, stumbling almost too near the riverbank, but managing to find the road in the darkness. Traveling this way would be wet and cold, perhaps he would even be killed by bandits--but these would be welcomed alternatives to the horrors that filled his mind while he was sleeping in the tree.
After some time, when he was soaked to his bones, slathered with mud, and bruised by many falls, the monk saw the light of a small cottage glowing against the rain.
He entered the enclosure and was welcomed in. Soon he was dried, cleaned, and fortifying himself with a mug of ale, the peat fire warming his heart and soul and smelling as holy as incense. He did not tell the good family about his dream, but only that he was lost from his home, and grateful for their hospitality.
It was a large family, of many daughters and aunts and cousins. They settled around the monk and one of the oldest girls was asked to give a little tune on her harp before the family went to sleep. "Play that sad one, lass," her mother's sister said. "Aye,? she smiled, "The Lament of the Sorceress.? A sad song on a rainy night is just the thing."
Oh once I had the truest lover
But every vow, she has forsworn.
Once we walked beside the river;
Now I am cursed
to walk no more.
We once went out on a winter's morning;
It was the shortest day of year.
And while I was my love adorning
Her heart was
griped in darkest fear.
She said to me without a warning;
She said it low but said it clear.
She said that soon she would be mourning
For I would die,
within a year.
She said, "Last night, while I was dreaming,
A sorral mare came to my side
She spoke with words that had no meaning
And showed me
where your bones would lie."
"How can this be," I said while smiling;
"For I am strong, my life is new."
She met my eyes, she was not lying;
I knew it sure,
the dream was true.
"But do not fear," she said so sweetly;
Witches we are, our power great.
With our true love, we'll set completely;
A charm to free
you from this fate.
"Last night the mare said you were dying;
I saw you dead, your body broke.
But we'll save you, without much trying;
We'll set your
soul into that oak."
She pointed to a mighty oak tree;
I thought its leaves would touch the sky.
I thought with magic she would save me;
I would cheat
death and never die.
Late that dark night, she cast the circle;
With precious oil anointed me.
She lit three candles and said the old words;
Then I was gone,
inside the tree.
And so I grew beside the river;
The seasons passed, Litha grew near.
Then I saw her, with her new lover;
It was the longest
day of year.
They both lay down below my branches;
Under rising moon, they made sweet love.
For this new woman I was forsaken;
Their laughter
mocked me while I watched above.
So all ye maidens who live the old way;
Mark thee well my sorrowful plight.
There are those who'll stop at nothing;
To hold their
new love in the night.
And mark thee well my selfish folly;
All spirit lives, but the flesh will die.
Accept the gift the dark one offers
And you'll live
again, bye and bye.
Oh once I had the truest lover
But every vow she has forsworn.
Once once we walked along the river
But I am cursed to walk no more.
And as the last strains of the harp died away, the monk leaped up with a horrible yell and fled off into the night, hearing the witches' laughter behind him.